8. Chapter 8
L ast night was the best sleep of my life.
No, seriously. What is this mattress made of? Clouds?
I haven’t slept this well since the first trimester, when all I wanted was rest. Blinking against the darkness, I try to adjust to the hazy in-between, unsure what day it is or where I am.
My limbs are heavy, cocooned in the softest blanket I’ve ever felt, and for a second, I think maybe I’m still dreaming.
That once I open my eyes, I’ll be back in my tiny apartment with the creaky pipes and traffic noises as the smell of Chinese food floods my senses.
But as I stretch out, my fingers grazing against the silky sheets, the sheets that were already on the bed that I refused to change, my eyes fly open, and I remember where I am.
This is Grant Campbell’s guest bedroom, and I’m his new… roommate .
The wave of the weekend hits me like a tsunami—the fear, the uncertainty, the gratitude laced with guilt.
Hormonal tears that felt endless. Ridge and Grant both showing up for me.
Grant’s possessiveness when he thought Ridge was the father, his concern for my well-being.
Packing up my first place on my own, walking past the caution tape outside my building, realizing how lucky I was not to have been hurt—or worse.
Sitting slowly, my hand drifts over my bump, and I give the baby tiny rubs like I do every morning.
“Morning, Jellybean.”
Flutters erupt in my chest, and for the first time, I feel something that reminds me of happiness.
Was this all I was missing? A safe place to call home?
Or is it the broody man I’m living with?
Shaking my head to push away the thoughts of Grant that have been swirling in my mind—I’m not ready to focus on those quite yet—my eyes flick to the gift basket that was waiting for me on the nightstand.
I never thanked him for that yesterday. The truth is, I erupted in tears as soon as I shut my bedroom door and saw the basket sitting there.
All these feelings came rushing to the surface, and I hid away in my room like an angsty teenager.
The gesture alone was so sweet, but what was inside caused a lump to form.
He thought of practical and thoughtful gifts—stress-relief bath bombs, TUMS, and even belly butter.
What I wouldn’t give to see Grant Campbell with his signature scowl perusing the maternity aisles at Target and purchasing belly butter, of all things.
He didn’t have to do any of this—not the gift basket and certainly not offering me his guest room. I told him I wasn’t his problem—that this baby wasn’t his problem, yet he’s still here. Showing up when he doesn’t have to.
And I’m not sure I know how to handle this. How to navigate these murky waters.
My bladder lurches painfully, like my baby somersaulted and landed directly on it.
“Okay, okay,” I groan, shoving the covers off the rest of the way.
The carpet is plush under my feet as I shuffle to the door. Not caring that I’m only dressed in what was once an oversized t-shirt, my bare legs fully exposed, I shuffle a few feet to the bathroom. Closing the door behind me, I take care of business.
Standing at the sink, I let the warm water run over my hands.
The girl staring back at me in the mirror looks so different—softer, happier, maybe.
Bags are still under my eyes, but they aren’t as purple.
With my hair a mess and piled on top of my head, I notice there’s some color back in my cheeks.
Almost like sleep and safety were what I was craving most.
After brushing my teeth, I splash cool water on my face, that’s always swollen from pregnancy.
As I step into the hall, the smell of coffee hits first—rich, invigorating, wrapping around me like a hug.
I sigh. Nothing beats freshly brewed coffee in the morning.
Definitely better than the lingering smell of leftover fried rice.
The sizzle from the stove draws my attention to the open kitchen.
And that’s when I see him. Grant stands at the stove, shirtless, flipping eggs. Athletic shorts hang low on his hips, showing off every defined muscle he’s worked for. Black ink mars his back.
That’s new.
Oh, god. The ink and muscles have my pulse racing and a thrumming stirring deep in my core.
My hormones are awake now. Wide-ass awake.
Because it should be illegal to look that damn good flipping eggs.
It’s been way too long since I’ve slept with a man—not since the night I got pregnant.
And now, looking at him—and it’s just his back—I’m realizing how much I’ve missed sex.
My battery-operated friend isn’t getting the job done—not like I know Grant Campbell could.
Heat pools, soaking my panties, and I’m wondering if I’ve made a mistake moving in here.
Between the god in front of me and my raging hormones, I’m in deep trouble.
“Morning, Peach.” Grant’s husky tone snaps me from my wandering thoughts. His morning voice is laced with sleep, like gravel-soaked honey.
Blinking fast, I try to snap my attention back to the actual words and not…you know, his everything . The way his muscles in his back shift as he flips the eggs in the pan. The way his shorts cling to his hips is like they were tailor-made by the gods of temptation.
Gods of temptation? Jesus, Savannah, take a cold shower.
“Morning.” My voice comes out an octave higher than it should.
He glances over his shoulder, one eyebrow cocked in amusement, like he knows I was mentally undressing him.
Great. But then something happens in the next second, and if I weren’t staring at his face, I would’ve missed it.
Grant’s eyes rake over my body, and I swear I can feel the heat trail from his gaze.
For the briefest moment, I see his eyes darken with something that looks a lot like desire.
Stop it, Savannah. You’re pregnant; he is not ogling your huge frame. It’s the hormones. The hormones , Savannah!
“Coffee’s ready. Sit. Breakfast is almost done.” He gestures toward the black barstools at the island. I obey, mostly because my knees are suddenly weak. “Wait, you can have coffee, right?”
I nod. “Yes, I can have a little bit.” And my heart goes pitter-patter at his thoughtfulness in asking.
Grant slides a steaming mug of coffee toward me without asking how I take it. The first sip confirms he remembers. Black coffee with honey.
“So,” he says, placing a plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and what looks like multigrain toast in front of me. “How’d you sleep?”
