Page 23

Zoe

B y the time Tuesday morning rolls around, I’m more eager than Bronco to get up. In fact, when I bounce out of bed, I knock him down his steps at the foot of the bed. His pathetic howl announces his abuse to the whole neighborhood, and I run for a treat in the kitchen to soothe his poor tortured heart.

“I’m sorry, buddy.” I squat down in front of him and give him a good ear scratch while he crunches on his bone-shaped snack. I’m either forgiven or completely forgotten, so I tiptoe into the bathroom to brush my teeth, wash my face, and do something with my hair.

In a few minutes, I’m not exactly camera ready. But at least I look alert, and I’ve plucked out whatever crusty was in the corner of my eye. Not to mention my breath smells a little better than a dying skunk. Then I pull my hair into a ponytail. It’s not slicked back, but it is reined in.

Definite improvement over every other morning I’ve met Grant on the front sidewalk.

And now I just need to pray he shows up.

If he doesn’t . . . well, I have an in with Chester. No way are they keeping me outside that gated community. Not until Grant hears me out. Not until I tell him the truth.

I hurry to change out of my mismatched plaid pajama pants and slip into a pair of black jeans. Nothing fancy. Just clean. Not pajama adjacent. I finish the look by pulling on an oversized silver sweatshirt with the Fourteeners purple mountain logo on it.

Maybe it’ll win me a few points with QB1.

Or at least enough points for me to explain that I’m an idiot, and I didn’t mean anything I said, and I want to be with him. And I’m not going back to LA.

And if he’s not kissing me by that point, I’m doing something terribly wrong.

But outside, I realize I’ve made a awful mistake. The kind that ends in hypothermia.

I should have put on my puffy red coat. Or at least a scarf and gloves. As it is, I have no way to keep my hands warm, so I tuck them under my armpits and hop from foot to foot. In my fuzzy purple slippers.

Because of course I forgot to slip on actual shoes. That would be too much to remember at 4:53 a.m.

I glance at the dark house. I could run back inside and get my coat and shoes. But what if I miss Grant? What if in the ninety seconds it takes me to grab those things, he and whatever quadruped he’s with today traverse the entire block and disappear around the corner?

Too risky.

So I bounce and dance and hop from the walkway to the lawn, my gaze jumping between the dark parts of the sidewalk and Bronco—who’s staring at me like I’ve lost my mind. To be fair, he might not be completely wrong.

I just know that what Nan said makes sense. My chance at freedom, at letting go of all of the stuff that’s been trailing me for weeks, is in the truth. In telling Grant the truth.

Even if he doesn’t feel the same?

That’s a stupid thought. But it has a point.

Maybe he doesn’t feel the same. After all, I’ve managed to do all the things that his ex did, too. Distracting him off the field. Getting his name in headlines he doesn’t want. Making my dad mad at him.

I guess our—whatever we are—hasn’t started great. But that means it only has one direction to go. Not unlike my throwing skills.

Movement half-a-block down catches my eye, sending my stomach into a barrel roll. Until I realize it’s only the shadow of a barren tree branch waving in the wind.

Please don’t let him have given up on me. I just need one more chance. I can make this right.

I take a couple steps down the sidewalk, watching the corner for any sign of him. “Come on, Grant. Where are you?”

“Right here.”

I nearly fly out of my skin and leap ten feet into the air at the sound of his voice next to my ear. Swinging around to face him, I go to shove his shoulder, only then spotting the tan face and giant ears of the freeloading companion tucked in the crook of his arm.

Despite the cool morning air, Rico looks cozy and comfortable in Grant’s arms.

And now I’m jealous of a dog.

“Morning, Rico.”

I’m so stupid. I’ve been waiting to see Grant for days, but the first thing I do is ignore him.

“Zo.” Grant’s voice is deep, a little bit rusty, like he hasn’t used it yet this morning. Which is attractive as all get-out. “I wasn’t sure you’d be here this morning.”

My gaze flies up to meet his. “You’re one to be talking. You stood me up on Saturday.”

His face contorts just a bit, his mouth opening like he’s going to argue with me. But suddenly his gaze narrows as it sweeps over me from head to purple-Muppet-covered toe. “Didn’t know we were getting all red-carpet fancy this morning.” His panted breathing is growing slower, but each release still sets off a cloud of fog in the cold. “I’d have worn my running cummerbund.”

I do exactly what he expects me to. I laugh at his stupid joke.

“You look . . .” He reaches for my cheek but drops his hand before his fingers can touch me. “You look good.”

