“Daunting,” Hannah finished. Like she understood.
“Yes.”
He looked at her for a long moment, and if he didn’t know any better, he’d think he saw pain streak across her face. But it was gone as soon as it came.
“He’ll always be a part of you. You’re lucky you have a good memory to recall,” she said.
Grant nodded. “I am lucky in many ways.” He gripped her hands. “Is your dad still alive?”
“Yep,” Hannah said quickly, then went back to her drink, slipping her hand away from his. Clearly she didn’t want to talk about it, but that made Grant want to know even more. Was this how she felt about him? Pressing him for details about his life because she was interested, just like he was interested in hers? He fucking hoped so. Because he wanted to know her. And continue to know her for the rest of his life. Starting with right now. Just one moment when she’d open up to him. Even if it was the smallest, silliest detail.
“What’s your favorite memory with him?” he asked her.
She shook her head. “I don’t know. None.”
“There has to be one.”
She blew out an obviously annoyed breath. Grant could read the moment a memory flashed to mind, because it played over her entire face.
“SpaghettiOs,” she said. “I was eight, and he bought me those name-brand SpaghettiOs one time when I was sick. I had a stomach bug in third grade. But I ate them and I remember smiling even when my stomach hurt so bad, because it was the only time I got to eat those. And he bought them for me.”
Grant nodded. There was so much Hannah kept close to her chest. So much she cut off. But tonight, he saw a glimpse of the woman he’d met on the cruise ship. The one who had opened up to him. And he wanted to see more.
“Is that why you have a cupboard full of it?” he asked. Her eyebrows shot up in question, and Grant shrugged. “I’ve been staying with you, remember? I was looking for food and saw four cans in there.”
She gave a short laugh. “I never really thought about it. I only eat them when I’m sick. Weird, I know. Tomato sauce and pasta made for kids, and it’s the only thing I want.”
“Because it comforts you. That’s not weird at all.”
Hannah frowned. “My father has never comforted me, so don’t go getting analytical on me, Freud.”
“I’m not trying to. I just like knowing the different ways to your heart. Now that I have the inside scoop, forget diamonds and flowers—I’m getting you canned soup and whiskey.”
She laughed, her eyes crinkling at the sides from pure joy. “You know me so well.”
That hit Grant in the gut. He did know her, and she’d just admitted it. But it wasn’t because of his joke—it was because he knew how to make her laugh, and when. Pride filled his muscles like a dose of steroids, and he was stronger from having made his wife happy tonight. It was the best victory he could have hoped for.
Hope.
That theme was ticking through every second of every day Grant was on the clock, trying to win his wife back.
He wanted to ask her more, to make her laugh again, to have her admit that he was the right man for her, but before he could ask for just that, she cut him off.
“So what do you do, Glenn?”
They were still in game mode, so he’d continue to play. He smiled, loving her sass even now, and with the squaring of her shoulders, he could tell she was back to playing her part, trying to go for surface questions. But Grant could dig deeper using only a surface tool.
“I’m in business.”
“No shit,” she said in a bored tone. “That could mean anything from you work at a dry cleaner’s to you’re in the mob.”
“Somewhere in the middle. But closer to dry cleaner.”
She laughed. And he missed that sound. Her happy. He tried to remember how many times he’d made her laugh on the cruise ship. A lot. But she didn’t seem the same. Either the past six months had been tough on her, or his wife’s life here in this small town maybe wasn’t what she wanted. He could only hope to push her to move to New York with him.
One step at a time . . .
He had to get her to admit she liked him first.