“You?” she asks, cocking an eyebrow. “You're afraid of flying?”
“I didn't say I was afraid –”
She bursts out laughing as she fastens her seatbelt, shaking her head at me. I give her an incredulous look and shake my head. Glad I can amuse her.
“Big, bad mountain man is afraid of flying,” she says. “I didn't think you'd be afraid of anything.”
“I'm not,” I counter. “Because I didn't say I was afraid.”
“Uh huh,” she teases, her blue eyes sparkling with amusement. “You didn't have to say it though, I know what you meant. And it's not the only thing you're afraid of either.”
“It's not?” I ask. This time, it's my turn to raise my eyebrows. “Why don't you enlighten me about my fears, Celeste.”
“Well, for one thing, you're afraid of opening up to anyone,” she says. “You refuse to answer my questions. You choose to avoid them at all costs.”
“I told you about my best friend,” I say, feeling a little defensive. “I told you about why I moved to Colorado to begin with.”
“And still, you have yet to answer my question about how you can afford to charter a private jet at the last minute,” she presses. “Funny how that works, isn't it?”
“I told you before that I don't like talking about myself,” I say.
“Because you're afraid to.”
“Afraid of what?” I laugh.
“Afraid of being vulnerable, of course,” she says, a knowing smile on her face.
The plane begins to taxi down the runway. I know I'll be stuck on this flight with her for several hours. Normally, I’d drink some whiskey and pass the hell out, but I doubt Celeste would be willing to let me get out of talking that easily. I can easily see her trying to cut me off, so she can keep peppering me with questions.
Truthfully, part of me actually enjoys her company. Her smile is intoxicating, as is her laugh. Her blue eyes take everything in. She's sharp and observant. She's captivating, and it's hard to not watch her every movement. To drink her in completely. Of course, it also reminds me of what I walked in on earlier, and the sounds she made as she came. Yes, I knew exactly what she was doing when I stepped out of the shower and heard my name on her lips.
The thought of her like that sends the blood rushing to my groin once more. I adjust in my seat, trying my best to hide the growing bulge in my pants. When that doesn't work, I reach for the blanket tucked away beside me, draping it over my lap.
“Cold?” she asks, a cute smirk on her face.
“A little,” I lie.
I'm not even the slightest bit chilly – the plane is at a comfortable temperature against the cold winter air. Something in that twinkle in her eye tells me she already knows that.
Instead of focusing on her, I focus on the window, staring through it as we ascend into the sky. It's not being high in the sky that scares me about planes – it's being crammed into the thing with a bunch of people you don't know.
Trust is a hard commodity to come by after you've been at war and realize almost anyone can be a threat. My best friend being murdered on our home turf certainly didn't help me get over those fears, either.
Celeste reclines her seat, and I breathe a sigh of relief. If she goes to sleep, I no longer have to hide my obvious erection, nor do I have to face the endless onslaught of questions I can't answer. Or, I mean, I can answer, but choose not to. She's right about that.
Nothing is ever that easy though.
“Tell me a story, Grant,” she says.
“A story?” I ask with a chuckle. “What, are you five?”
“I want to know more about you. I want to know more about the man who continues to save my life,” she says. She's almost completely flat on her back in the seat, but rolls over onto her side, turning those breathtaking blue eyes over onto me. She's wide awake, apparently not sleepy in the least. Dammit.
I decide that it's probably easier just to answer the question she asked me earlier. Maybe that will be enough to satisfy her.
“Fine. You want to know how I can afford this private jet?” I ask her.
She nods, curling her legs up into her body like a small child eager to hear a story about how the frog became a gorgeous prince.
“My best friend and I owned a business together. A successful real estate development business,” I say. “After he died, I sold almost everything. It left me with a nice amount of money that I was able to retire young on.”
“That's not a very happy story,” she says, frowning at me.
I shrug. “Maybe not, but it's the truth.”
She's quiet for a long time, and I go back to staring out the window. It's not a terribly long flight to Chicago, but it's long enough. I decide to grab something to drink, and when I stand, I find that Celeste is watching me with her big baby blues.
“Would you like something from the bar?” I ask.
“Sure,” she says, sitting back up.
“What would you like?”
“Surprise me. I don't really know what I like,” she says.
Ah, that's right. I pour myself a whiskey on the rocks and peruse the shelf for something she might like. I look over at her, remembering my bartending days back in college. What's a pretty girl like her likely to order? I used to be good at matching people up with drinks. But the answer comes obvious to me, like an intuition: red wine. She seems like the type of woman who'd appreciate a good merlot or chianti. Luckily, the plane is stocked with both. I pick the merlot.
I pour a glass and bring it over to her. She's already sitting up in her seat, and inhales from the glass deeply, savoring the aroma before taking a sip.