Good golly, I want to feel his touch again. Please tell me it’s not too late. That I’m not too late.

Silence hangs over us, heavier than the inky morning sky. I’m waiting for him to say something. He’s not going to be the first to speak. Instead, we’re staring at each other, all awkwardness and uncertainty. And I’m just drinking him in. All those assets that Nan appreciated. And the ones no one can see.

Because he’s here. He’s really here.

Suddenly I blurt out the only thing I can think to break the silence. “I watched your post-game press conference.”

He raises an eyebrow but gives a mere grunt of amusement in reply.

“Those reporters sure were eager to blame me for your terrible game.”

His chin jerks and eyes look over my head for a second. “Was it a terrible game though?” He’s clearly fighting a smile. “We did win.”

“Not really thanks to you.” I take a step closer to him, keeping my chin up as I give him my best smirk.

Something flashes in his eyes. I can’t quite define it, but it’s like the opposite of anger. It’s like the last four days without this—without us—has been torture for him, too.

“I mean, I suppose you could have gone and thrown the whole game away after that opening drive. And you didn’t. So, that’s something.”

He closes half the distance between us. We’re well within each other’s personal space, but I still have to actively hold myself back from flinging myself against him.

“Oh? Is that your expert analysis of the game?”

I bite into my bottom lip and lift one shoulder. “I mean, I am wearing a Fourteeners sweatshirt, so I’m something of an authority on the subject.”

“I noticed.” There’s a growl in his voice, a hunger that I’ve only ever heard once before. Right before he kissed me the first time. My insides remember, too, and they set off in flight, swarms of butterflies that threaten to carry me away.

Only I don’t want to be anywhere else.

Grant’s warmth is like a beacon, and I lean toward it.

This is my moment. This is my shot. Now or never. “I missed you.”

I steel myself for his smug grin, but it doesn’t appear. Instead, his eyes search mine, looking for only God knows what. But I don’t look away. I’m laying the truth bare today.

“What happened to it all being a waste? To us being a waste?”

I shake my head hard and fast. “I was stupid. And I didn’t want to be like your ex—dragging you through the proverbial mud. And then I didn’t get the audition, and I hated that you wasted your free time in the middle of your season when I clearly can’t keep myself out of the tabloids.”

His free hand cups my face, his thumb smoothing the line of my cheek, fire in its wake. I lean into it as a slow smile steals across his mouth. “Time with you—that’s never a waste.”

My heart slams against my ribs, forcing out a little giggle. I try to hold it in, but I clap my hand over my mouth too late, and it hangs over us like our foggy breath.

I sound like a teenager with her first crush.

Strangely, I feel like a teenager with her first crush. Grant turns everything inside me to jelly, so I sag against his free side, ignoring Rico’s territorial glare. There’s enough room for both of us, buddy.

As Grant slides his arm around my waist, his hand settling against my hip, I tuck my fingers between us. He is so much better than gloves at keeping me warm. Basically my own personal heater.

I could get used to this.

“I’m sorry that I made you think I didn’t care. The truth is . . .” Come on. Say it. Say it.

“The truth is that I’m . . .” My voice gives out, and I gulp in the chilly air.

His eyebrows begin to pull together, his jaw clenching and unclenching beneath a two-day shadow. I never did get to kiss him when he was clean-shaven. But I’m not sure I really care. Because this version of Grant is my favorite. No, that’s not quite true. Every version of Grant is my favorite.

Risking frozen fingers, I reach up to press my thumb into the corner of his mouth.

“The truth is I’m going to stay in Colorado Springs.”

My new mantra is on repeat, but I can’t seem to get all of the words out even if the truth will set me free.

His smile dims, and a shadow crosses his face as three little lines form at the top of his nose. “You’re staying? You’re not going to LA?”

I thought he’d be happy, but this is definitely not that.

“I . . . I’m going to stay with Nan and see about getting a job at a local theater company. Do you not want me to stay?” Worse—does he want me to go ?

I don’t really have anywhere else to land. I thought staying would give me more time with Grant. Unless. Unless he doesn’t want me.

No matter how hard I bite into it, my lower lip insists on trembling. My whole body stiffens, and I try to pull away. Grant’s fingers only dig in to hold me in place. Confusion still covers his face, and Rico yaps into the tension he can probably feel.

He hushes the dog without ever taking his eyes off me, searching deep and long. If he can see into my soul, he doesn’t understand what’s there.

Finally, Rico barks loudly, breaking into the moment.