I wrap both hands around the mug, savoring the warmth. Tilting my head to the side, I stare across the island at him. “Weirdly good. Like, suspiciously good. Did you put some kind of magic powers in the mattress?”
He chuckles. “No, but that mattress is amazing. Dad made sure I didn’t skimp on one since he’d crash here sometimes.”
My cheeks heat. “Oh gosh, I forgot about that.”
“Don’t.” He’s commanding, almost as if he knew where my internal spiral was going. “Eat. You’ve got a passenger, and I’m not about to have you skipping meals under my roof.”
I lift my toast and follow his instructions, scooping scrambled eggs onto it before taking a bite.
The multigrain is surprisingly good and not as dry as I was expecting.
The eggs are fluffy and seasoned perfectly.
I didn’t realize how hungry I was, but that doesn’t stop my gaze from drifting back to him every few seconds as he stands on the opposite side of the counter, eating his breakfast.
Facing the open space behind me, surveying it like he’s not only watching me but watching out for me. His need to protect is always so strong.
His forearm muscles flex with every lift of the fork. The scruff on his face has grown into a neatly trimmed beard. What I wouldn’t give to feel it scrape against the inside of my thighs. From his shower, his hair is damp, curling slightly at the ends. It’s unfair how attractive the man is.
I bite into my toast absentmindedly and nearly choke when his voice clears.
“You okay over there?” he asks, smirking.
Busted.
I swallow, nearly choking again. Reaching for my mug, I take a sip of the coffee, letting the warm liquid coat my throat. “Ye-yeah. I was thinking.”
“About?” he coaxes.
How I want him to spread me out on this counter and devour me like he’s devouring breakfast. How I want him to bend me over the couch and take me from behind.
For fuck’s sake, Savannah. Excuse yourself and take a cold shower…now!
I drop my fork with a soft clink, his eyebrows shooting up. “Okay, we need to set ground rules.”
“Ground rules?” he asks, brow knitting, shocked at my answer.
“Yes.” I nod. “If we’re going to live together, and especially with our”—I wave my hands in the air—“history, and my current hormonal state, we need rules.”
“Ahh, you’re horny,” Grant states matter-of-factly.
“Grant!” I practically shout, because…how dare he?
He laughs that deep timber that goes straight to my core. “What? I read it’s a very common pregnancy symptom.” Reaching for his empty plate, he walks it over to the sink before coming back to the island, where he rests his forearms against the marble counter.
“What’re the rules, Peach?”
Nerves dance across my chest as I rip off a piece of bacon. Chewing the deliciousness, I revel in the fact that it’s cooked the way I like it—crispy with a few chewy spots.
“Wait,” Grant says, pushing off from the counter and stepping toward the door. He bends down to his backpack and pulls out a notebook and a Sharpie. “If we’re going to make rules, let’s make them official.”
He places the notebook and marker beside me as he takes his place across from me. Reaching for the marker, I uncap it and flip to a blank page. At the top, I write: Roomie Rules .
“First, you can’t be walking around shirtless.”
“Peach.” The corner of his lips twitches. “It’s my apartment.”
I glare, stomach fluttering.
“Fine, I’ll wear a shirt, then, not to tempt you,” he says, exasperated. “But only if you promise to treat the apartment as if it’s your own. No tip-toeing around. No holding yourself in your room. You live here, so live .”
I jot down the rule, chewing on my lip, because the man knows the right things to say. He knows that if it’s a rule , I’ll follow it.
“Don’t be fake-nice. If I’m annoying you, tell me. Don’t put on a show for me.”
He straightens, jaw ticking.
“I can’t handle mixed signals, Grant,” I say, voice wobbling slightly. “I already feel like a walking disaster most days. I need to know there’s a line and we aren’t crossing it.”
He’s quiet for a beat, then nods. I let out a deep breath.
“But just so you know,” he adds, reaching for my empty plate. “Me being nice to you isn’t a signal. It’s me actually giving a damn about you.”
I freeze.
“Because, despite whatever you think…” He continues, tone cool but steady, as he moves around the island, toward where I’m sitting.
I avert my gaze before he can see whatever emotion just cracked through me. Leaning forward, his mouth hovers above my ear as his breath skates over my skin, goosebumps pebbling in its wake. “I still care. And that’s not gonna change because things got complicated.”
Ho-ly. Fuck . Chills skate down my spine as his words set in, causing my thighs to clench and my nipples to pebble.
Complicated. Yeah, that’s the understatement of the year. Shit didn’t get complicated—I got pregnant…by another man, even though we weren’t together.
He stands to his full height, taking his warmth with him. “I’ve got to head to the stadium for practice.” His voice is casual, as if his admission didn’t knock my world off its axis. “I’ll be there for most of the day with back-to-back meetings after strength training and practice.”
I nod, forcing myself to act as if I’m not affected by him. “I’ve got a late shift at the call center anyway. I’ll probably head out around two to catch the bus.”
That has him stopping in his tracks, his broody expression firm on his face. Digging in his pocket, he pulls out his keys and sets them next to me. “Take my truck. I’ll catch a ride with Riggsby.”
“Grant…”
“Take my truck, Savannah.” There’s no room for argument, and secretly, I’m glad he’s giving me his keys. My shift doesn’t end until eleven, some nights, eleven-thirty, which means I won’t get back to this bus stop until twelve or twelve-thirty. Riding the bus at night isn’t the best feeling.
His hand slides into his pocket as he pulls out his phone, turning the corner to his bedroom to finish getting ready for work. With my plate cleaned already, I shimmy off the stool and scurry to my room, needing to get away from this tension-filled kitchen.
I’m never going to survive living with Grant Campbell.