Page 29

I pull into Grant’s driveway and kill the engine, my fingers tightening on the steering wheel.

This isn’t like before.

This isn’t sneaking into a hotel room with a stranger, chasing a high, indulging in something fleeting.

This is real.

And that scares the hell out of me.

Because I don’t do this.

I don’t go back.

I don’t belong in someone else’s life.

But when I look at the warm glow spilling from Grant’s front windows, when I think about the way Olivia hugged against him today, her sleepy voice calling him Daddy as he held her like she was his whole damn world—

I know I’m already too far gone.

I belong here.

And I don’t want to run anymore.

I exhale sharply, forcing my limbs to move, grabbing my purse and stepping out of the car before I talk myself into turning around.

By the time I reach the front door, my pulse is pounding.

I don’t even get the chance to knock before it swings open.

And there he is.

Grant Maddox.

Looking entirely too good in a fitted long-sleeve tee and sweatpants, his hair a little messy, like he’s been running his fingers through it all night.

Like he’s been thinking about this just as much as I have.

His gaze sweeps over me, lingering in places that make my stomach tighten, before settling back on my face.

I should say something.

Make a joke. A teasing remark. Something to lighten the weight in the air.

But I don’t.

Because his eyes?

They’re soft.

Not guarded. Not teasing.

Just… real.

Like he’s seeing me for exactly what I am—and he’s not looking away.

The moment stretches, thick with words neither of us are brave enough to say yet.

Then, finally, he steps back and murmurs—

"Come inside, Flight."

And just like that, I do.

Minutes later, Grant watches me over the rim of his glass, his expression unreadable, but I can feel the shift in the air between us. I set my drink down, mirroring his stance as I lean against the counter. My fingers trace the smooth edge of the marble, grounding myself before I say the thing that’s been sitting heavy in my chest all night.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” I admit. “Not with you. Not with Olivia.”

I glance around. “Is she asleep?”

His eyes darken slightly, something flickering beneath the surface. “Don’t change the subject. Lauren came and picked her up.” He places his glass beside mine, then presses his palms against the counter on either side of me, caging me in without touching me. “You won’t,” he says simply.

It should be that easy. Just a decision, just a choice. But I’ve never been good at choosing something that wasn’t temporary. That didn’t come with an expiration date. My whole life has been a series of exits, a list of places I’ve passed through without ever staying long enough to get comfortable.

Grant is different.

He’s something I don’t want to leave.

I tilt my chin up, searching his face. “You really think it’s that simple?”

His jaw flexes. “I don’t know, Flight. But I know what I want.”

The way he says it makes my stomach tighten. I swallow hard, my heart hammering against my ribs. “And what’s that?”

His fingers brush my hip, a barely-there touch that still manages to send a shiver up my spine. “You. Here. Not running.”

I exhale, something between a laugh and a sigh. “You and your no-nonsense answers.”

His mouth twitches. “They work.”

And they do. Because I’ve been caught in my own head all day, overthinking, second-guessing, wondering if I should pull away before I get in too deep. But standing here, feeling the warmth of his body just inches from mine, hearing him say it out loud—it’s the clarity I didn’t know I needed.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I say, my voice steady. “I promise.”

Something shifts in his expression, so quick I almost miss it. Relief. Maybe something deeper. Maybe something he won’t let himself name yet. He nods once, reaching for his drink again like that’s that.

But it’s not.

Because I’ve already made my choice.

So, before he can take a sip, I slide my hand over his, stopping him. His gaze snaps back to mine, his fingers flexing slightly beneath my touch.

“I want this,” I say, softer now. “But I need you to let me in, Grant. I need to know this isn’t just—”

His lips crash onto mine before I can finish the sentence.

There’s nothing hesitant about it. Nothing soft or slow. It’s deep, consuming, pulling me under like he’s been holding back for too damn long and doesn’t want to anymore. My hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, and his fingers tighten at my waist, anchoring me.

This isn’t a hookup. This isn’t a game.

This is something real.

And finally, I’m not afraid of it.

I’ve never said those words before. Not to a man. Not like this.

And I meant them.

He pulls back, leaving me breathless. His gaze drifts lower, lingering at my mouth before snapping back up, like he’s fighting something in his own head.

The intensity of it sends warmth flowing through my chest. He doesn’t press for more. Doesn’t push for words I’m not ready to give yet. He pours me another drink.

It’s an unspoken agreement.

We’re doing this. Together.

I take the glass from him, my fingers brushing his. A small, fleeting touch, but it’s enough to make my pulse hitch. His jaw flexes slightly, but he doesn’t pull away.

I lift my drink, my voice quieter now. “So what now?”

Grant leans back against the counter, one arm resting beside mine, his body so near mine that I can feel the heat radiating off him. “We eat,” he says simply.

I blink. “What?”

A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I made dinner.”

I glance toward the stove, realizing that there’s a pot simmering on the burner. The delicious smell of garlic and something rich fills the air, making my stomach tighten in a way that has nothing to do with hunger.

