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What the actual fuck, Amanda.
“What do you want to know?” he casually asks, completely unaware that my body and I are having a “moment” thanks to him.
“Huh?”
He hands me a pair of Ray-Ban aviators, his lips quivering at what is undoubtedly the stoned look on my face. “Your question?”
“Oh, right.” Focus. I need to focus. “It said you grew up in Iowa, that your father’s the CEO of some big company.” He nods. “So what’s a rich kid doing playing football?”
“What? Rich kids aren’t allowed to play football?” His lips hitch up in wry amusement.
“Not where I come from. Not seriously at least. Too dangerous.”
“What do they do where you come from?” His attention cuts from the road ahead to me.
My smile fades. Anything that reminds me of home will do that. “They become prom king and go to the same Ivy League schools their daddies attended.”
The soft, amused smile he’s wearing drops and his fingers once again drum a steady beat on the steering wheel.
“Does that look mean you’re still butt sore about not being voted prom king?” I say in an effort to keep it light.
He laughs. “Nothing to be sore about. I was prom king.”
That earns an easy eye roll. “Of course you were,” I mutter.
“Don’t act like you didn’t have every guy in high school sniffing after you.” Pff. Little does he know. I hum noncommittally and his searching stare cuts back to me, carving me up like a Thanksgiving turkey. “What’s that look for?”
“Nothing.”
Journey’s Don’t Stop Believin’ comes on the radio and I crank up the volume.
Grant reaches over and turns it down. “Tell me.”
“Hey, party pooper. I love that song.”
Mischief lights up his face. “Were you a small-town girl living in a lonely world?” he asks, quoting the song.
You can say that again.
“Yep. I was definitely a small-town girl livin’ in a lonely world…this song is my anthem.” The handsome man sitting next to me nods. The one who thinks he can’t be around women because of his temper. He’s almost too good to be true and he doesn’t even know it. What alternate reality did I step into?
“Were you a city boy born and raised in south Detroit?”
“No. I was born in Des Moines and raised in Johnston.” He smiles broadly and I return a grin of my own.
Sighing loudly, I say, “Did my brother tell you anything about how we grew up?”
Grant gives me quirky look. “Your brother talk?” He shakes his head. “No.”
I hum in agreement. Calvin guards his privacy more ferociously than a nun her virginity. “We were poor. Like…really poor.”
My gaze flickers away. Telling this story makes me super uncomfortable. “Food stamps, hand-me-downs from the church. Other kids made fun of us for wearing the clothes that were once theirs. I kept mostly to myself so to answer your question no one was sniffing after me.”
“No boyfriend?”
“Ha. No. I dropped out my junior year.”
“Why?” The earnest concern on his face cudgels my resolve to keep him at arm’s length. Looking into that face turns me into a petty criminal ready to confess everything and anything––shit I haven’t even done.
And if I want to be trusted, then don’t I need to trust him as well? Don’t I need to let him see the truth of me, however ugly?
His steady blue eyes tug the words right out of my mouth.
“I started having a real hard time in school…I was bullied a lot. ” He nods. “I started cutting school…”
“What about your parents?”
Here comes the hard part. Fisting my hands, I stuff them under my thighs as the worst comes out.
“My parents were drunks. They didn’t know or care what was happening with any of us,” I admit, fidgeting with the hem of my dress. “The only person who cared was Miss Parnell.”
“You’re gonna do wonderful things with your life, Amanda. I can just feel it,” she’d said to me over and over until I started to believe it. Not a day goes by that I don’t think she’d be disappointed in me.
A heavy weight lands on my knee. His thumb brushes back and forth soothingly on the bare skin. I hadn’t even noticed that my leg was hammering up and down nervously.
I look down at Grant’s big, capable hand, his fingers long and even, the nail beds clean and trimmed. No buffing or polish for this guy.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs and pats my knee softly. “Who’s Miss Parnell?”
“The lady who lived next door. She was more of a mother to me than my own. I loved her. She’s the one that helped me get to Miami, to interview with the modeling agency. She knew it was my only ticket out of that town.” Staring out at the passing scenery, I absently add, “A freaking curse.”
“What?”
“She used to say my face was a blessing and a curse.”
