Page 10

Grant

D enise never disappoints, and I may have let myself indulge in an extra helping of carne asada flap steak. I lean back in my chair and pat my stomach. Only then do I realize that Kenna and Zoe are eyeing me with concern, still working on their first servings.

“What?”

Kenna merely rolls her eyes. But then her gaze swings back toward me, the weight of it heavy.

“What?” I ask again.

“It’s just that Mom said you don’t smile much. But I don’t know—”

My gaze darts toward Zoe, who tries to cover her flash of teeth with a big bite of steak. I do my best to put on a grumpy face, but I’m not really feeling it. I haven’t been all afternoon. Not since I wrapped Zoe up in my arms.

Of course it was all for the sake of her audition. Running my fingers over the smooth skin of her hands and pressing into her back. Inhaling the coconut scent of her shampoo and holding on to her waist.

Absolutely and only about her audition.

Maybe if I keep telling myself that, she’ll stop popping up in my mind without notice or a good reason.

“Mom says you’ve been in a bad mood since Tawna dumped you.”

I nearly choke on my own tongue, throwing myself forward, forearms landing on either side of my empty plate.

Zoe is not nearly as dramatic. She simply pauses the bite of steak on her fork a few inches from her lips and raises an eyebrow in my general direction. “Tawna?”

I shake my head at Kenna, but she’s not even looking in my direction. “She broke his heart.”

“She did not break my heart. She broke my arm.” As soon as the words come out, I know they’re not the witty defense I was hoping for. And I’ve only invited deeper cross-examination.

Before I can begin to backpedal, Zoe’s other eyebrow raises to match the first. “Your arm? Is that a euphemism I haven’t heard about?”

“No.” The word comes out more of a growl than I’d like. But it’s too late to change that. Whatever my afternoon with Zoe did to lift my spirits, I’m instantly back to the grump my niece thinks I am.

I’m really not a grumpy guy. I just don’t like being reminded of stupid mistakes. And everything about my relationship with Tawna was stupid. I let her chase me from the beginning, let her catch me instead of catching her. I let her get into my head and into my life. I let her throw me off my schedule and dictate what was important in my life.

I knew from the start that she wanted to be an NFL WAG with all the publicity that comes with the role. But the funny thing was, she didn’t really want a guy in the NFL. She wanted the status and the paychecks and the fancy purses. But she didn’t want the hard work and early mornings and long afternoons. She didn’t want weird travel schedules or off-season training calendars.

She wanted to sip champagne in luxury suites and let me dote on her. She wanted our names connected in headlines and a booming number of social media followers. She wanted all of my attention and all the wins. I couldn’t give her both.

Kenna leans in toward Zoe. “He broke his arm in a game.”

Zoe sits up straighter, the amusement on her face vanishing. “I remember that. It was the playoffs three years ago. You stayed in the pocket too long, and they sacked you. They snapped your wrist.”

“Ulna, actually,” I mumble. I don’t need a play-by-play to remember. I’ve got the surgery scar on my forearm so I don’t forget. A few wrist rotations also remind me that I’ve healed.

“That was about a girl? About—”

“Tawna,” Kenna fills in helpfully.

Thanks, kid.

Zoe nods slowly, her gaze not quite meeting mine as her eyes shift back and forth. She’s trying to fill in the story, one I’m not eager for her to know the details of.

“It ended badly,” I say. Because it did. “I got distracted. And that’s a dangerous thing for the guy holding the ball.”

And I swore I’d never do that again. Period. End of story.

Love. Marriage. Starting a family. Sure, I want those things. But not yet. Not until I retire. Not until I can focus on only that. Because if Tawna taught me anything, it’s that I’m not capable of doing both at the same time.

For now, I’m just going to play the best ball I can. And I’m going to ignore everything else.

Pushing my chair back from the table before anyone can ask a follow-up question or spill any more beans, I pick up my plate and head for the kitchen.

