His mouth suddenly cocks up on one side. “What if I want you to?”
“Then sadly, you’re out of luck.”
By the time I return with the lavender and vetiver massage oil, he’s facedown on the bed. His gaze warily cuts to me. “Don’t look so scared. I promise you’ll feel better when I’m done. Did you pull anything?”
“No. I just overdid it,” he groans.
“It was a fool thing to do. This could’ve been so much worse. And you really need to start on your PT.” I pour some oil in my palm and rub my hands together. “Grant––did you hear me?”
“Mmm––what are you wearing?”
I look down at my old-as-dirt Titans t-shirt that hits mid thigh. It’s not like anything is hanging out.
“It’s a very rare object called an extra-large t-shirt. You’ve probably never seen one before. This one is museum quality.” He hums, one I surmise is not complimentary. “Does it meet your approval, my klutzy knight?”
This earns me a full-fledged grunt.
I get on the bed and straddle his body, laughing at the suspicious stare he pins on me. When I sit on his butt, he groans. “Did that hurt?”
“No.”
I rub my hands together, heating up the oil, then press the heels on both sides of his spine. He moans so loudly I have to forcefully restrain myself from laughing again.
For the next twenty minutes I work the tightness out of his back muscles with my hands and elbows, even the edge of my forearm, careful to avoid the area where a small incision scar is knitted across his lower spine.
The sighs, groans, grunts, and whines didn’t let up until the last few minutes. By the time I’m done my arms are aching and I’m ready for a good night’s rest. I’m going to need an entire bottle of ibuprofen tomorrow.
“Grant,” I murmur as I slide off his body. Standing next to the bed, I rub my sore biceps and wrists “Grant?” I get nothing. Not a peep. I stoop down so we’re face to face, only to discover Goldilocks is asleep.
Despite the way this man has turned my life upside down and inside out, a silly smile stretches across my face. Time to face the undeniable truth that Grant Hendricks is really hard to hate.
I brush the hair out of his eyes, my gaze tracing the soft pink curve of his lips surrounded by dark blond scruff, the thick lashes so much darker than the rest of his hair, his beautifully shaped nose, and the sprinkle of freckles only visible up close.
“Anybody ever tell you what a nice ass you have? Very bitable,” I whisper, wrestling with the smile parting my face. He mumbles something in his sleep and I curb the urge to laugh again. “Maybe you already know. I’m sure plenty of ladies have already gotten a taste. I’m surprised you don’t have little teeth marks all over it.”
He really is one of the good guys. Not perfect but good in only the best way. Camilla was right. I kiss his cheek and turn to leave. A soft murmur follows me out the door––something that sounds a lot like my name.
Chapter Fifteen
“I saw the ESPN 30 for 30 episode––” I start.
We’re on our way to visit the women’s shelter in the Bronx. Sam left this morning with Ronan for a sleepover weekend. I promised to keep my cellphone on me at all times and he promised he would call if he felt uncomfortable. He didn’t seem as hesitant to leave this time so I’m assuming the day visits worked. Fingers crossed.
Shifting in his seat, Grant’s face tightens and his fingers drum on the steering wheel of the Suburban.
“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” I say even though I await his answer with bated breath.
All I get is his elegant profile, his attention laser focused on the road ahead.
I’m not even going to pretend I’m not insanely curious about anything and everything that has to do with him. Grant is very much like my brother in that aspect. He’s locked tighter than a bank vault unless he wants to let you in, and having experienced it once I’m starving for more.
I want him to let me see him––the real him. But he needs to do it willingly.
He sighs heavily and his gaze cuts sideways, running over my blue linen sundress as it usually does, with license. One he’s issued himself. I purposely mirror his eyeballing, doing a once-over of his white dress shirt and gray slacks and the smirk he returns breaks the tension my question created.
The sun pouring in makes me squint at the congested road ahead and wish I’d remembered my sunglasses.
At the red light Grant reaches over me and pops open the glove compartment. Despite the AC blowing right at me, the subtle intoxicating scent of bergamot and spice hits me full force. His arm brushes against the bare skin of my knee as he pulls something out and everything suddenly feels hypersensitive. My face feels blow-torched, my senses back from the dead.