With a sigh, Grant sets him down, letting him run to the end of his leash as he sniffs in Bronco’s direction.

Then Grant ushers me toward the sunshine-yellow front door and drops down onto the stoop. I follow suit, only to bolt right back up when my seat hits the cement. Icy fingers consume me at even the briefest contact, but I hate towering over Grant, whose elbows are resting on his knees as he stares at the dogs.

“Why would you stay in the Springs?”

“Do you want me to leave?”

He snorts loudly. “No, I want you to go to LA.”

“How. Is. That. Not. Leaving?” I want to scream at him to start making sense. I want him to tell me what’s on his mind. I want him to want to hold me and never let me go.

His eyebrows are still pinched together as he looks up at me. “I want you to get the role.”

When I lower myself back to the cement at his side, I wince at the frozen seat then lay a hand on his forearm. The muscles there bunch and flex, and I squeeze hard to make sure I have his attention. “I didn’t get the audition. You know that.”

Suddenly his chin cocks to the side. “You don’t know.”

“Know what?”

His laugh is sweet yet throaty as he stabs his fingers through his morning hair. “Zoe, they’re going to give you an audition.”

“Knight already said no.”

“Oh, you silly girl!” He scoops me up and deposits me on his lap with a full chuckle. “I made a deal with the executive producer. I’m going to be a consultant on the movie during the off-season.”

“In exchange for what?”

“For giving you a real chance at the role. You still have to audition—to earn it. But now at least you have a shot. No tabloids or rumors or anything else in your way. Just you and your skills.”

Nothing comes out of my mouth when I open it. Which isn’t exactly surprising. Because my brain is completely blank too. I have no words, no ideas, no nothing. Just . . . just . . .

“Won’t that land you in papers you’d rather not be in?”

He shrugs. “For you. Worth it.”

Flinging my arms around him, I press my face into the spot where his neck meets his shoulder.

“Careful there. I was just on a run.”

I don’t care if he doesn’t smell like daisies. He smells like him . Like hard work and fresh air and kindness. And Grant Reddington.

And he did that for me.

“Why? How? When? You thought I thought we were a waste of time.”

“Because I knew we weren’t.” His shoulders tense, every part of me that’s touching him suddenly on high alert. “Because I’m in love with you, Peebles.”

“No!” I push myself away just in time to catch the look in his wild eyes. “I was going to say it first.”

His silent laugh shakes his whole body. “My apologies. Please . . .”

I roll my eyes before meeting his gaze straight on. “I love you, Grant. Not because you’re in the NFL. Or because you have a beautiful home. Or because my Nan thinks you’re incredibly handsome.”

“She does?”

“Yes.”

“What about you?” That ridiculous smirk is back, and it’s knotting up my insides all over again.

“You’re . . . whatever.”

“And that’s why you love me? Because I’m whatever?”

“No. I love you because you run with shelter dogs every morning. I love you because you took in your niece when she needed a home. I love you because there’s this bedrock in you that makes me feel protected. You won’t lie to me, and you won’t use me. I love you because you make me laugh and you’re still a safe place to cry.”

His thumb swipes under my eye. “But no more tears, okay?”

“As long as you love me, too.”

“And when you get the role?”

“ If . If I get the role.”

His gaze pierces me. “ When you get the role, we’ll figure out the long-distance thing. Right?”

“I’ll come back as soon as shooting is over.”

“Back here. With me.”

“Yes. Always with you.”

Grant leans a little closer, his breath in the air mingling with mine, his warmth surrounding me. “And the fact that I’m incredibly handsome is . . . ?”

“Is probably going to be a pain in my rear end. But I’ll allow it.”

He snorts and then presses his lips to mine and everything else disappears. There’s nothing but him and me wrapped up together. Only the soft pressure of his mouth against mine and the warmth and strength of his chest under my hands. There’s this moment and a million more to come.

And there’s no one I’d rather be with. No one I trust more. I’m free to love him and to let him love me. No matter what anyone else says.

Nan was right. The truth has set us free.

Even if he beat me to it.

“Be honest with me,” I say when I pull back. “Was I the reason you had such a terrible game on Sunday?”

Heaving a big sigh, he shakes his head but still confesses. “Yes. But as long as you never let me go, I promise not to ever think about you when I’m on the field again.”

“When will you think about me then?”

He looks up toward the horizon where the morning sun is just beginning to roll back the stars. “Every other minute of every day of the rest of my life.”

I tap a finger to his pursed lips. “All right. That’s acceptable.”