Bulldozer (Hard to Love 3)

I don’t have the courage to correct her.

We say our goodbyes and head back to the Suburban parked near the street corner. Almost every head turns to look at Grant as we walk the New York City streets, their expressions worshipful.

It’s the haunted expression he wears that warns people to stay away, however. Everyone parts to make way for the angry giant walking with his head down and his gaze lost somewhere far away.

“I think I should drive,” I gently suggest when we reach the car. He snaps out of whatever memory he was lost to and looks at me, the stormy expression fading for the first time in two hours. “Let me drive,” I press. “I’m a good driver. I promise.”

That actually gets the tiniest, briefest smile on the planet out of him. Walking over to where I’m standing near the front of the Suburban, he takes my hand and unfurls it, then placed the keys in my palm.

“Thank you.”

Mesmerized by the way he’s looking at me, it takes a second to answer. “You don’t have to thank me. We’re friends, right?”

“I’ve never had a female friend before so I’m not sure how it works.”

“Never?”

“I told you I’m not good with women.”

He couldn’t be more wrong. And I have yet to see any evidence of this so-called explosive temper he’s convinced is a problem.

He leans in, placing a soft kiss on my cheek. A beat later he pulls away, only a fraction, his lips lingering near my mouth. A hair’s breadth apart. All he has to do it close the smallest of distance and our lips will meet.

My breath catches and my heart pounds in anticipation. That’s when I realize I want him to kiss me. And I want to kiss him. But I’m not bold enough to make the first move and I never will be.

“Amanda…”

“Yeah,” I say breathless.

“I’m bad news. I don’t do relationships.”

My face falls, along with my hopes. Before I can argue, before I can state all the reasons he’s not, he retreats, avoiding eye contact as he gets into the SUV’s passenger side. I climb into the driver’s side and start the car. While I carefully navigate us back to the Hamptons, he sleeps, while disappointment clings to me the whole way there.

Around midnight I throw in the towel and admit defeat. The day’s events haunt me. Grant haunts me. I can’t close my eyes without seeing him. Smiling, pensive, sad, lost…naked––all the shades of Grant. Kicking off the covers, I head to the kitchen.

After rehab I got on a huge health kick, researching all kinds of holistic remedies for common ailments. I found that warm milk with cinnamon and a little sugar worked wonders to help me sleep.

I step into the dark kitchen to find a large figure slumped on a barstool at the kitchen island. His head bent low, his hands on the counter wrapped around a glass tumbler a quarter filled with brown liquid.

Hearing me, he looks up. He looks more lost than he did today.

“Can’t sleep,” I say, breaking the tension.

“Me neither.”

“Is it always that hard?” Opening the refrigerator door, I grab the milk.

“Yes.” He brings the glass to his lips and sips.

“Do you always drink after?”

“No.” He won’t look at me anymore, choosing to stare down at the bottom of his glass.

I pour the milk in a small pot and crank up the flame of the gas top. Then I go in search of the cinnamon and sugar.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

“You may not want my two cents, but you’re going to get it anyway.” I cross my arms. “You can’t keep it bottled up. You have to talk to someone. A friend, a family member, a therapist…someone. You’re like a pressure cooker and something’s going to blow.”

“You’re my friend…aren’t you?” He looks up with so much bottomless longing that an anvil falls on my chest.

“Yes…you can tell me anything.”

“Anything? That mean you’ll tell me anything?”

Damn, he’s got me in a corner. Well done.

Exhaling deeply I nod and pour the warm milk into two mugs I pulled out of the cabinet. Then I add cinnamon and sugar and push one mug toward him. Gently, I pry the glass out of his hands and he lets me.

“This will help you sleep.”

“Why do you highlight the words on the thing you read on?”

He still doesn’t know what it’s called, I note. I drain the rest of the liquor in the sink and place the glass in the dishwasher.

I turn and lean against the edge of the counter for support. “Calvin is very smart. He was on an academic scholarship at Florida State before he was a walk-on tryout for the football team. Smart, naturally talented. Same goes for all my brothers. It’s almost weird. They all have a talent.”