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“If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you.” Yeah, that’s my plan. Joke and bluff through it.
Grace rolls her eyes and pushes her chair back. “Okay, mystery man. If you’re not going to tell me, can you at least help me clean up?”
I jump to my feet, grateful that disaster has been temporarily averted. “I’d love to.”
She shoots me an amused look as we carry the dirty dishes to the sink. Her kitchen doesn’t have a dishwasher, but it has a double sink. We stand side by side. She washes while I rinse. I can’t remember the last time I washed dishes or even cooked; I’m ashamed to admit. I’ve been acting since I was six years old, first in commercials and then in TV shows. By the time I moved out of my parents’ house, I was already a successful actor, and I had all the trappings that came with it.
We make chit chat, and soon we’re done. Grace faces me, and I pull her into my arms. “You make washing dishes fun.” She laughs and wraps her hands around my neck.
“So do you.” She realizes that she’s still in her overalls and wriggles in my arms, but I hold on tight.
“I should change.”
“You are a natural beauty.”
She grows still.
“But we can get rid of the smock,” I tell her while pushing it off her shoulders. “It’s spoiling my view.”
“We can’t have that, can we?” Grace says with a smile that gets my blood boiling hot. She wriggles out of the coat.
Her breasts sway, and I realize that she’s not wearing a bra. My dick springs to attention. I cup her breasts over her T-shirt, and she parts her mouth the slightest bit. I angle my mouth over hers and kiss her lightly at first. She tastes so good. Like clean fresh air and a whiff of summer flowers. I flick my thumbs over her taut nipples that press against the fabric of her T-shirt. She threads her fingers through my hair as I break the kiss and lift her T-shirt.
“You have beautiful breasts, Grace. I could stare at them all day.” I lower my head and take a nipple into my mouth.
Her laughter turns into a moan as I suck and tease it with my tongue. I alternate between each nipple, loving the way Grace presses my head down for more.
A shrill sound breaks through our moans.
“Oh, shit,” Grace says, pulling away. “It’s my phone. I have to answer.”
I’m reluctant to let her go. “Do you always answer your phone? Let it go to voice mail.”
“That’s my mother’s ringtone.”
I groan and follow her to the bedroom, my tented pants preceding the rest of me. I feel like an idiot walking around her house with a hard-on. She grabs her phone from the side table and sits on the bed. I join her and sit next to her.
“Hi, Mom,” she says and then continues after a beat, “It’s noisy; I can barely hear you. Where are you?”
I’d thought it would be a quick call. Conversations with parents are never short, and I get up and head to the door to give her some privacy. Her next sentence stops me short.
“What are you doing in the ER?” Grace says, her voice loud. “Okay, I’m coming.”
I turn around. “Is everything okay?”
She runs her hands through her hair in jerky movements. Her eyes look damp. “It’s my dad. He’s in the ER. Mom says he fell in the bathroom. She says it was a light fall. I have to go to Newtown.”
On the first day we met, she told me that Newtown was an hour and a half away. “I’ll drive you,” I say.
“No, you don’t have to. I’m sure you have stuff to do today. It’s your day off,” Grace says.
I remember the script waiting for me. “I have nothing slated for today.”
“Okay, thanks. I’ll just change, and we can go,” she says, her voice shaky.
“Hey, it’s going to be fine. I’ll be in the living room.”
It’s out of character for Grace to be so frightened, almost shell-shocked. I compare this Grace to the one who fights fires, and I can’t reconcile the two. She said that her father was in the ER from a light fall. Unless I’m mistaken, people don’t generally die from light falls unless there’s something else that she’s not saying.
In less than three minutes, Grace is ready to leave.
“Can we use your car?” she asks.
“I don’t have it yet.” It sounds as lame as it is, but what choice do I have? I’d rather sound weird than have to explain how I can afford to own a Lamborghini or a Porsche.
She looks at me quizzically. “It’s still not back from the repair shop?”
“Not yet,” I tell her feeling like a complete asshole. I contemplate telling her who I am for all of two seconds.
