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Oh, boy.
I want to sputter out that this isn’thome, but that little wild child’s already taking off up the stairs.
I’m just imagining that redness above Grant’s beard as he shakes his head, I’m sure.
He turns to lead me upstairs at a slower adult pace.
“C’mon. I’ll show you to the guest room up here.”
I don’t really know what to say as I follow him up, admiring this cozy little cottage house with its soft slate-blue walls and earthy wood tones everywhere.
Until now, it hasn’t really sunken in that we’ll belivingtogether.
Not just seeing him out on patrols or bumping into him at the grocery store.
No, waking up to him every morning.
Seeing him sleep-rumpled and drowsy or relaxing at the end of a hard day.
Falling asleep at night knowing he’s just down the hall, that long, powerful body stretched out in his bed, a great beast at rest.
Wondering, when I shouldn’t, if he ever finds time to relieve his stress with other women. I’ve kept my ears perked up for any rumors, but so far, I’ve heard nothing.
And if he doesn’t date, if he doesn’t even sneak in a casual one-night stand every so often, what does he do to release that snapping tension that makes Grant so... well, Grant?
Does he just use whatever’s in his head on those long, lonely nights? Does he ever get so riled that big hand wanders lower, and what does he think about when he—
“Butterfly, you coming?” He’s looking at me intently when my head snaps up.
That shouldn’t make my heart thud so hard.
I’m standing frozen at the base of the stairs, caught in thoughts I definitely shouldn’t be having.
I mean, it’s not like Grant didn’t sleep over all the time back when he and Ethan were teenagers. But it made my heart beat like a rock ballad then, too, didn’t it?
Yes, even though my thoughts were a little more innocent.
I was only a kid when I’d wake up after midnight and creep down through the house, too curious what stupid things Ethan and his bestie got up to after dark.
I’d wind up sitting on the stairs and clutching the railings, watching them, eavesdropping on their conversations about girls and games and how they were so close to grinding their way to their first million dollars.
Sometimes, the boys would come home after sneaking beer or Jacobin moonshine at parties with the older kids and pass out early. They never saw me when I’d perch in my spot, looking down below at Grant’s huge body sprawled out in his sleeping bag on the floor of our living room.
He was big even then.
The sleeping bag was actually two bags unzipped and layered around him like a Grant sandwich because he couldn’t fit inside a normal one. Even then, he slept with one thick arm and leg flung out on the floor, his handsome face scowling in his sleep.
I still see that gorgeous, angry boy in the broad lines of Grant’s back as he moves up the stairs ahead of me.
It’s funny.
No matter how surly he seems, I’ve never seen him use that strength to hurt anyone.
Upstairs, he guides me down a narrow, blue-carpeted hallway, tapping doors as he goes.
“Things have moved around a little since the last time you were here. Nell’s room,” he says, then the next one, “My room. Bathroom across the hall.” He stops at the last door at the very end of the hall kitty-corner to his room and pushes the door open. “Your room. Laundry’s still in the basement if you need it.”
“Great, thanks.”
