Chapter Eight Mercy #3
I crossed my arms tight around my waist. “So you’re telling me I’m doomed to repeat all of my mistakes? How comforting.”
The glint of humor flickered out, and I could tell he didn’t know what to say to that. His eyes couldn’t meet mine.
“I do feel better, though,” I said, pushing past the discomfort that was left in the wake of that sudden change. “I slept like a fucking rock on that bed.”
“And snored like a bear, no doubt.”
My mouth fell open. “I do not snore.”
“Don’t you?”
I stood from the stool and glared, swiping a dishcloth from where it hung neatly folded over the edge of the sink.
I added some soap and waited for the water to heat up.
After warming up the cloth and squeezing out the extra water, I turned to find Grant poking at one of the cakes with a wrinkled brow.
“It’s quite remarkable, actually.”
“My baking skills? Thank you.”
“No, how someone with such a small body can create the noises you do while you sleep.”
I elbowed him in the stomach, and he backed up with a quiet huff.
“So we, like, share a bed and everything,” I said, wiping down the counter with brisk movements that mimicked the delicate swoop of my stomach as I thought about that.
Grant made a sound deep in his throat—just short of a hum but assent nonetheless. It was a low, rough sound, something I didn’t correlate with Grant, and it turned the delicate swoop into a violent reaction that wreaked havoc on my pulse.
“Interesting.” The flour was swept away underneath the dishcloth. “You don’t have to disappear or feel like you can’t be in your own home.”
“I didn’t—” He stopped, seeming to gather himself. “I wasn’t hiding. I had a meeting that couldn’t be rescheduled again. A few errands that needed to be taken care of.”
Again. The insinuation was clear enough, because he’d been busy haunting hospital hallways while I was convalescing.
“Yeah, I noticed you’re a very popular person.”
Grant was quiet. “That’s . . . that’s not typical.”
“Are they clients calling you all the time?”
He didn’t answer right away. His mouth was open like he wanted to, then he closed it again.
“Never mind,” I said. “Forget it. You don’t owe me any explanations.”
“Mercy—”
“No. It’s fine.” I paused. “I’m fine.”
From the corner of my eye, I saw Grant still. “You’re fine,” he said slowly.
“Better,” I amended. “After last night, I mean. I think . . . I think after my initial freak-out, and reassurance from Rae that I’m not actually a gold digger, I’m relieved, I guess.”
He turned, leaning his hip against the counter, and pinned me with an incredulous expression. “A gold digger? What in heaven’s name made you think that?”
I dumped the crumbs and mess into the sink and rinsed the dishcloth. He was still staring when I went back for a second pass.
“You told me we married for money. This house. The car. My closet. The shoes. The logical conclusion is that I decided to spread my legs for a sugar daddy.”
“Bloody hell, Kincaid. Your mind is a terrifying place.”
“You have no idea, buddy.”
Grant swiped a hand over his mouth, his eyes tracking my every move, just waiting for me to look in his direction again. When I finally did, his gaze was relentless. “You did not marry me for my money. It was about money, and that’s something entirely different.”
I blinked. “Oh.”
“Yes. Oh.” He shook his head. “I could’ve explained that last night, but I’ve bollocksed this up, haven’t I?”
“It’s not like we have a playbook to go from.
” The dishcloth was cooling beneath my fingers, and I twisted the edge around my pinkie.
“I don’t want to shut down every time I learn something new, but that felt .
. .” I tried to search for the right word and came up short. “It fucked me up for a minute.”
His eyes traced over my face. “And you’re relieved now.”
“Well, yeah.” I tossed the dishcloth into the sink. “This whole time I’ve been trying to put together a puzzle with all the wrong pieces.”
“In what way?”
I licked my lips. “Do you remember that dinner we had at Connor’s a couple months before he died?”
“Of course,” he answered roughly.
Absently, I rubbed at the aching spot that formed over my heart whenever I thought of my brother. Grant noticed but didn’t say anything.
“Do you remember what happened?” When his brow furrowed briefly, I added, “Between us, I mean.”
“Ahh.” The slightest flush of pink climbed over those aristocratic cheekbones. “I have a vague recollection of it, yes.”
“You called me a feral beast who needed etiquette lessons and a handler.”
His eyes flashed. “And as I recall,” he said silkily, “you said that I was a painfully tragic lesson from the universe that all money and no personality can only be upheld by the stick wedged up my ass in place of a spine.”
I hummed, tapping my chin lightly with my pointer finger.
“Yes, this memory is very clear.” I waved my hand toward him in a so, you see my point gesture.
His heavy sigh made me smile. I couldn’t stop myself, and he stared at my mouth like he was heavily concussed.
“Understandable, then, that I was spiraling.”
“Just so,” he murmured.
I shrugged lightly. “But knowing it was something far more practical . . . I don’t know, the pressure isn’t as suffocating.”
“That makes sense, actually.”
“You seem so surprised by this.”
He arched a brow. “Trust me, Kincaid, being surprised by the way you bulldoze through life is the one thing I know to expect.”
I snorted.
“Now, that’s a very good approximation of how you sound at night.”
“Bite me.”
Grant took a step closer, and I had to tilt my head to meet his eyes.
His gaze moved slowly from the top of my head to the bottom of my feet.
I felt that look as if he’d shoved his hand between my legs.
I might’ve married him for money, but I was still in full possession of my faculties.
My inconvenient husband of convenience was fucking beautiful.
When he lowered his voice, I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
“It’s a bit early to discuss kinks, darling.” His gaze locked on my mouth. “Give it time.”
Then he walked away, and eventually, I was able to breathe again.