Out of Focus (Chosen Paths #2)

by L. B. Simmons

  “Thanks,” I remark, watching as he carefully sets both in the recliner before heading to the kitchen. Silently, he grabs two wine glasses from the cabinet.

  I continue to ramble, looking at the floor. “For everything. I’m so embarrassed.”

  Grady uncorks a bottle of wine and begins to pour. When he turns, I glance up just in time to see him relax back against the counter with a glass of red wine in each hand.

  “Come here.” His tone is gentle and his eyes are kind with his demand.

  I stay where I stand, the stubborn part of me remaining rooted to the carpet. Grady’s mouth quirks up at the side in a sly, crooked grin before he adds, “Please.”

  Clearly my feet bypass my brain, automatically taking me in his direction. I walk the steps necessary to close the distance between us, landing me at the island where I now stand in front of him. He extends a glass, and I willingly accept, mirroring his stance as I lean back against the edge of the granite. Taking a sip, my eyes remain on his as he does the same, before setting his glass next to him. He crosses his feet at his ankles and his arms over his chest.

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “Not really, no.” I lift the glass and take a large gulp, lowering it when I’m through and offer nothing else.

  Grady narrows his stare and cocks his head to the side, gauging me. After a couple seconds, he inhales deeply, then relents. “Hungry?”

  Right on cue, my stomach rumbles, answering for me. Grady’s brows lift slightly. “I’ll take that as a yes.” He uncrosses his arms, then lays his palms on the counter, curling his fingers under its edge. “I’ll cook, you get comfortable. Sound like a plan?”

  I lift my foot and wiggle my highlighter-yellow covered toes. “Already comfortable.”

  Grady grins, chuckling and shaking his head. “Not exactly what I had in mind.”

  He presses off the counter, then reaches forward. His fingers are warm and strong, yet they curl gently over the top of my hand. “Trust me?”

  Those damn eyes pierce right through me with his question. My heart jumps in my chest and my throat constricts. Tears surface in my eyes as they remain held by his, and I swallow them back. He remains quiet, watching me. Seeing me.

  The intensity of the moment builds as we remain silently locked in our stares. Conflicting feelings war between my heart and my mind, seemingly at battle with one another for dominance.

  Fear.

  Excitement.

  Need.

  Longing.

  Fear.

  Fear.

  Fear.

  Grady’s grip on my hand doesn’t lessen, and his eyes don’t disconnect from mine. He waits patiently for me to say something. Anything.

  But I can’t.

  A tear breaks free and trails its warmth down my cheek. Still silent, Grady squeezes my hand, then tugs softly.

  I want.

  I want.

  I want.

  My body complies, and I step forward. With his hand still enveloping mine, Grady brings his free arm to circle my shoulders and pulls me into an embrace. I press my cheek against his chest, inhaling his fresh scent deeply while another tear is lost, bleeding into his shirt. Soft lips touch the top of my head and warm breaths sift through my hair, soothing me with each of his exhalations.

  With every caress he offers, I wonder how in the world Grady Bennett is able to understand exactly what I need in this moment.

  Grady releases my hand to wrap me safely within his frame, securing me tightly against his body. I lift both hands and drive them between our bodies to fist the material of his shirt. I hold on to him, permitting the first real feelings I’ve allowed myself to experience in years to wash over me.

  No words are spoken. Tears, breaths, and the beats of our hearts speak for us.

  I tell him I want nothing more than to trust him.

  He tells me he understands and will wait patiently until I can do so.

  I clench his shirt, pulling him closer in thanks.

  He presses his lips firmly against my head then moves his hand to cup the base of my neck, reassuring me with each stroke of his thumb along my skin.

  I allow him to hold me while I cry silently, and with each fallen tear, weight is lifted.

  We stay like that for some time, until my eyes are finally dry and his shirt is drenched. I breathe in deeply while still in his arms then press away from him, bringing my eyes to his.

  Thank you.

  Grady winks.

  You’re welcome.

  I blush. Again.

  He grins and I do the same.

