The Husband I Don't Remember

Chapter One Grant

Chapter One

Grant

“Why is your sister here? I thought she was going to be with what’s-his-name. The idiot with the obnoxiously large hands.”

“Based on her text this morning—Coming for Sunday lunch. Have wine ready.—I think she broke up with him.”

I sighed. “Of course she did. Not that I can blame her. He couldn’t stop pawing at her when they were here last week.”

“Noticed that, did ya?”

I cleared my throat. “Hard not to, when she was so obviously annoyed.”

Though my best friend said nothing, I cursed the fact that I’d said a bloody word.

Connor and I stood at the kitchen window and watched Mercy, our heads tilted in opposite directions. There was no place for Mercy to park in Connor’s driveway with my vehicle already in the spot behind his truck, and before she put her car in reverse, she glared at mine.

“Besides, you wouldn’t have come if I’d told you she’d be here,” he answered.

It was partly true. As a rule, I avoided being in the same room as Mercy.

“Do you reckon she’ll key my car because she had to park across the street? I hope she manages to keep her temper in check. It’s new.”

He snorted.

Her attempt at parallel parking was the most abysmal thing I’d ever seen, the front end of her car now sticking out into the road.

She shoved the front door open with her foot and stared down at the slush in the road with a mulish expression.

On her feet were impractically high heels, and for a moment, she glared up at the thick winter clouds and muttered something that was undoubtedly filthy.

The mouth of a bloody sailor, that one.

Clutched to her chest was an overflowing laundry basket, and as her feet sank into the snow, her eyes closed in frustration.

“Why do I see this ending badly?”

“You could go help her,” Connor suggested.

“And do what? Carry her to the house? Your sweet baby sister would shove one of those heels through my chest before she accepted my help.”

He laughed.

I gave him a sideways look. “Why don’t you go help her?”

“I like to watch her struggle a bit first. Then I can gloat.” A truck tore down the narrow street, going much too fast for the unplowed roads. Mercy flattened herself against her car when it passed, its fat tires spraying snow against her legs. Her mouth fell open. So did ours. “Oh shit.”

Expression furious, Mercy slammed the laundry basket into the snow at her feet, marched into the middle of the road, and aimed both middle fingers at the retreating truck, yelling at his taillights words unfit for repeating in public.

“Delicate flower, that one.”

Connor laughed. “Always has been.”

Mercy snatched her laundry basket from the road and strode across the street, glaring again at my car when she passed. Her eyes snapped to the kitchen window and met mine.

I held her gaze and raised an eyebrow.

If she had use of her hands, I’d be getting the middle fingers as well.

Connor whistled. “Best give her a wide berth. She might spit in your food when you’re not looking.”

Fostering a bit of goodwill felt like the most prudent course of action because he wasn’t entirely wrong. While Connor poured her a glass of wine, I met her at the door, pulling it open with a faint smile. Mercy balanced the laundry basket on a hip as she stomped the excess snow off her heels.

“Allow me,” I said, motioning for the basket. “I’d hate to see you inconvenienced further.”

Mercy dragged her bright bluish-green gaze from the top of my head to the bottom of my feet, angling her body so the basket was out of reach. “If you think I’m handing you my panties for any reason, you’re out of your fucking mind, Hastings.”

She brushed past, smelling like the cold and that clean, crisp scent that always lingered behind.

“My washer’s broken,” she told Connor. “Can I use yours?”

“You’re not with Kyle today?” he asked. “I thought he was taking you to The Nutcracker.”

Her back was turned as she set the basket on the floor next to the couch, but her entire frame tensed up. Connor and I shared a look.

Mercy didn’t turn around right away, just braced a hand on the couch and yanked off one heel, then the other.

My gaze flickered down, down, down the length of her legs.

Impossible not to, in that short skirt she was wearing.

Not even the skirt, really. It was the bloody tights—sheer and dark, with a seam running down the back.

Who the hell wore tights like that in the winter?

Mercy reached up underneath her skirt and shimmied the snow-soaked tights down her legs.

I was wrong. They weren’t tights. They were stockings, with a band of lace that wrapped around her thigh.

Somehow that was so much worse. After kicking the first one free of her leg, she reached for the second, the hem of her skirt lifted just enough that I caught a glimpse of black knickers.

I swiped a hand over my mouth. Why had I come? When would I ever learn?

Once her legs were bare, Mercy sighed, raking her hands through her hair to fix the ponytail where it sat at the top of her head in a messy pile of thick golden strands. “Kyle won’t be around anymore.”

My eyes snapped up from the tights and the legs and the short skirt.

“What did this one do?” I asked. “I’m morbidly curious.”

She whirled, mouth set in a firm line. “He told me he loved me.”

“How incredibly tiresome,” I said. “No wonder you gave him the boot.”

“The man didn’t even know what I was like on my period yet. He cannot possibly know he loved me after three weeks.”

Connor muttered under his breath, spinning toward the kitchen to get a towel.

“Unless he’s seen me through PMS, I don’t even want to hear it,” she continued.

“Why not? Plenty of people fall in love quickly.” Connor handed her the towel and gestured to the snow quickly melting at her feet.

“Do they? Show me proof, Mr. Junior Partner. You’re talking about anecdotal evidence, not the real thing.” Mercy used the ball of her foot to swipe the towel across the wet floor. “I want statistics. I want hard data.”

He eyed his sister incredulously. “When did you get so cynical?”

“My twelfth birthday,” she answered dryly. “Actually, before that, even. I blame Red Riding Hood—she was the genesis of all my trust issues.”

Connor and I shared a dare we ask for an explanation look. Around Mercy, we shared them often.

“Don’t do that!” She pointed to me, then Connor. “That look. Stop it. The sole purpose of that story is to serve as a warning device to trusting, sweet, curious young women everywhere.”

