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“That was before!” He brushed aside her logic. “Besides, it was night. The lighting was bad. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Melinda’s mouth dropped open. Grant turned fully to face her, and she gaped at him.
“Her face is a shadow of yours.” His eyes pierced hers. “Yours has life. Character. Richness. Warmth.” He stopped, then started again. “It’s all there. All the things you do and think are there on your face, waiting to be shared with everyone around you. Her face is a closed book.” He shrugged and the tension cleared. “Which could be attractive, if you’re into that look.”
Melinda’s mouth stayed open.
“I’ve known Paul for a year and a half or so, to answer that question. He seems really careful with letting people into his circle, so it didn’t really occur to me that I’d never met his lady. I realized later that it was all strategy.
“About the teeth: We wear face masks. I’m not trying to lose my teeth before I’m ninety. And Paul’s not trying to get less pretty,” he said. “Not all the guys wear them, but we do.”
She was staring at him.
“Any other questions come to mind?”
She shook her head.
“Okay, then. It’s time for bed.”
Her mouth closed with a snap. What had just happened?
“What? That’s not fair! I’m not tired.” But as she took a breath to argue more, the breath turned into a yawn, and the aches in her body swelled and grumbled. “You made me tired.” She massaged her temples. “All those compliments were exhausting and I need to recover.”
A quick guffaw was his only answer.
~
At least Melinda was willing to see reason that she should rest. Grant thought less and less that she had a concussion, but he didn’t want her staying up late and exerting herself.
He paused as he refilled her water. Actually, that was exactly what he wanted her doing, but not after a head injury.
He carried the water back to the coffee table and knelt in front of her.
“Okay, Gorgeous, let’s hit the bathroom before I impose martial law and quarantine you to the couch.”
Grant’s shoulder muffled her laugh as he gathered her into his arms.
“I can walk, remember?” she protested, but he heard her pleasure at being carried, or at least imagined he did.
“This is a full-service kidnapping outfit,” he said, puffing up his chest. “Now come with me into the kitchen. I need you to carry a flowerpot full of water.”
She melted against him with laughter, but he suspected it had more to do with her fatigue than his wit. They made a quick stop in the kitchen for a pitcher of water.
“Got it okay?” He watched her grip the handle. “I can come back for it.”
“Let me do something,” she said as she balanced the pitcher with both hands. “You’re carrying it by proxy, don’t worry.”
Grant walked through Paul’s bedroom and into the bathroom, taking the pitcher from her and depositing it on the countertop before gently lowering her to the toilet’s closed lid.
He stood in front of her, part rescuer, part oaf, all uncertain.
“Um. Do you need me to help you...?” Grant hated the flush that crept up his neck but he needed to know how unstable she felt.
“Leave me my pitcher and get out.” She swatted him with what he hoped was mock irritation.
Grant went. He listened to the sounds of her brushing her teeth, rinsing the toothbrush, and pouring the water from the pitcher into the toilet to flush it. Not bad for a blogger. He might teach her this mountain thing yet.
He knocked. “You call for a lift?”