  Beautiful.

  Wonderment floods me with the simplicity of the shared moment between the two of us.

  Never.

  Never before have I felt so understood.

  So cherished.

  Clearing my throat, I finally find the courage to break the silence. “Thank God for waterproof mascara, huh?”

  His chuckles fill the air. I sniff, then inquire, “We were discussing my getting comfortable?”

  “Ah, that we were.” He nudges his head toward the living room. “Follow me.”

  His arms fall from my shoulders and he hooks my pinky with his index finger, then leads me out of the kitchen. I trail behind him, taking my time to once again admire his living space. Once through the large room, we enter a darkened hallway and approach one of the two doors in this section of his apartment.

  Fingers still linked, he turns the knob, casts it open, and flips on the light. My eyes take a few seconds to adjust as we enter what looks to be a spare bedroom. A simple cream duvet and huge brown throw pillows line the fluffiest comforter I’ve ever seen. I fight every instinct I have not to fling myself on top of it. I bet it feels like heaven.

  I sigh to myself then smile at it. Not really sure why.

  Still following Grady’s lead, we approach a white dresser. Grady releases my hand and leans forward to open one of the drawers while I eye the contents on top.

  Books! Lots of books.

  I’m sure there are other items on it, but all I can focus on is the plethora of books in front of me. Multiple piles line the wooden surface, and as I eye the spines, I see some of my favorites within the stacks. I grin widely as I pick one up, bring it to my nose, and sniff its pages.

  Grady sifts through the contents of the drawer, selecting various items and placing them in his arms then turns to face me just as I fan the pages with my thumb. He laughs under his breath and shrugs. “Well shit, all I had to do is take you to the library to get that smile. Who knew?”

  I grin. “I’m sorry. I read a lot, but I read on my Kindle. This is one of my favorite books, and I’ve never seen it in paperback.” Or smelled it. “It’s beautiful.”

  “You’re beautiful,” he counters. Not giving me a chance to disagree, he lifts the clothes strewn over his arm and continues, “Change of clothes.”

  Girl clothes.

  Oh my God. He has a girlfriend.

  Had a girlfriend?

  One that he obsesses over to the point of stashing her clothes in a dresser, removing them only to gaze longingly at them, maybe even sniffing them every now and then because they still smell wonderful like her. She was gorgeous, of course . . .

  I drift into my imagination, thoughts about Grady and his girlfriend looping around my mind.

  “Eyes on me, Cass.”

  Startled out of my thoughts, I focus on those eyes, which are laughing at me as he speaks. He gestures at the books, then dips his head toward the clothes. “My sister’s.”

  Oh.

  My face heats to the point that I actually break a sweat. I clear my throat and shake my head, throwing my hands out in front of me while I sputter, “No . . . I wasn’t . . . I mean, I didn’t . . .”

  Grady offers me no help or pardon as I try to explain my misjudgment. He just stands there and watches me flail.

  I stop speaking and glare.

  He tries not to smile, but it’s a fruitless effort. He succumbs,
giving it free reign, and his perfect white teeth flash as he wordlessly removes the book from my grasp, setting it back on the dresser before taking my hand. After giving it a little squeeze, he links our fingers and leads me out of the room toward the other door in the hallway. He opens it and once the light is on, my eyes land on a pristine vintage claw-foot tub, white with dark iron claws at its bottom. A fluffy white towel hangs over the side, just above a black and white checkered bath mat that looks as though it might be softer than the heavenly down comforter I spied a few minutes ago.

  My stare remains locked on the tub, and the question escapes me as I whisper in a trance-like state, “Can I?”

  “Of course,” Grady answers with a satisfied smile, before releasing me to set the change of clothes on the counter. He turns to leave, but as he passes me, he stops and leans to place the softest of kisses just above my temple. I practically melt into him as he tenderly whispers in my ear, “Take your time.”

  The door closes behind him as he leaves me alone in the bathroom, my eyes never leaving the tub.

  There is only one word that could adequately capture how I feel as the door clicks shut.

