“How was your day at the garage?” I ask, picking up a knife and slicing a red pepper down the middle.
“Fine.” Finally he drops that hand away from his hair, gesturing to his clothes. “Messy.”
“I can relate.” With him standing so close, I really have to concentrate on cutting the pepper, moving my fingers out of the way of the blade. “Although the messes I clean up are finger paint accidents instead of grease.”
His mouth ticks up at the corner. “Do kids still put glue on their hands and peel it off?”
“Yes,” I whine. “They especially love to pretend their skin is melting off to terrify me. I don’t get the fascination.”
He props a hip against the counter. “No, I bet you were a teacher’s pet, bringing in a shiny apple on the first day of school and raising your hand for every question.”
I lift my chin and give him a prim look. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“No, honey,” he drawls. “There isn’t.”
I don’t quite disguise the odd shiver that wriggles up my spine when he calls me by the endearment. “Am I to assume you were the kid who spent lessons carving his initials into the top of the desk?”
His slow rasp of laughter warms me. “Guilty as charged.” He pauses, watching me thoughtfully. “Maybe I should have paid better attention. I wouldn’t have ended up with the wrong crowd.”
My interest can’t help but be piqued. No matter how much I tell myself I want to keep our relationship casual, I can’t deny my eagerness to know more about Granger. “Did you? End up with the wrong crowd?”
Tilting his head down, he tucks his tongue into the corner of his lips. “Honestly?” I can barely breathe when his eyes zero in on me like this. “I was the wrong crowd, Peyton.”
“Oh.” The knife is forgotten in my hand. “Where did that…get you?”
“In bad places. Working for worse people.” His jaw flexes and he takes a step closer to me, coming up short when I draw in a gasp. “Sorry.”
“No, it’s okay.” I duck my head. “It’s crazy to still be on edge like this a whole week later.”
He jabs the counter with his index finger. “No, it isn’t. Don’t doubt your instincts. Here I am telling you I worked for bad people. That’s a pretty good reason to back away.”
My hand moves on its own, dropping the knife to reach out and curl in his T-shirt. “I’m not backing away. It’s just…you usually don’t come so close and I wasn’t expecting it.” I look him in the eye. “I’m not scared of you, Granger. No matter what you tell me about your past.”
“Yeah?” It seems to cost him an effort to inhale and exhale steadily, his eyes fixated on the place where I clutch his shirt. “What if I told you I’m a convict? That the night I met you, I was coming back from the final meeting with my parole officer?”
I wait for the surprise to hit, but it never comes. Perhaps I already sensed Granger’s past included doing time. There’s a rawness to him, a restlessness that reminds me of an animal pacing a cage. Or a cell. “I’d say…it sounds like you did your time.” I wet my suddenly dry lips. “There are bad people out there with no prison records at all. Like Tony. Now I know there are good people with records. You wouldn’t have helped me otherwise. You wouldn’t have brought me in, made me safe.”
Ever so slightly, he leans into my touch, pressing his hard stomach to my fist. Up and down it heaves. “Maybe I’m only good with you.”
What happens in that moment to my body is something I’ve never experienced before. There’s a wet trickle down the center of my womanhood and the whole of my flesh begins to pulse like a heart. Thick, heavy, slow.
No idea what it means—and needing to process it—I drop my hand from his shirt and force my attention back to the task of cutting peppers.
With a breath that doesn’t sound entirely natural, Granger pushes off the counter, walks around behind me and opens the fridge. The drag of glass tells me he’s having a bottle of beer, like he usually does after work. “So…” His voice is low. “The kids gave you a run for your money today, huh?”
“As always,” I manage, going still. “Actually, today was weird…”
I trail off, realizing I’m about to confide in him about Paul asking me out. Somehow, though, relaying that information to Granger is totally inappropriate, even though we’re friends. Something stops me.
But he picks up on my hesitation, coming up beside me to study my face, tipping the bottle of beer to his lips. “Why was it weird?”
I’ve never been a good liar. I flit around to nine different potential fibs, before giving up. It’s useless. He’ll know I’m full of baloney. “One of the other teachers asked me to have dinner with him—”