Bulldozer (Hard to Love 3)

“In football, it’s either too much money too soon, or injury.” He stops abruptly. His gaze falls to the ground while his forehead wrinkles.

“You never got hooked on painkillers.” It’s not really a question. If I’ve learned anything about Grant, it’s that he does everything deliberately. He’s a master at meticulous planning.

“I can’t say I wasn’t tempted. I’ve had broken ribs, bruised kidneys, MCL and ACL tears, tear of my groin muscle and a staph infection…oh, and spinal surgery,” he adds belatedly. “It took serious effort not to fall into the habit.”

The thought of Grant injured has me on the verge of a panic attack. My skin feels tight and a heavy weight presses down on my chest, forcing me to take shallow breaths. He’s so big and confident that sometimes I forget he’s flesh and blood like the rest of us.

“What about concussions? Aren’t you scared?”

“One––that I know of,” he tells me. “The staph infection was the scariest. If I hadn’t gotten it treated in time, I could’ve lost my leg.”

I thought I was immune to all of this, having to live vicariously not only through Calvin’s career but also my other brothers. Seth plays minor league baseball and Will, the baby, is a senior at Florida State on a football scholarship. And yet, the idea of seeing Grant seriously injured has me in a near meltdown. This is not a good omen.

“You’re green all of a sudden. What’s wrong?”

“Everything. Thinking about your injuries is making me nauseous. What about your back, Grant? Are you sure it’s safe for you to play? Because frankly it scares the shit out of me.”

“It’ll be fine. Don’t worry,” he murmurs, placing one kiss after another over my breasts.

Taking my fisted hand, he carefully and gently unfurls my fingers. “Why do you always fist your hands?”

“If I tell you, you have to promise to never make fun of me.” I look over at him when he remains silent. The sexy little smile he’s fighting does not inspire me to spill my secrets. “I mean it, Grant.”

“Promise.”

I exhale and start. “I was always tall and scary skinny. In junior high, I looked like a character in one of Tim Burton’s cartoons––the horror ones, not the cute ones. My fingers have always been strangely long…and uh a boy called me Freddy Krueger in the sixth grade and it stuck.”

Crickets, the sound of waves gently crashing on shore from the open window, that’s all I hear for a good long time. Then comes an explosion of laughter.

“This is not funny.” I sit up in bed and get yanked back down almost immediately. Strong arms band around me and in seconds I’m flat on my back again, Grant hovering above me. “You’re a jerk,” I say, fighting a smile.

A wide grin cuts his face in two, his eyes wet with humor. The urge to nut punch him is overwhelming and if I wasn’t such a fan of them I would.

“Freddy––” he croaks. My knee almost connects with his balls but he moves his pelvis before I can score a direct hit. “Freddy, you are hands down the most beautiful creature I have ever seen. I just about lose my mind every single time I look at you.” He looks down at me with so much affection I almost forget to be mad at him.

“If you want me to tell you how pretty you are for each and every time one of those dumb kids made you feel bad, I will––because you are.” Taking both of my wrists into one of his hands, he pins them on the bed over my head. “And not just your face. Your heart’s pretty, too––even a blind man can see that.”

Tears well in my eyes, sneaking out the sides. Grant places a gentle kiss on my temple. On the other. On the tip of my nose. On my lips. Then he pulls back and his smile melts into something more. Something serious and meaningful and my breath stalls in anticipation of what he’ll say next.

“But you do have some long-ass fingers.” And then the jerk laughs.

Chapter Twenty-Three

You know what happens when you’re having the best sex of your life? Stuff. Stuff happens because Life does not like to lay tracks in a straight line for too long. She always has a twist and a turn up her sleeve. Usually, when you least expect it.

Roxy barks me awake. I rub the sleep out of my eyes and check my phone. It reads 8:30. Then I hear the front door open and my internal alarm blast. I nudge Grant’s shoulder.

“One more hour…tired, baby…rode me like a beast a burden…” he slurs in his sleep.

“Grant,” I whisper-hiss. “Wake up. Somebody’s here.”

He turns over, onto his back, and blinks then squints. “Huh?”

“I heard the front door open.”