  Surreal.

  Without even knowing this man, I feel as though he understands exactly what I need, when I need it.

  And he gives it to me.

  Grady may never truly come to know the actual meaning of this moment, but I knew as soon as the question left my mouth, a part of me—I’m not sure how small or large that part may be—does in fact trust Grady Bennett. I have no idea why. Maybe it was his eyes as they connected with mine, or the way he promised never to let me fall, or the fact he carried me out of a skating rink while I had an unexplained panic attack, or the way he let me cry without asking why . . . I don’t know.

  What I do know is I haven’t submerged myself in a tubful of water in years. Not since I was forced to take hurried baths in the middle of the night before escaping to Spencer’s.

  But here, right now, standing in this bathroom, I actually want to take a bath.

  My memories are surprisingly absent as I look over the tub and smile.

  It’s just me, standing in a bathroom, listening to the clanging of pans as Grady begins to cook our dinner.

  I was definitely wrong about the comforter.

  Because I’m one hundred percent sure this moment, as I experience the serenity it offers, this is what heaven feels like.

  And I have Grady Bennett to thank for it.

  WITH A FLUFFY WHITE towel wrapped around my head, I make my exit from the bathroom wearing a pair of yoga pants and heather-grey T-shirt, with the words “Wherefore art thou . . .” stamped beside a picture of . . . Waldo. I think I could end up enjoying the company of someone like Grady’s sister. I can’t wait to meet her. Between the books and her awesome choices in casual wear, I think we will get along perfectly.

  My cheeks are still warm and flushed from the heat of the water as my bare feet tread quietly down the hallway. As I near the kitchen, I inhale deeply, the savory smell of garlic and cooked pasta filling my nose.

  After another deep breath, I note that the smell of Grady’s cooking is the only reason I didn’t take up residence in that damn bathtub for the rest of the evening. My stomach growls its agreement and I lift my hand to pat it, mentally applauding it for its patience and promising its reward soon. I grin down at it, then at the comfortable clothing selected as my attire this evening.

  Cradled next to my chest is my black minidress and rolled into a ball, lying on top are the hideous Skate Place socks. My smile broadens. They may be dreadful, but they’re equally as beautiful because they will forever remind me of this very odd night with Mr. Grady Bennett.

  And speak of the devil, just as I round the corner to enter the living room, my eyes catch the sight of him standing in front of the stove, and as I take in his attire, I damn near drop my belongings.

  His faded navy blue athletic shirt has been sliced open on each side, leaving the ridges of his six-pack visible as he bends to open the oven. I watch, mesmerized with the constriction of his muscles as he rises, lifting a white casserole dish. I swallow as my eyes practically glaze over, fixated on his movement, until they find focus on his gloved hands. I choke back laughter at the sight. His hair is still secured in a low ponytail, and together with his corded muscles flexing as he sets the dish onto the counter, ripped T-shirt, and grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips, he emits complete badass vibe. Yet, the oven mitts covering his hands . . . are pink.

  A giggle is wretched free, and I clamp my hand over my mouth to mute it, but the sound has already alerted him to my presence. Grady turns his head, looking at me over his shoulder. His eyes are bright, highlighted by the coloring of his shirt, and filled with warmth as they rake over me.

  They flit from the towel on my head, down to my bare feet, then back to my face. My cheeks begin to burn with his gaze, so I turn away and walk into the living room, placing my dress and now-beloved socks on the recliner with my other belongings. I pivot around to see he’s still watching me, and my face heats another hundred degrees.

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  I am not a giddy schoolgirl.

  I’m Cassie Fucking Cooper, damn it.

  I do not blush.

  I do not giggle.

  And I sure as hell don’t get flustered by a guy.

  As though reading my thoughts, Grady chuckles, then grins triumphantly.

  Jerk.

  I roll my eyes, but decide to end the standoff by heading to the kitchen, announcing upon entry, “I just had a very interesting talk with my stomach in which I convinced it to hold off eating itself until we try your cooking.”

  Grady laughs. “Is that so?”

