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A faint flush rose to his cheeks. “Yeah, well, don’t tell anyone.”
“So Nathan never got into cooking?”
Grant shook his head. A shadow passed over his face. “He had some health issues and set-backs when he was a kid, so our mother kept him pretty close. He had his own nanny who was also an RN. He’s fine now, but despite what my father told you, we weren’t actually raised the same way.”
“What happened to Lupe?”
“She married a man who owned a real-estate company. When he retired, they moved down to San Diego to be closer to family. We’re still in touch.” Pulling his keys from his jeans pocket, he started toward the door. “Call me at the tavern if you decide you want anything. I’ll bring it over.”
“Grant.”
He turned to face her, his strong features unreadable except for a touch of wariness lingering in his eyes.
“You do make people feel that way,” Rory said. “Like everything is good, even when it’s not.”
Does anyone do that for you?
Their eyes met. A force vibrated between them, like a sharp current of electricity flashing across the night sky.
Rory had lost track of the number of times she’d gone to the Mousehole after a long day or just to get away from her apartment. More often than not, she’d walked in feeling tired or cranky—not to mention ravenously hungry. After chatting with Grant and sometimes pestering him, and hanging out with her sisters and friends, she always left feeling better than she had when she’d arrived.
She had no doubt that all of Grant’s other customers felt the same way, and it was because of him.
“Well.” He opened the door, his gaze shifting away from her. “Thanks for putting up with this whole mess. It’s funny, but I kind of wish—”
He stopped and shook his head. “Get a good night’s sleep, Rory.”
Then he was gone. The door closed behind him.
I kind of wish we’d crossed the line sooner.
Rory flopped onto her back and stared at the ceiling. Maybe that wasn’t his wish, but it was starting to become hers.
