Chapter Thirteen Mercy #2
“Regardless,” he continued smoothly, “I told them you remembered the first couple months of our marriage, but not the visit to London or anything later.”
“This is such a bad idea,” I groaned. “I’m going to fuck it up, I just know it.”
“You won’t.”
I gave him an incredulous look. “Think about what you’re asking, Hastings. I freaked out last night when I found out we had sex, I was ready to pack my bags this morning, and now I’m supposed to be all over you in front of your family? This sounds like a delightful idea.”
“All over me?” he said wryly. “We’re British. The snooty rich kind, as you so love to remind me. Public displays of affection are hardly smiled upon.”
“Oh good, so I don’t need to mount you in public. How comforting.”
“If you tried to mount me, Kincaid, my grandmother’s head would explode.”
I smiled sweetly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
He tipped his head back, and I found myself staring at his jaw again. “It will be a short visit, that’s something we can be thankful for.”
“I’ll add it to my gratitude journal.” I pulled at the hair tie holding my sleep-mussed braid, combing my fingers through the waves left behind. Grant’s eyes tracked the movements, then looked away with a sharp clearing of his throat. “They booked tickets pretty last minute, I guess.”
“They’ll use the family jet,” he said dismissively.
My hands fell into my lap. “Of course they will.”
For a long moment, neither of us said anything.
Then I stood and marched back toward his office, snatching the brown paper bag off his desk.
Grant eyed it skeptically when I tossed it onto the couch between us and lifted my chin.
“Well . . . we better do a few of these before they show up, or I’m fucked. ”
“I’m not sure that’s the best idea.”
I held up my hands. “Nothing else scandalous, I promise. In fact, most of them are fairly stupid.”
Grant sighed, digging into the bag and pulling one out. One eyebrow arched slowly. “Favorite comfort food.”
His eyes locked onto mine.
“Mac and cheese spirals,” we answered at the same time.
My mouth fell open. “You knew already? I hardly ever eat that.”
He hummed. “You don’t have it often, maybe only twice since we got married, but when you come home from work and pull that blue box out, I know you’ve had a terrible day and to give you an incredibly wide berth.
” He gave me a look. “I still maintain that the fluorescent-orange color cannot be good for human consumption, but it was quite delicious when you forced me to try it.”
“The orange powder is what makes it taste so good,” I replied archly.
He did that slow-blink thing because he was too well mannered to roll his eyes.
“What about you?” I asked. “What’s your comfort food?”
Grant held still, watching me carefully for what felt like an hour but was probably more like thirty seconds.
“Victoria sponge.”
“Oh.”
The mess I’d made. The worn recipe card. The shaken look in his eye when he saw what I was doing. Something built in my chest, bubbling up to the point of painful, and yet again, I felt the metaphorical muscles stretching for something I couldn’t reach.
There. It’s just right there. Can’t you touch it? my brain seemed to say. But when I swiped my hand forward to grab hold of something solid, I came up empty. Always empty.
I wet my lips. “And I’ve made it before.”
Grant’s throat worked on a swallow, his rib cage expanding on a deep breath, then another, before he could meet my eyes.
“You’re quite good at knowing when I need it.”
There was a tipsy, unbalanced feeling to this entire exchange, much like the alcohol had provided last night, but this was so much more specific.
So much more dangerous. The fact that he knew those kinds of things, that he could so confidently speak to what I liked and didn’t, what made me feel better after a hard day, that I could read when he’d had one—it was like tiptoeing across a rain-slicked balance beam.
When it was just us, it didn’t bother me so much, but he was asking me to stay in that position with numerous sets of eyes on us. Eyes just waiting for me to stumble.
I’d almost fallen a few times since I woke up, hadn’t I?
And every time, he was right there. And he’d caught me. Even if I didn’t want it.
He was there.
“Okay.”
His expression was hopeful. So hopeful that it cracked my chest open. “Okay?”
“I’ll agree on one condition.”
“Name it.”
“When they’re gone, assuming that I still don’t remember and that I haven’t fucked up your relationship with your entire family—”
“You won’t.”
“Assuming both of those things,” I said slowly, “we revisit this conversation.”
“Which one?”
“The one where I leave for a while. Take the pressure off both of us.”
He sucked in a breath, eyes flickering. “Revisit it. It’s not a final decision, yeah?”
I nodded. “That’s all I’m asking for.”
Carefully, slowly, like he was expecting me to pull away, Grant extended his hand. For a moment, I could do nothing but stare. It was the most honest we’d been. In the last twelve hours, I’d learned more about my husband and our marriage than in the last week and a half combined.
So why did everything still feel so precarious? A stiff breeze, a nudge in the back, and it felt like we’d topple off a tight rope.
I eased my hand into his. The length of his fingers wrapped around mine in a way that made my heart thud noisily behind my ribs.
“Are you certain?”
I managed a smile. “Not even close.”