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Zoe

I stumble as Grant lets go of me and announces he doesn’t want to do this. He doesn’t want to do this?

He started this! He’s the one being all sweet, getting me a sweatshirt that smells like him. Something deep and piney and clean. Like fresh mountain air with a spicy undercurrent.

But he doesn’t want to kiss me.

I force my face into a neutral expression, thankful for the acting classes that trained me to control my features—even when something goes wrong on set or stage.

And this is definitely wrong. Or at least unexpected.

Maybe it’s my wounded pride or my training, but something causes me to blurt out, “Well, it’s not like I wanted to kiss you either.”

Lies. All lies.

I wanted very much to kiss him. Still do. Even if I know it’s better not to.

Joe didn’t break my heart or anything—but he sure taught me a valuable lesson. Never date someone in the public eye. Especially if you want to stay out of the tabloids—or at least on their good sides.

I don’t mind being covered in the press for picking a particularly beautiful red-carpet dress. Thank you, Marc and Donatella.

I don’t even mind making headlines for picking a dress no one else likes. Because if I’m wearing it, you better believe I love it. There’s no shame in having unique taste.

But relationships are meant for two—and I don’t need anyone else butting into mine.

And a—well, whatever this is—with Grant would only add to the reporters buzzing around me. And I don’t need that.

Thus, I don’t need to be kissing Grant Reddington.

There. Decision made.

Except for that force that’s pulling me toward him, that just wants to be wrapped up in the brutally toned arms of an NFL quarterback, that wants to drag my fingers across the angles of his jaw and feel the scrape of his five-o’clock shadow. That feeling inside like I’m taking a champagne bath. That sure and sweet knowledge that Grant’s kisses are infinitely better than Joe Kellyn’s could ever be.

“Yeah. No. This is better. We shouldn’t—”

He stabs a hand through his hair and shakes his head. “Listen, it’s not like that. I just . . . I need to . . .”

“No.” I wave a hand between us to cut him off. “I get it. Like I said, I didn’t really want to kiss you either. I just didn’t want you to be embarrassed.”

His gaze slices back to me like a laser, leveling everything in its path. I’m tempted to fall too but hold my ground. “I’m not embarrassed.”

“That’s . . . good.” My tongue is failing me. So is my brain. Which can’t seem to shut off the memory of being in his arms. He’s strong. Like really strong. But there’s a tenderness in the way he holds me. It’s not selfish—like the last guy. It’s protective. It’s considerate. It’s . . . sweet.

“I’m going to go,” I nod in the general direction where my car is parked. “I should . . . I should . . . Nan is probably worried about me. And Bronco could use a walk.”

Grant cringes when I use the dog’s name, so I do it again. “Bronco is such a good boy. He deserves a treat today.”

Something flashes across Grant’s face. It’s so fast that I almost miss it. I can’t fully name it, but it almost seems like he wants a treat today too.

Well, he could have had one.

But he made his choice. Now he has to live with it.

I spin and march toward the house, Grant’s footfalls crunching leaves behind me. I want to ask him when we can practice again. If I’m getting any better.

If he’ll reconsider that whole kissing situation.

I have more self-respect than that. Not much. But enough.

I don’t even say goodbye to him, but I wave at Denise as I slip through the kitchen. “Thanks for breakfast.”

Her gaze darts between me and a spot behind me, her eyebrows forming a very clear question. She says only, “Anytime, honey.”

Somewhere close to the entryway, Grant gives up his chase, and I fling the front door open, slide outside, and slam it closed. Leaning back against the cold blue wood, I take a deep breath.

This is fine. Everything is fine.

We didn’t kiss, so all relationships are still intact. This doesn’t change anything with him. Or Kenna.

Business as usual.

Except I’m trying a little too hard to convince myself of that.

Yeah, I wouldn’t mind curling up and disappearing for a good long while, but in case Denise is looking through the window, I don’t want her to wonder why my car is still sitting beside Grant’s truck. I slink to my rental and slide in, resting my head on the steering wheel as I turn it on.

Suddenly my leg starts to vibrate, and I grab at the phone in the pocket of my joggers.

“Hello?”

“Who’s the best agent in the world?”

My head snaps up at the sound of Cyndi’s voice. “You are.”

“Absolutely correct.”

“Did you get me a meeting with the director? With Knight?”

She doesn’t beat around the bush. “Of course, I did.” Her voice is deep and a bit gravelly, but it’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard.

“When?”

“Monday. Will you be ready?”

That’s six days away, but I can have only one answer. “Yes.” I won’t exactly have a spiral to show off, but I do have a new appreciation for how hard the game of football actually is.

“All right. I’ll text you the video link.”

I do a full-on happy dance in the front seat of my car as I back out of the driveway and roll my window down to wave at Chester in the gatehouse on my way out of the neighborhood.

I’ve got a lot of work to do this week to prepare for my audition. At least that might help me keep my mind off of Grant and any extracurricular activities we could have enjoyed together.