“You cooked?” I ask, teasing but also a little stunned.

His brow lifts. “What, you think I survive on protein shakes and takeout?”

I purse my lips, pretending to consider. “Honestly? Maybe.”

He huffs out a laugh, the sound deep and warm, before turning toward the stove. My heart does something stupid in my chest at the way he moves through his own kitchen, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, the muscles in his forearms flexing as he stirs the sauce.

This is domestic. Intimate. Normal.

And it’s making me fall even harder.

I watch him for a moment, the quiet between us thick but comfortable. Then I push off the counter, closing the distance between us, and pluck the wooden spoon from his hand. His fingers graze mine in the process, sending a shiver up my spine.

I dip the spoon into the sauce and take a slow taste, letting the flavors settle on my tongue before humming in approval. “Okay, Silver Fox. I’m impressed.”

Grant’s gaze flickers, his lips twitching like he’s fighting a full smile. “That better not be a dig at my age.”

I shrug, tapping the spoon against the edge of the pot. “If the nickname fits…”

His hand moves so fast I don’t see it coming. One second, I’m standing there, smug as hell. The next, his fingers are curling around my wrist, tugging me in until my back is against his chest.

Heat rushes through me. His body is solid, firm, the slow rise and fall of his breath pressing against my spine.

His lips brush my ear, his voice a low rasp. “You really want to test me tonight, Flight?”

A shiver skates down my spine. My grip tightens on the spoon, my breath slowing just enough for him to notice.

For a long moment, neither of us moves.

Then, before I can formulate a response, Grant reaches around me, takes the spoon from my hand, and goes back to stirring like nothing just happened.

I blink. “Did you just—”

“Dinner’s almost ready,” he says smoothly.

My jaw drops.

Oh, he’s going to pay for that.

I take a slow step back, my eyes narrowing as I slide onto a stool at the counter, watching him with calculated patience. He knows exactly what he just did. He also knows I’m plotting my next move.

The smirk he gives me confirms it.

Fine. He wants to play? I’ll play.

Dinner is ridiculously good. And I’m impressed, but I keep my compliments to myself.

Because Grant Maddox is not allowed to be this infuriatingly attractive, emotionally soft under all that gruff sex appeal he first gave me, and also a damn good cook. It’s unfair.

I twirl a forkful of pasta, chewing slowly, watching him from across the small table in his kitchen. He eats with the same quiet confidence he does everything else. No rush. No hesitation. Just completely at ease.

It’s disarming.

Because I should feel awkward. I should feel off balance, sitting across from a man I had no intention of seeing again after that first night. A man who, despite my best efforts, is somehow pulling me deeper into his life with every moment I spend with him.

A man I’m falling for—let’s be honest, have fallen for—whether I want to or not.

He lifts his gaze, catching me staring. A knowing smirk tugs at his lips, and I roll my eyes.

“Are you going to gloat about this?” I ask, pointing my fork at my plate.

“Gloat about what?”

I huff. “The fact that you actually know how to cook and I had to admit I was wrong.”

Grant sets his fork down and leans back in his chair, arms crossing over his broad chest. “You say that like it’s hard for you to admit when you’re wrong.”

I narrow my eyes. “I don’t like your tone.”

His lips twitch. “Just an observation.”

“You and your damn observations,” I mutter, stabbing another bite of pasta.

The teasing is light, but it does nothing to ease the tension thickening the air between us. Because underneath all of this—the banter, the casual conversation—something heavier is lurking.

Something unspoken.

Something that neither of us is ready to name yet.

Grant watches me for a long moment, fingers drumming against the table, before finally breaking the silence. “So. Today.”

I set my fork down, bracing for the conversation I knew was coming. “Yeah?”

He studies me, his gaze unreadable. “Did it scare you?”

I swallow, my throat tightening slightly.

Because the truth?

Yeah. It did.

It scared the hell out of me.

Being with him today—seeing him with Olivia, watching how easily he loves her, how fiercely he protects her, how much she adores him in return—it was everything I never let myself want.

And that? That’s terrifying.

Because I’ve spent my whole life avoiding this exact kind of attachment.

I take a slow breath, meeting his gaze head-on. “A little.”

Grant’s jaw flexes. He nods once, like he expected that answer. “And now?”

I hold his stare, my pulse picking up. “I’m still here.”

His expression shifts. Just barely.

But I see it.

The relief. The understanding. The weight of what I’m saying settling between us.

Because the truth is, I don’t know where this is going. I don’t know how the hell I’m supposed to fit into his life when it’s already so full. When he already has everything to lose.

But I do know one thing.

I’m done running.

And for now, that’s enough.

Grant exhales slowly, then reaches for his glass of wine. “Good.”

That’s all he says. Just that single word, low and certain.

And then I feel it.

The shift.

Like maybe, just maybe, we’ve both stopped bracing for the inevitable goodbye.