Page 14

Zoe

M y legs are still shaking, my head spinning, as the bell over the door at Uncle Sam’s Pancake House announces our arrival. I would really like to blame it on the strenuous hike, but even I wouldn’t buy that after being carried for the majority of it and all the way back to the base.

Maybe it was the altitude.

Yes. Perfect. The altitude.

Totally valid. Colorado Springs is over a mile high, and the Incline just took us another two thousand feet. Straight up.

Elevation definitely explains why I can’t seem to catch my breath. Why my limbs feel a little wobbly. And why every bit of me recalls, in perfect detail, the feel of his enormous paws on my thighs.

Okay. Maybe not so much that last one.

But there has to be an explanation. Beyond the obvious. Beyond that wall of solid muscle I clung to for forty-five minutes.

Because—no. Just no.

I am not—I will not—be attracted to Grant Reddington. Not after he made it abundantly clear that he isn’t interested in me.

This should be easy—not being physically attracted to him. I’m not anyway. Not really. Not to more than his five-o’clock shadow. That’s where I draw the line. I can appreciate a man’s facial hair. And those faint patches of gray at his temples. Maybe his shoulders. And a little bit his height. But that’s only because most of the guys I work with on set are several inches shy of six feet. Grant towers over it.

Maybe it’s a little bit attractive.

But that’s it. That’s all.

Even if he wasn’t on my dad’s team and completely off-limits, I’ve sworn off dating anyone else in the public eye. Sworn off men in general for the time being.

And I’m going to keep telling myself that until I believe it.

Any doubts about my feelings are probably caused by hunger. Yes, that’s definitely why my knees are still trembling. Even a third of the Incline was a decent workout, and that protein bar I ate as I flew out of Nan’s house this morning wasn’t exactly filling.

Sustenance. That’s what I need.

Inside the quaint restaurant, the forty-something hostess looks up from a wooden stand where she’s wiping down plastic-covered menus with a once-white rag. Her eyes bulge, and she quickly wipes her hands across her apron. “Mr. Reddington—Red.”

“Grant,” he says with a perfect grin. The man really does have a movie-star-quality smile. Aren’t football players supposed to be missing teeth?

No. That’s hockey players.

But still . . . it’s not fair.

And Susanna at the hostess stand is not unaffected. Her nervous little titter is covered only by her flustered fanning of the menus. “Three?”

Grant nods, and I realize Susanna hasn’t bothered to glance my way. I pull my hat a little lower just incase as I follow Kenna, weaving between the classic diner tables toward a red vinyl booth. Most of the chairs in the dining room are full, and heads are appropriately bent over stacks of pancakes. No one seems to notice us.

Maybe no one here expects to see a celebrity, so they don’t look for them.

And if they do notice us, they’re much more likely to focus on the Teeners’ winning quarterback.

For the first time since The Post broke the story, I’m invisible. As I slide into the booth beside Kenna, I shoot her a sly smile because we know something no one else in the restaurant does.

Until our waitress walks up to our table.

She’s popping pink bubble gum like Caro always does and flipping through an old-school server notepad. “Hey there, what can I get ya to drink?” She looks like she’s been here since the town was founded, but when she glances up, her eyes lock with mine. She blinks twice, and I see the immediate recognition.

It’s too late to duck my head or cover my face, and my stomach sinks so fast that any appetite I’d worked up vanishes.

“You’re—you’re—”

“In dire need of a cup of coffee,” Grant says. His gaze is direct, and there’s something in his voice that demands that she hold her tongue. “Black.”

She nods slowly, but her gaze doesn’t waver from my face as she pats her red T-shirt then her black apron until she pulls out a pen. “And for you girls?”

“Water is fine,” I mumble. My delivery suggests an uncertainty I’m not proud of.

Thank God for Kenna, who almost immediately speaks up. “Do you have orange juice?”

Gladys nods. “Small or large?”

Kenna’s blue eyes dart toward her uncle in an unspoken question. He replies with nothing more than a tip of his chin. It’s a strange interaction, so silent. Almost formal. But Kenna knows she has permission to get what she wants. “Large.”

Gladys gives me one more knowing stare before scurrying toward the kitchen. When she’s well out of earshot, I lean across the table toward where Grant is spreading out across his bench. “ Thank you.” I only mouth the words, but I see the appreciation in the crinkles around his eyes.

“For carrying you up a mountain? Or for just now?”

My glare comes on quick and direct, and it only makes Grant chuckle. “I could have made it myself.” If my shoe wasn’t flopping off my foot.

“Yeah, but you didn’t.”

Before I can counter his argument, Gladys is back, carrying three cups. With a practiced move, she sets them on the table and slides them into place. “Need a minute?”

