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“I feel guilty now because until recently, I made snap judgments about you. I’d always assumed you were this caveman jerk who only cared about himself. Yet you brought me dinner, offered to fix my oven, and you’ve been nothing but sweet all night.” I placed my head lightly on his shoulder so as not to scare him. I felt like I was trying to pet an abused shelter dog, and I had to take each step carefully.
“Now that’s just because it’s you, Hart. Don’t make me the good guy just because I’ve been sweet to you lately. I got a reputation to uphold.”
I laughed, feeling like my heart was being impatient with my brain. I had absolutely no business falling for Grant. My schedule with work and attempting to move didn’t slot for any love interests. But this man was nothing like I had expected before. He had been patient, kind, and sweet since we’d gotten to know each other. I couldn’t help but wonder where everyone got the idea Grant was such a terrible guy.
The whispered rumors of him and his past ran through my mind. He gets in fights all the time. He’s been kicked out of so many bars. He hooks up with a different woman every night. But was that Grant? The man sitting beside me asked me who my grandmother was and twirled the ends of my braid.
How was this cute, flirty man the same one who terrified me? Thinking of that incident made me want to ask him if he remembered me at all. Or was I just another client to him? I mean, he was in my apartment, cuddled up next to me. He also openly flirted with me and went to a bar with me. Well, not with me, but close enough. He didn’t do this with every client he had, right?
“Hey, Grant,” I said seriously.
He turned his head down to check on me. “Hey, Hart.”
I looked back down at my fingers. “Can I ask you a question?”
He let out a small puff of air and smiled. “I’m pretty sure you ask me questions all day; what’s one more?”
My nerves felt shot as I looked up from his lips to his eyes. “Do you remember—” A loud buzz brings me to a halt. It sounded like a vibration against a hard surface. Grant’s phone?
“Crap. I’m so sorry, hold that idea.” Grant took his arm off my shoulder and stood up to grab the loud device. His face fell. He brought the phone to his ear. “Hey, yeah, give me just a minute.” He pressed the mute button on the lit-up screen and apologized for the interruption. I nodded my head and told him to go ahead.
Grant stepped into the hallway, and I heard his muffled voice talking. I was curious as to who he was talking to, but I minded my own business and stayed seated in the corner of my sectional. I anxiously twisted a small thread coming out of the seam on my couch, looking for a distraction from my own racing mind.
Grant appeared back in the living room, looking dissatisfied.
I turn my head. “Is everything all right?”
“Yeah, it’s okay. I had a guy who was supposed to come to do tile work at your house and he just canceled.” He took his pointer finger and his thumb and rubbed his eyebrows in frustration.
“You don’t do the tile?” I cocked my head to the side, remembering his previous statement of him doing all his “dirty work.”
“I can, I just asked this guy to do it so I could come over here.” He said it so nonchalantly as if it meant nothing that he took off work to come to see me and fix my stupid oven.
I decided we were no longer staying here. I got off the couch and walked to the door, picking up my shoes and placing them on my feet.
“Where are you going?”
I laced up my tennis shoes and replied without looking at him. “We’re going to the house. Come on.” I reached up to turn the lights off without waiting for his response.
He looked dumbfounded, but a grin pulled at his lips, and he just shook his head, following me out the door.
Turns out, tile work was more complicated than I thought.
I had watched videos on YouTube back when I was planning on doing the renovations myself, and they made it look so easy. Apply the sticky stuff with the spatula thing, put the tile on, fill the grout lines, and wipe. It was foolproof. Or not.
Grant stood off to the side when we arrived. He brought all of the supplies to the guest bathroom, and when I proudly claimed, “Don’t worry, I got this,” he stepped back and leaned against the door frame, watching me screw it up.
I could tell whatever I was doing was wrong because of the mischievous smile spread across his face.
Every now and then, he would make a comment like, “You sure you don’t want me to help?” or “Is that where you want that to go?” And I was too stubborn to let him know I needed help.
However, we had been here for forty-five minutes. I was exhausted, and the work I started had to be completely redone. I eventually gave up. Being too tired from work didn’t help my situation, and I wasn’t willing to ruin this bathroom just for my own pride.
I stepped away and laid on my stomach on the hallway floor, my head rested on my hands, watching Grant fix my mistakes and begin his work. It was like watching an artist paint a mural with beautiful and meticulous details with each step of the process. Before this, I had difficulty imagining a man like Grant—burly, strong, and rough around the edges—being so delicate. I oversaw his long fingers, placing tile one by one. His strong hands were wrapped around the cement tools, and his veins were popping out. His fingers curled around the tool, flexing his forearm. Dear God, stop looking at his hands.
I yawned, tired from being up since five this morning. I laid my head on its side, looking up at Grant’s concentrated face. His focused concentration left a scowl on his face, and I just about had to force myself not to look at him.
“If you’re tired I can take you home, Hart.” Even with heavy eyes, I wasn’t ready to leave him.