“Here we go,” I muttered.

“Don’t you ever think about the sexual symbolism?”

“Never on Sundays,” I answered gravely.

She rolled her eyes. “My, what big teeth you have? All the better to eat you with? Some dirty old man wrote that, and you’ll never convince me otherwise.”

Connor handed Mercy a glass of wine—a generous pour, at that—and when she drank half of it in one pull, I arched an eyebrow. Her mouth curled up in a smirk when she lowered the glass. “Oh dear, I offended the lord of the manor.”

I clucked my tongue. “Only if my father were a duke or a marquess, and he is neither.”

Mercy tilted her head. “No wonder you can’t land a woman who can overlook your personality. My condolences.”

“Let’s save those for poor Kyle. You’ve broken his heart, haven’t you?”

Connor took his favorite seat on the couch and stretched his legs out while he flipped through the channels to find the Lions game. “That makes four this year.”

Mercy gave her brother a quelling look. “I know you are not keeping track of my failed relationships. This feels deeply misogynistic.”

“Kyle said he loved you too soon. Marcus wanted you to meet his parents before you were ready.” He ticked them off on his fingers. I crossed my arms over my chest and watched the color climb in Mercy’s face. “I can’t even remember what Jeremiah did wrong.”

In lieu of an answer, Mercy slicked her tongue over her teeth and stared down into the wine.

“The one with the tattoos said you were the best he’d ever had,” Connor finished.

“He inked my name on his chest after a month,” she pointed out. “I know I was good, but not that good.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose and sighed. “I do so love these little recaps. Remind me not to come next time.”

She held up her hand. “But also, he was terrible in bed, so take his opinion with a grain of salt. Like kissing an anteater.” Mercy shuddered at the memory.

Unbidden, I recalled the one time I was in the same room as her and Anteater Man. The kiss I witnessed left me with a desperate urge to pour bleach into my eyeballs.

Connor continued, nonplussed, “And . . . the guy you met at the football game? The one who was nice and funny and had a good job and didn’t annoy the shit out of me, and didn’t think it’s weird that you don’t put milk on your cereal?”

“It’s not weird, it’s—”

“It is,” Connor and I said in unison.

Mercy rolled her eyes. Again. “I don’t like when it gets mushy.”

“What was his name again?” Connor asked.

“Drake,” I answered. “She’d have been bored to tears with that one. He had the personality of a doily.”

“You know what?” Mercy glanced between us, eyes blazing.

I knew that look. It meant trouble. “Let’s start a rundown of your relationships, shall we?

Connor only had one long-term girlfriend who could string together a full sentence, but now he works too much to date anyone, even the idiots.

Grant, you’re too busy taking other people’s money to be bothered. ”

“That is not what I do, Kincaid. I’m a hedge fund manager.”

She gave me a whatever look just short of outright disdain.

“You are in no position to judge, Your Highness. You slept with that one girl for how long? Three months before you got bored and moved on to the blonde with the great legs? Moved on quick, too, you rascal. She wept on your porch for a solid day when you broke up with her.”

Connor snorted. “She probably inked Grant’s name on her chest.”

“Eww.” Mercy’s nose wrinkled. Then her eyes took on a speculative gleam. “Are you that good?”

It felt an awful lot like someone had wrapped their fist around my throat. I loosened the knot on my tie. “I am not discussing my personal life with you. You’re practically a child.”

“I’m twenty-two, jackass.”

I was painfully, acutely aware.

She drained the rest of her wine. From the corner of my eye, I watched the stubborn tilt of her chin.

I’d known her as long as I’d known Connor—more than a decade at this point.

And it was almost impossible to imagine her as she once was.

A thin young girl with big blue eyes who approached the world with a curled fist and her guard ten feet tall.

She was no longer a child, though she was younger than me and her brother by a fair number of years.

From a wary teen who needed her brother to be the loving family that she didn’t get at home, Mercy had grown into an even warier woman. Beautiful to the point of distraction. Stubborn to a fault. Whether she wanted to or not, Mercy attracted men like a bloody magnet.

Maybe they wanted to tame her. Maybe they wanted to be the one to break down her walls.

Whatever it was, she drew them in by doing nothing more than breathing.

I’d watched it, time and time again. Lambs to the slaughter, each and every one.

Eventually they’d slink away, mooning for her even as she handed them back their hearts.

Her brother was stubborn, too, of course. He had the same eyes. The strong jaw and straight nose. The sandy-blond hair that had more wave than curl. But he hid his stubbornness under a big smile and effortless charm.

Now, though, I saw the worry in his eyes as he watched his little sister. “Do you think you’ll ever let someone love you?”

At the unexpected question, the room went quiet.

Mercy couldn’t look at him. At me either.

“You love me,” she said quietly.

“That’s not what I mean and you know it.” Mercy gave a slight shake to her head, like they’d had this conversation before. “You should,” he continued. “You keep running from it, but eventually . . .”

“I’m fine, Connor.” She stood from the couch and picked up her laundry basket. “Maybe I’m just trying to be like my big brother.”

He snorted. “Bullshit.”

My eyes followed her as she left the room, then moved back to Connor. He was watching her exit with exhaustion stamped on his face.

“These are the moments I wish we didn’t have such shit parents. I never know what to say to her.”

“Why do you have to say something? She’s an adult. She’ll figure it out eventually.”

He looked over at me. “Will she? We haven’t.”

“And we don’t have anyone trying to force us,” I pointed out.

“So I should leave her alone?”

I shrugged. “Possibly. I’ll tell you one thing, though. I’m glad your sister isn’t my problem to figure out. Whatever man takes her on will need to be a bloody saint.”