  “It is. Also, my taste buds would like to know what we’re eating. They like to be prepared.”

  More laughter, then Grady jerks his chin at the stove. “Chicken Parmesan. I’ve been craving it since Bambino’s.”

  I glance at the pan of cooked pasta already mixed with sauce and the casserole dish with four Parmesan-breaded chicken breasts.

  My stomach growls for joy.

  “Pipe down, you.” I point at it in warning.

  Grady’s shoulders shake as he turns, hefting the dish and placing it onto the island, pink mitts and all.

  I grin and gesture toward his hands. “Also your sister’s?”

  He shakes his head. “Hell no. These are all mine. Pink is the new black, or haven’t you heard?”

  “I must have missed the memo,” I retort.

  Smile still on his face, he lifts his arm and brushes the tip of a mitt down my nose. “I have so much to teach you, young grasshopper.”

  A breath of laughter passes through my nostrils and I shake my head at his boldness.

  “Can I help?” I inquire.

  “Dishes are in the cabinet. Silverware is in that drawer.” He points, then continues, “Grab those. I’ll get everything else.”

  “On it, boss,” I state with a salute.

  After setting out the dishes and silverware, Grady plates our food—which looks amazing, by the way—and we take our seats. Before we eat, Grady lifts his wine glass in my direction. “To getting better acquainted.”

  I smile and raise my glass, accepting his offered toast. “To no more skating. Ever.”

  A flash of sadness dims his eyes. “I’m sorry about that. It wasn’t my intention, obviously.”

  I shrug my shoulders and look down at my plate. “It happens sometimes. I don’t really have any control over it. It wasn’t anything you did, or didn’t do. It’s just me,” I end, my tone bordering defeat. “It should be me apologizing. I’m sorry if I embarrassed you.”

  Grady’s eyebrows shift downward, creasing his forehead. “You could never embarrass me, Cass. Not in that way. Not under those circumstances.”

  Cass.

  My insides tumble and warmth spreads through me with his use of the nickname, and once again I find myself stunned by how much I
love the sound of it coming from his mouth.

  The air grows palpable, and I sense the conversation veering down a very treacherous path, so I reroute. “Well, I definitely have a knack for it. Just ask Spencer. I embarrass her all the time. It provides me much joy.”

  I conjure a grin.

  Grady narrows his eyes.

  I cast my stare down to my plate and slice a piece of chicken, bringing it to my mouth. My eyes widen as the chicken melts onto my taste buds and garlic butter floods my mouth. I look back to Grady, covering my very full mouth as I speak. “Thith is amathing, Grady.” I savor each chew, then swallow. “How did you learn to cook like this?”

  He lifts his shoulders, bringing his eyes to his own plate. “My sister taught me. Our parents worked nights, so we kind of had to fend for ourselves growing up.”

  I nod, then ask, “You’re close? You and your sister?”

  Grady swallows his own bite, then looks to me and smiles sadly. “We were, yes. Very.”

  I finish my sip of wine, setting the glass down onto the countertop. “Were?”

  Grady perches both elbows on either side of his plate, allowing his fork to dangle as he inhales deeply. “Yes. She was murdered her freshman year in college.”

  The fork within my grip falls, clanking loudly against the ceramic plate beneath it. “Oh, Grady . . .”

  He shakes his head, cutting off my words. “One day she existed, the next she didn’t. She was just . . . gone. I completely lost it after that. Went down a path I’m not proud of, but eventually I made peace with her death and moved forward.”

  He sips his wine calmly before continuing. “In fact, she’s a big part of why I became a cop, and she’s the foremost reason I started instructing Krav Maga. I wanted to teach people, women in particular, how to defend themselves if they’re attacked. Every class I have is my homage to her, and every person I teach carries forward a piece of her existence.”

  He shrugs. “To me, there’s nothing more vindicating than the ability to find the strength necessary to turn the worst experience imaginable into something so beautiful, it eclipses all the ugliness. It helps to find reason, to find purpose, in something so senseless.”