Page 13 of Second Position (Astor Hill #2)

Grant

I let the bag I hastily packed yesterday morning slide off my arm, hear it thud on the floor, and release what feels like the first breath in over twenty four hours.

Atlanta’s always a lot, but lately, it’s a full sprint from the moment I land until the moment I’m back in my apartment.

This time we were going over the entire organizational structure of Fielder Foods, which included a walking tour of corporate.

Every single department was visited, and every single one had something to say to me.

And it’s not that I don’t love talking to people, because I do, but they all looked at me like I’m this unquestionable authority and I hated it.

I get started on a quick breakfast, still hungry after the tiny omelet I had on the flight back, when I see the last text I expected to get this morning.

Gen

Are you home?

I blink at my phone a few times, wondering if this is what whiplash feels like .

I don’t know why I thought she would go with me the other night—she was the girl she’s always been.

Distant. Guarded. Didn’t miss a beat. But damn if it didn’t hurt me.

And I contemplated talking to her, maybe even calling her out on her shit, but it was the sign I needed. I am way out of my depth with her.

I lock my screen and finish cooking my breakfast. I’m midway through my stack of protein pancakes when a knock interrupts my solitude.

I expect Bertie, the freshman in the apartment next to mine, who’s needed my help a dozen times since he moved in.

The first time, it was because he didn’t understand how to turn on his stove—his electric stove.

Last week, it was because his clothes had irreversibly shrunk after he washed everything on hot and dried them on hot.

Swinging the door open, my eyes fall patiently shut. “Yes, Bert?—”

“Hi. You didn’t answer my text and then I was on my way to the city and I saw your car so…” the familiar lilt of Gen’s voice has my eyes flying open, my heart lodging in my throat at the sound.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, sounding more annoyed than I mean to.

She’s silent, her lashes shading her eyes from me as she looks at the ground, before lifting her gaze to mine.

“I wanted to apologize for the other night. And I wanted to give you like, a day, because I was really awful to you, and I figured maybe you just wouldn’t even answer me; and I knew you’d have to answer if I showed up at your door, but now I’m at your door, and it feels like I shouldn’t have done this… because you seem mad?—”

“Gen,” I stop her. “You didn’t have to stop by to apologize.

” She’s clearly on her way to rehearsal, if her fresh- faced, hair back, indecently tight spandex situation is any indication.

I shouldn’t be affected by it, by her, at all, but there’s this genuine gleam in her almond shaped eyes that has me unable to move.

“And apologize over text?” She lets the slightest bit of her humor peek through, and I’m so greedy for more of it.

I want, more than anything, to be as resolved as I was yesterday.

I want to find the same resoluteness I had when I was stewing over her rejection as I walked the frigid halls of corporate.

But it’s gone, and she has no idea what she’s already doing to me.

“I am sorry, Grant. You didn’t deserve the way I treated you. ”

I nod slowly, letting the sincerity of her apology heal the last wounded parts of my ego.

“Yeah. Okay,” is all I say, torn between letting her have all the power and pushing her away. As much as this should be a deal breaker for me, I can’t help but feel like I’m just starting to get past her walls. I just want to know what’s really on the other side of them.

“You forgive me?”

“You didn’t show up at my door, looking like that, and expect me to hold a grudge, did you?” I say behind a small smile, deciding that’s better than telling her I still want to get to know her.

She rolls her eyes, a small sniffle the only indication that there might have been some tears in them. “Can’t you just be normal and be like, mad at me?”

I huff out a laugh, wondering the same thing. “I was,” I admit. “Maybe I still am. But I guess I have a hard time saying no to you.”

The way she blushes—suddenly, with an inhale that makes her chest rise then fall—has me fighting a smile.

“You’re too honest, Fielder.” She’s grinning now as she glances away for a moment. “Listen…I don’t know what this looks like. But I think we’re friends…?” Her shyness shocks me, and I take stock of this feeling. Like she wants something, with me.

“I thought we were,” I confirm, smirking.

“Oh-kay,” she laughs, still unsure of herself. “But we’ve never been friends. Especially not in the context of our group. I don’t know how to explain this…to them.”

And by them she means Will.

“I can’t pretend like I don’t know you, Gen.” It comes out more impassioned than I mean it to, but maybe it’s an accurate representation of how I feel. “We don’t owe them an explanation, don’t owe them anything.”