“Are we still going to watch Thor tonight?“ Kenna asks.

Chicken on a biscuit. I forgot about that. But breaking promises to the kid isn’t going to help win her over.

“Sure. I’ll get it cued up.”

“You should stay!”

I turn around to realize that she’s talking to Zoe, and no matter how many motions I make to tell her to cut it out, she keeps going.

“He promised we could watch the whole MCU while my mom is gone. You should watch them with us.”

The kid is either entirely oblivious or completely diabolical because she’s practically hanging off Zoe’s arm begging her.

“Have you met Chris Hemsworth?” Kenna continues. “In real life.”

Zoe nods slowly.

“And is he gorgeous? Like, as drop-dead as he is in his movies? I know he’s old, but my mom says he’s a perfect specimen.”

Zoe snorts, and I groan. Hemsworth probably has more than a decade on me, but he’s still in ridiculous shape. I hope to be that strong when I’m his age.

Doesn’t mean I want to sit on the couch between two girls ogling said specimen all evening.

“Maybe we should start with Black Widow instead,“ I mumble.

Zoe’s lips disappear as she bites into them and leans forward, propping her elbows on the table and chin in her hands. “He really is beautiful. Like a sculpture. And incredibly funny. Kind too. And terribly in love with his wife. Which makes him even more attractive.”

There’s a note of longing in her voice, and I wonder if she’s thinking about that actor the tabloids linked her to. It sounds like their relationship went up in flames, and she hasn’t mentioned him at all. But maybe she misses him.

The thought slams into my gut, stealing my breath for a split second.

I’ve got no right to be upset if she’s thinking about him. Except that he seems like a royal jerk, and Zoe deserves better.

Even if there’s a tiny bit of me that wishes that when she leaves the Springs she’ll miss me.

This is getting out of control, so I swoop around the table, clearing away empty plates. “All right. We get the picture. Chris Hemsworth is dreamy. But you, young lady”—I point a finger at Kenna—“are thirteen years old. And I’m not returning you to your mother any more boy crazy than I got you.”

“Uncle Gra-ant,” Kenna sighs. “I’m not boy crazy. I just have good taste.”

Zoe slaps a hand over her mouth, which does little to hide the smirk lighting her features. Finally, she mumbles, “What? She’s right. She just has good taste.”

“That’s it,” I grouch. “We’re watching an animated movie tonight.”

“But you promised.” Kenna stares up at me with enormous blue eyes, so much like her mom’s, and her bottom lip does a little tremble.

Chicken on a biscuit.

I can’t say no to that, and she knows it.

“Fine.”

Kenna cheers and practically yanks Zoe from her chair. As I rinse the plates and put them in the dishwasher, I hear Kenna telling Zoe how to use the recliners on either end of the couch. The electric buzz of the sofa really means only one thing. I’m going to end up sitting in the middle.

I don’t want to like that idea, but as I settle into the center seat of the brown leather sofa in my living room across from the eighty-inch screen mounted on the far wall, I’m anything but immune to the woman sitting to my left. Her very presence makes that side of my body warm. It makes my skin feel hyper-sensitive. Maybe she feels the same way.

I want to reach for her hand or the knee that’s bent in my direction because her foot is tucked under her.

My imagination is happy to fill in the possible responses she’d have to my touch—from slapping my face to pulling me in for a long, slow kiss. A spot deep in my stomach clenches.

I’ve missed that feeling. I mean, I have no business missing it. But I do. There’s something special about being with someone who gets you. Someone who lets you care for them. Someone who wants to care for you.

Tawna was not good at that last one.

But I have a feeling Zoe would be pretty great at it.

Wanting it and acting on it are two different things though. Taking a deep breath, I remind myself that I have enough self-control to keep my hands on my own knees.