“Yes, please.” Grant picks up his two-sided menu and gives her a guilty grin. “Haven’t even looked at it.”

“Take your time,” she says as she strolls away.

I immediately pick up my menu too, but Kenna is enamored with the drink sitting in front of her. It’s got to be close to twenty ounces, and only her eyes eclipse it.

“A bit of a treat?” I ask out of the side of my mouth.

“Mom never lets me get a large drink. She says it’s a waste when water is free.”

I realize in that moment that I have no idea what Kenna’s homelife was like before she moved in with Grant. That’s temporary too—but I imagine Kenna has moved around more than would be easy for a girl her age. More than would be easy for anyone.

Wherever her dad is, he doesn’t seem to be in the picture. And people serving in the military are woefully underpaid.

I make a note to ask Grant if I can help Kenna and her mom out, so they don’t have to pinch pennies. I may not know where my next paycheck is coming from or when it might arrive, but I’m a lot of years away from having to worry about that—at least according to my business manager.

Grant winks at her. “Don’t tell your mom I let you order whatever you want.”

Somehow her eyes get even bigger. “Whatever I want?”

He nods just as Gladys returns. “Ready? What can I get you?”

She looks right at me, and I scramble to read the menu. “I’m not sure . . .”

Wasting no time, she points to Kenna. “For the young lady?”

Kenna orders some pancake concoction that a middle schooler’s metabolism can handle. It sounds fruity and sweet and like it’ll feel like a rock in your stomach when you’re done. I’m so tempted to order the same thing.

Gladys swings to Grant, who points at his menu. “Let’s go with the Philly steak breakfast burrito, ham and eggs, and um . . . a Belgian waffle.”

Totally unphased, Gladys asks, “Do you want the Belgian waffle breakfast with eggs and a breakfast meat?”

Grant hems and haws a bit, glances in my direction, and then nods. “Sure. Add the eggs and bacon.”

Gladys is scribbling down the order as I cross my arms, my pulse pounding in my ears.

He didn’t just order for me, did he? No. He wouldn’t have.

But he ordered three meals. Three full meals.

I only said I wasn’t sure, not that I couldn’t make up my mind. Just that I hadn’t yet. But . . .

“Have you decided?” he asks, interrupting my internal argument.

“Me?” I squint at him. “I thought you just ordered for the whole table.”

His eyebrows dip into a serious V .

“So, you didn’t? Just order for me, that is?”

“I’m not sharing if that’s what you’re asking.” He plucks at the tip of his chin. “I just carried you halfway up the Incline and all the way down. I’m a big guy. Got to eat big to stay big.”

A snort escapes through my nose before I realize it’s even there. “You’re going to eat all of that?”

“You doubt my ability?”

I shrug.

“Fine. If I can eat it all, you buy breakfast.”

Kenna elbows my arm and adds a quick shake of her head. “Don’t dare him. Mom says he’s a garbage disposal.”

I narrow my gaze and study his face and form. I was just up close and personal with the broadness of his back and the strength of his arms and legs. He’s a big guy—for sure. But his muscles are sleek and well-shaped, his hips trim and waist firm. And he’s certainly not as big as some of the guys on the team.

Though, maybe that’s not a fair comparison. Linemen aren’t made petite.

And there’s no doubt Grant worked up an appetite. But no way a guy that fit would put away six thousand calories in one meal. It may be a bye week, but he wouldn’t throw off his training in the middle of the season.

Sitting up a little straighter, I shake my head. “I don’t think you can do. Nuh-uh.”

Eyebrows slowly rising and wrinkling his forehead, he says, “Every bite. And whatever you don’t eat off your own plate.”

I reach across the table, and his hand meets mine in a firm shake. His hand is huge, wrapping around mine.

It’s not the first time he’s dwarfed me. But we don’t think about when he pulled me into his arms and made me feel like a schoolgirl with my first crush.

I’m not a particularly tall woman. And most of my co-stars aren’t too much taller. But Grant makes me feel . . . tiny. Protected.

And the way his fingers hold my hand, gentle and confident, makes something inside me quiver. A handshake has never shot sparks up my arm before, so I jerk back quickly, hoping he doesn’t notice just how fast. Cheeks burning as the memory of our last practice in his backyard flashes through my mind, I duck my head.

“So, what’s it going to be?” he asks.

Gladys is watching our exchange with wide eyes and no attempt to veil her interest.

“Spinach omelet, please. With pancakes.” Then, staring straight at Grant, I add, “Can you make that a double stack of pancakes? Large.”

With a giggle, Gladys writes it down. “Good luck, Red.”