I watch it sink in, the idea that her and I are a we and that whatever we’re doing isn’t anyone’s business. Isn’t Will’s business at all.

“We don’t owe them anything,” she says with this quiet defiance, like she’s taking something for herself. She nips at her bottom lip and her mouth curves into a conspiratorial smile just as her gaze snags on something behind me.

“I’m sorry, were you on your way out? At—” she starts, checking her phone for the time, “seven a.m. on a Sunday?”

“No,” I chuckle. “I just got back from Atlanta. Where are you off to so early?”

“The conservatory, but I left early to grab food…my fridge is eerily empty.”

“Let’s grab breakfast,” I tell her, trying so hard to remain casual and noncommittal, despite how bad I want her to say yes.

“Is this the date?” Disbelief has her raising her brows, her lips quirking in an adorable smirk.

“No. This is friends ,” I remind her of her previous word choice, “getting breakfast. Give me more credit, Genevieve.” She likes when I say her whole name; I can tell because every time I have, her teeth sink into her bottom lip.

Her eyes rake over me, taking her time giving me an answer.

“An apology breakfast,” I suggest, the idea of spending time with her sparking something warm in my chest.

She tilts her head to the side, but I already know she’s relenting. “I knew I’d have to grovel.” She shakes her head, eyes sparkling with an easiness I haven’t seen before. “Where to?”

The breakfast chain right outside of Astor Hill boasts all kinds of food, from biscuits and gravy to avocado toast on dry, grainy bread, which Gen ordered without even looking at the menu.

That’s why I’m shocked when she disappeared to the counter, only to reemerge a few minutes later with two pink and white smoothies in her hands.

I open my mouth to inquire about the beverage I’m about to down, but she holds up a finger, silencing me.

“Just taste. You can ask questions later.” She wraps her lips around the straw, sipping for a long, protracted moment with her eyes closed, a guttural moan leaving her. I can’t help but laugh before I take a sip of mine.

And holy shit—I get it now. A moan escapes me , shocked by how good this smoothie is. It’s not a typical smoothie, with its fruit forward, banana centric flavor profile. No—this is… creamy? The strawberry reminds me of childhood, and it’s almost like I’m drinking?—

“Gen. Is there ice cream in this? ”

She grins up from her drink, childlike mischief flitting across her features. “Yes. Yes there is.” She sighs again, her head lolling back as she savors the milkshake she’s drinking at eight o’clock in the morning, and she’s the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen.

I shake my head, laughing, and indulge in the drink I’m just now realizing she paid for. I grab my phone and send her what I think was the cost of two smoothies. Her phone pings, her eyes rolling as soon as she sees the message.

“Oh my god, Grant. It was like ten dollars.”

“Cool. Get yourself a coffee with the other ten,” I shrug. I can see her about to fire something back, but she relaxes in her chair instead, shaking her head.

“ Such a gentleman,” she smirks, sipping her smoothie.

“Call me old fashioned but, the guy always pays.”

“But this isn’t a date,” she reminds me.

“This isn’t the date.” I playfully cheers her cup and she shakes her head in disbelief, a grin spread across her face.

“Gentleman my ass.” Her voice is sarcastic but there's something serene in the way she’s looking at me and, not for the first time, I think about how I’ve never seen her like this, how she actively hides this part of herself.

I lean forward on the table, clasping my drink with both hands and for a second I wish we met under different circumstances. Maybe five years from now when she had moved on from Will and I could pursue her freely. I feel a surge of frustration course through me.

“It makes no sense to me, Gen. You’re stunning. You’re intelligent, whip smart, funny, accomplished?—”

“Do go on,” she grins, a slight blush creeping up her neck.

“I’m serious,” I tell her, my brows knitting together as I try to work her out. “If he can’t see that, you should find someone who does.” My stomach knots at my mention of Will, but he’s like the cloud lingering over every encounter I’ve had with Gen.

Something like shame flares in her eyes, her posture noticeably deflating, and I know I hit a nerve, her walls sliding back up at an impressive speed. Guilt hits me like a wave, watching the woman who seemed so free moments before crawl back into herself.

“What, someone like you?” Her tone is biting, clearly feeling defensive, and I can’t blame her.

I scoff as I shake my head, looking away. “There’s a world of people out there, and he’s who you want to hitch your wagon to?”

“My friendship with Will doesn’t have to make sense to everyone else. Because it makes sense to him. It makes sense to me.”