By the time I finally shake off that train of thought, the movie is half over. The sun has fully set, the living room dark, save for the flickering screen. And I’ve lost at least one of my companions to sleep. Kenna is leaning on my shoulder, her eyes closed. Shoulders rise and fall in a shallow but steady rhythm. Her head begins to loll forward, so I reach across my body and catch it, tucking it back into place. She makes a little grunt, and I smooth her hair down until she snuggles into my arm, sighing back into sleep.

All that talk about Chris Hemsworth, and she can’t even stay awake to watch him.

I risk a glance toward my other side. Zoe’s eyes are closed too. Her head is tipped back, her lips parted slightly. She might be snoring, but I’ll never know for sure with Thor in surround sound. Her arms are wrapped around both of her legs, her knees tucked against her chest.

My smart-watch confirms that it’s past 9:30, nearly Kenna’s bedtime. She has school tomorrow, so I wiggle free, careful not to disrupt the sleeping beauties. Scooping Kenna up, I make my way through the living room, avoiding the coffee table and the backpack she flung onto the floor when she got home from school.

Her room upstairs has a few more landmines, but I manage to get through them without tripping on a mound of clothes or a pile of books. I tuck her in and press my fingers to my lips before touching them to her forehead. “Good night, sweetie. Sleep well.” I pull her covers up to her chin and tuck them in at her shoulders. “Your mom will be home in one hundred and sixty-two days. I love you.”

Back at the couch, Zoe has shifted positions, her head on the armrest, hands stacked beneath her cheek. In the dim light, I can still make out her features and the smooth lines of her face. Squatting before her, I trail a finger from her forehead toward her ear to push a wayward piece of hair out of her face. Her skin is like satin, soft and supple. It’s even silkier than her hair.

She’s beautiful in a way that goes so much deeper than her appearance, and for a moment, I don’t know what to do with her. I could wake her and break the peaceful lines of her face. Or I could carry her to bed like Kenna.

But I only have one available bed in the house.

And it happens to be mine.

I scrub a hand down my face and then over my hair, clapping my palm to the back of my neck. Man, I do not need that idea in my head.

For someone who’s sworn off relationships, I sure do spend a lot of time thinking about what my life would look like with Zoe Peebles.

“Grant?” Her voice is thick with sleep, and her tongue sounds heavy.

I meet her hazel gaze and offer a half smile.

“What time is it?”

“Almost ten.”

Her eyes dart to the far end of the empty couch. “Kenna?”

“I just carried her to bed.”

Something flashes in her eyes, warm and sweet. Maybe it’s a reflection from the screen behind me. But maybe it’s something I said.

A tug in my gut hopes it’s the latter.

“I should go.” Pushing herself up on her arm, her elbow slides, and she crashes back to the couch.

I lay a hand on her shoulder, just enough pressure to keep her from trying and failing again. “You can stay.”

She looks toward the front door. “No, I shouldn’t. My car is—” She doesn’t try to hide the flash of fear that crosses her face, and in an instant, I know that she’s worried about paparazzi.

“You’re the only person Chester has ever let into this neighborhood without permission.”

“I think he likes me,” she says with a lazy smile, her eyes drooping closed. Then her face pinches. “Are you sure?”

“They won’t find you here.”

And if they did, I would break every single one of their cameras and proudly send the footage of the rampage to SportsCenter. Just let them try.

She begins to nod, snuggling deeper into the cushions. But suddenly her eyes fly open. “Nan will worry about me. And Bronco needs to be let out.”

Ah, the dog who must not be named.

Who I probably owe a biscuit treat. Not that I’d admit it. But he is the reason that I connected with Zoe in the first place. That Kenna is beginning to open up to me.

“I’ll text your grandma.”

“And tell her I’m spending the night with you? Ha.” Her laugh is completely dry. “That’ll go over well.”

I smirk as I push off my knees and pull a blanket out of the basket on the floor. Shaking it wide, I spread it over her curled-up body. “I don’t know about you, but Mrs. Peebles likes me.”