His reply is a deep, golden laugh that sends his head tilting back.
My heart hammers while my ears get drunk off the sound. I’m swaying as the laugh breaks up into a chuckle.
“The violence made you think I was a rebellious shit, did it?” He folds his arms, and something sly cracks in that heavy azure gaze. “You think because of my reputation today, that I went around pissing off my parents every chance I got?”
“That.” I shrug. “Or perhaps your dad wasn’t all that nice.”
“Really?” The blue and gold mugs thud on the granite while he rests them on the counter and smirks. “What did you expect? Some sad shit story, like my dad beat me or something?”
I nod. “Don’t all bad boys have a sad family story?”
“Not me. You could say my moral grayness stems from other areas.”
“So, you admit you’re not one to tote a squeaky-clean record?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” One side of that perfect mouth pulls up in a devious, knowing smirk. “My publicrecord is stainless.” His shrewd statement closes right as the coffeepot sings that it’s ready.
Public record.I don’t miss the emphasis on that—same goes for my thighs which are clenching together. Every part of my logic at that gala was flawed when I thought Grant’s infamy would be enough to keep me away. On the contrary, I’m finding his skewed responses to be some of the clearest cut thinking I’ve ever encountered.
“Getting back to the real topic,” Grant says, pouring our mugs of steaming coffee. “My dad is all right. He owns the largest financial advisory team in Portland. Don't talk to him much, on account that we’re so busy, but I wouldn't do anything to hurt him for the world.”
“And your mom?” I ask, accepting my piping cup.
“That's the only sad part of my childhood for me.” His gaze remains fixed on the flowing brown liquid that fills his cup. “Well, that and my uncle.”
“Your uncle?” My head tilts.
“Yeah, he had me for a little bit.” He rolls his eyes. “Piece of shit. All he did was drink and gamble. He’s why I don’t drink. The guy was more harmful to himself than others, but living with him made me realize I loathe people who waste away their potential. When it comes to numbers, he’s even sharper than my dad, but he doesn’t utilize it.”
“I see.” My brows draw together in curiosity. “And why did you live with him?”
“That’s part of the sad story,” he says a bit softer. “My mom, she died when I was young, and my dad needed time to process.”
Part of my heart sinks at the words—I know that pain. “I’m sorry that happened.” I can’t hide the rawness in my voice.
“No need to apologize to me,” Grant counters, seeming pretty unaffected. “I was so young. But, she was kind. Taught me to how to climb trees before she died. I have the distinct recollection of my dad loathing the idea. I guess she had a rebellious streak in her and believed I was born to play with frogs and hated the idea of me sitting behind a desk someday like my dad.”
“And now?” I trail my finger up and down the handle of my drink, astutely observing the man in front of me today. He’s far from being a carefree man with a preference for the outdoors. “The person you grew into, do you think she’d be proud?”
“Ah. From what I heard about her, most definitely not.” It should be a lethal statement, but there’s a pleasant upturn occurring on his mouth. He pauses on taking another drink and shrugs. “Thankfully, she’ll never know.”
I have to admit there’s something endearing about the way he freely admitted all of that. A lightness takes over my body, and I almost want to laugh. “Well, at least you’re honest.”
“With you? Always.”
My head jerks back in surprise as my breathing hitches. Curiosity leads to more curiosity with Grant. I tilt my head. “Is there a specific reason why with me?”
His gaze darkens, almost burning into me from across the space. “I know shit when I see it. You’ve seen enough shit to last your entire life. I can see that in your eyes, so I’d rather give you something I feel like you rarely had.”
Can you like someone too much too soon? Because I like him—fucking love his transparency with me when he has so much to conceal. And for that, he gets a nod of approval. “Thank you, Grant.”
“Of course.”
We both take a scalding sip of java and pause for a moment, facing one another, our hips leaned against the countertop. Two weeks in and he’s already reaching this level of comfort. Roxie herself can’t even go five seconds without sounds, but for Grant and me, it stays.
Finally, he stretches out his shoulder blades and tilts his head. “What about your parents?”
My heart flatlines at the mention of them, while my lips press together. It’s about all I need to do.
“Judging from such a reaction, rather shitty ones, I gather.”
“A vast understatement,” I croak out.
“So, where are they?” The edge of his jawline tics, and there’s a sudden change of pressure in the room. “Are they the cause of the scar on your stomach?”
His grip tenses around the coffee mug, the ceramic squeaking against his clutch.
A euphoric hum vibrates through my joints. Seeing someone give a worry about my pain is nice. Will and his family cared, of course, but their sweet nature made them beams of support, an ear to spill my troubles to—not revenge seekers.
Grant, on the other hand?
“Connecticut.” I shake my head. “No, they didn’t cause it.” My eyes roll to the ceiling after giving them more thought. “They didn’t help, but they didn’t place it there either.”
“Well,” he rumbles, tilting his head to the side, “if they didn’t help, that means they are the cause of it. Lack of action can be the same as enabling and fueling if a blind eye is being turned. So, tell me…” There’s a light rustling of starch as he firmly tugs at the cuff of his shirt. The stiff sound matches the lines on his face. “Did they turn a blind eye?”
My brows flash up. “Blindness was their existence.”
“Then that answers my question.” Sitting his cup down, he reaches me in three simple strides. “Your parents placed it there as much as the actual culprit, and for that, they won’t find forgiveness with me.”
That unapologetic statement sends a weight plummeting into my chest, while simultaneously unleashing a wave of shock. I stumble backward, each hair on my arms rippling to a stand. My spine would be colliding with the cold ledge of the marble countertop if Grant wasn’t halting my body by catching me in his arms.