Grip Trilogy Box Set

“Would you just sign the contract?” I pop an ibuprofen for the headache from hell vising my temples.

“Nope,” he answers calmly, eyes fixed on the gigantic television. “I told you I don’t like those dates.”

With the remote aimed at the television, he flips through several channels, all of which start with ESPN. ESPN 2, ESPN News, ESPN Classic—how many ESPNs do we need? He’s the picture of relaxation, feet up on the table, and that only serves to agitate the bee in my proverbial bonnet. I’ve been working all day for him, setting up show dates, speaking with college administrators about the Contagious tour he and Iz launch in a few months, finalizing a new headphones endorsement deal—and that’s just today, and that’s just him. There’s also my list for Kai, Luke, Rhyson, and Jimmi, getting things set up for Kilimanjaro’s release. It’s a shit ton, and I’m only asking him to do this one little thing.

“Please don’t give me crap on this.” I stand beside the couch, trying to remain reasonable. I’ve been doing a good job of being reasonable lately.

“Babe, just rework the deadlines.” His eyes flick briefly from the screen to my face and back, like he’s making sure it’s still me, his wife, and not some irate stranger. “I don’t want to be writing during the holidays, and that deadline Charm is proposing would have me doing that.”

“Not if you’re ahead of schedule.” I perch on the arm of the sofa. “Just rework some studio time and—”

“Rework studio time?” The look he gives me is an ounce of disbelief, a quart of frustration. “Bu

t that’s when I want to focus on my next album, not some stupid book of poetry.”

“Stupid book of . . .” Words fail me. I’ve worked my ass off to secure this book deal with one of the finest publishers in the business. “Grip, this is how you diversify. This is brand expansion. This is—”

“This is getting on my last damn nerve is what this is doing. Let’s talk about it tomorrow.” He scowls, turns up the volume, and gestures to the big ass flat-screen taking up what seems to be half a wall. “It’s the game, babe. I was in the studio till two o’clock this morning and on conference calls with Iz all day. I just wanna watch the game.”

Men. Oh, my God. They slay me with their hobbies and trivial obsessions.

I plant myself directly in front of the television and put my hands on my hips. I know it’s the universal bitch wife move, but I find myself pulling it anyway.

“Now,” I say obstinately. “Let’s get it settled tonight so when Charm gets to the office in the morning, our signed contract is in her inbox.”

“Move.” Grip’s eyes narrow, not even attempting to look around me. “Or I’m moving you.”

I fold my arms over my chest, raising one brow to dare him. He’s on his feet in a flash, his hands lifting me by my waist, hauling me over his shoulder and stomping down the hall to our bedroom. He tosses me onto the bed and walks to the door.

“How about you come out when you’re off the rag?” he snaps on his way out. “Because this shit is ridiculous.”

He doesn’t slam the door. He doesn’t even close it, but in my mind, that’s the sound of his anger: a door slamming shut between us. And the most galling thing?

He’s right.

My foul mood has nothing to do with the contract. I can get Charm to make those changes. They’re so eager to have him, they’d let him publish any time in the next century. It has nothing to do with my heavy workload, but it does have everything to do with my period.

I roll to sit on the floor, my back pressed against the bed and my knees up. I drop my head into my hands, and despite all the warnings I give myself not to cry, tears slip from my eyes.

Four months.

My period has come like clockwork the last four months. I know people try for years before getting pregnant so I shouldn’t be this discouraged after a few months, but when I woke up this morning and realized my cycle was here again, it just soured my whole day.

My head is down, my face covered, but I know as soon as Grip sits on the floor beside me. He’s noiseless, and it’s not even his scent that gives him away. It’s that thing tucked away in my heart, hidden in my soul that responds to him every time he’s near. Emotional, sensual, primal, it’s a call and response that I never asked for, but it’s undeniably there. It always will be.

“Hey.” He pushes the hair back from my hot face. “Look at me.”

I don’t want to. My nose is probably red. My cheeks are wet. I’ve been an idiot and a bitch all day, and again he’s the one making the first move to fix things. I don’t want his kindness right now. I don’t deserve it.

With gentle fingers, he pries my hands away from my face. I still don’t look up when he brushes a thumb over the tears pooling under my eyes. He pulls me over to him, settling me sideways on his lap and tucking my head into his neck.

“My period came again,” I mumble.

“I know.” He kisses my eyelashes. “Isn’t that supposed to happen? Like to keep all your girl parts working the way they should?”

“I’m a grown woman.” I smile into his T-shirt, which is damp with my leftover tears. “I don’t have girl parts.”

“Grown woman, girl, I don’t care—I like your parts healthy.” He tips up my chin. “So, from what I understand, this is normal, healthy female stuff. So, what’s the problem?”