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“I’m a pretty competitive guy…”
Another step closer, and I feel like I should cower. I almost lift my hands as if to block him from getting any closer, but thankfully, I resist the urge. How silly to be scared of a man like Grant, to worry about what he might do to me…
“There’s no winning here,” I assure him, though for some reason it sounds like I’m laying down a challenge at his feet. Is my tone not firm enough? Are my flushed cheeks divulging my true feelings?
“So you want me to wave a white flag,” he notes, sounding as though the idea bores him.
I gulp. “Yes.”
Please.
“Sophia told me you and Josh go way back, which means you’ll clearly be around a lot, so we should try to make it so we don’t have to feel weird around each other. I’m going to accept that date with Michael.”
“Great.”
I lift my chin again, hating how acidic my next words taste. “And you can date whomever you’d like too.”
He gives a short laugh, like dating someone else is the absolute last thing on his mind.
Still, he nods and tacks on a little salute. “Got it. Roger that.”
“This could work out. Think of it this way: what if we could rewrite history? What if you’d been at the apartment when I got home and we’d met just like that? Simple.”
“I’d still want to kiss you.”
“Grant!” I shove his arm playfully. “You can’t say things like that!”
There’s no contrition on his face, no mercy in his tone. “Why?”
Because it makes me feel like I might combust. Because it’s too appealing, too tempting, too dangerous.
I don’t give him those answers though. I settle for something far less revealing.
“Because friends don’t kiss.”
BEEP!
The oven’s preheated.
Grant takes a step back and shrugs as if to say, Eh, we’ll see about that. Then he leaves me in the kitchen, damn near close to bending over and clutching the counter for support while I suck in huge swaths of air.
What was that?! Did we agree to keep things platonic or not?!
Why does it feel like we just took one step forward and three steps back?
Dammit, dammit, dammit.
I don’t like this. I don’t do well with feeling out of control. I like to keep a tight rein on all aspects of my life. Most decent men would take a woman’s rejection in stride, so why isn’t Grant doing that? And why am I secretly glad he’s pushing this, pushing me in ways that make my blood boil?
“Tate? How much longer on the cookies?” Daphne shouts from the living room, and I jump a mile in the air.
Right. Cookies. I don’t have time to worry about any of this! I have to tend to the cookies, after all. They can’t bake if I’m not staring through the oven door, fogging up the glass. It’s wimpy, I know, to hide out in here while I try to calm down. I’m just not well versed in situations like this. It’s been a long time since I’ve been this nervous around a guy.
I can recall exactly when it last happened: eighth grade. Brett Lawson came to sit by me during lunch and I could barely contain myself. The Brett Lawson was gracing me with his presence! Turned out he had a crush on my friend who was sitting across from me, but whatever, those are minor details. The point is, I know how rare it is to feel that zing of electricity when your crush walks into a room, that overwhelming innate attraction that’s either there or not, it can’t be forced. Grant is the only person in my adult life who has made me feel that way.
I’m still worrying about all of this when I bring the cookies out into the living room. Daphne scoots over on the couch so I can nestle in beside her, and as everyone talks and laughs, I can barely repress the urge to sneak glances at Grant. I fail miserably the entire night. I’m watching him out of the corner of my eye like I’ve been tasked with keeping tabs on him and reporting back on everything he does. He eats three cookies then licks some melted chocolate off the pad of his thumb, and I feel the innocent action deep in my loins. Is he trying to drive me crazy on purpose? No. I don’t even think he’s paying attention to me anymore. He laughs at something Dustin says and he’s so overwhelmingly sexy it makes my heart beat uncomfortably fast.
“You don’t want a cookie?” Daphne asks, holding one out for me to take.
I shake my head then fist my trembling hands on my lap. I can’t eat. My stomach is in knots.
“What did you and Grant talk about in the kitchen?” she whispers.
“Nothing,” I reply swiftly, wanting to snuff out any hope she has of something happening between us.