“Mm this is good wine,” she says. “Good call.”
“I like to think I'm a good judge of character,” I say.
“Oh yeah?” she says, running her lip along the edge of the glass. “What can you tell me about me – things I don't know about myself?”
I study her for a while, taking a long pull from my glass. I look her up and down, committing her every detail to memory as I size her up. Try to see deep within her.
“I sense that you're loyal and that you strive for the truth in everything you do,” I say.
“Why do you say that?” she asks, looking surprised.
I shrug. “I don't know. That's just the feel I get from you,” I say. “But you can't even tell me if it's true or not.”
“Honestly, it sounds like something a psychic would say. Like one of those things they tell you that could totally apply to almost everyone you talk to,” she says, chuckling, then sticks her tongue out at me, taunting me.
“Okay, fine. I’ll guess that you're in law school, or another career path that seeks to do what's right,” I say. “You're going to get burnt out in a few years’ time – once you realize the world isn't all that it's cracked up to be but you're still ambitious and full of hope. You want to make the world a better place, and you're a fighter for those who can't fight for themselves.”
Now, she looks surprised. She puts the wine glass down on the tray in front of her, and stares at me for a long time, not saying a word.
“And since you can't remember anything, you can't even tell me if I'm right,” I say. “Pointless exercise, wasn't it?”
She opens her mouth to say something, then shuts it again. Finally, after a long moment of trying to come up with something, a strange look crosses her face, and she manages to speak.
“I mean, I can't say for sure or not,” she says. “But I get the feeling you're right on the money, Grant.”
“A feeling?” I shake my head and take another long drink. “Is it pointing you in the direction of the men who tried to kill you yet?”
“No, but I somehow feel a little more whole,” she says.
“I guess that's a good thing, at least.”
“Yeah, I think so,” she says softly.
* * *
I don't feel safe with Celeste in her own room, just in case there's someone here in Chicago looking
for her. I reserved the same penthouse suite from back when Sam and I would throw parties all that time ago. The room still looks the same. As soon as we enter, I feel the crush of old memories rushing in. Business deals by day, wild parties with women and alcohol by night. I remember my best friend’s face, smiling and telling me about meeting his girlfriend’s family, as if it was yesterday.
Maybe this is a bad idea. I stand in the doorway, taking it in, while trying to decide whether or not to leave. Celeste, oblivious to what's going on in my head, walks past me.
“Wow. This place is – wow, Grant,” she says.
“Nice, huh?” I ask, trying to shrug off all those old memories and feelings.
“More than nice. I feel like a celebrity right now,” she laughs.
The main room is set up like a living room, with a couch and several chairs around a flat panel TV set into the wall. Being the penthouse, there's a patio that overlooks Lake Shore Drive and Lake Michigan, plus a private roof patio with a hot tub. I remember that used to come in handy back in the day.
The furniture is white Italian leather, with red and black accent pillows. A blood red rug breaks up the room, separating the dining area and kitchen from the living area.
There are two bedrooms – which is why I booked this suite. Two separate rooms with private baths for both. Equal in size and quality, but Celeste is going into the more secure room – which is the one furthest from the front door. Hell, I might even choose to sleep in the living area, just to guard the place. I haven't thought that far ahead yet. I know from experience that the sofas are comfortable, though.
Celeste has wandered into the nearby bedroom, and she pokes her head out with a big grin on her face that makes her look so young – and so adorable.
“Can we just live here?” she asks.
“Nicer than the cabin, huh?” I ask, walking further into the room.
She steps back into the main room, and then it dawns on me. She's still in the same clothes they gave her at the hospital. At least the jeans. She's wearing one of my sweatshirts, which she's drowning in, of course. Even though she looks adorable, with her black hair tied back in a high ponytail, I feel bad that she has nothing else to wear.
“Well, your cabin is nice, but I'd have never guessed you were rich based off it, no,” she says.
“That's the point. I don't need much to be happy,” he says.
“I can appreciate that,” she says, prancing over to the large windows overlooking Lake Michigan.
“I have a plan for tonight,” I say, sitting down on the leather sofa.
“Oh yeah?” she asks, giving me a sly smile and sideways glance. “And what's that?”
I can't stop looking at her. She's so beautiful with her silky, raven hair. Even in the high ponytail, it falls down past her shoulders, making a stark contrast to her pale skin and light features. She really is a breathtaking woman.
“Yes,” I say, leaving it at that.
She looks at me for a long moment, and I just stare back at her. It's only when I'm silent for several long seconds, that she finally speaks.
“And you're not going to let me in on those plans?”
I know Celeste. She's the type of woman who doesn't want me buying her anything – even if she needs it. She's independent-minded, and I can see the toughness, strength – and stubbornness – inside of her. It's going to be a fight to get her to agree to it, but I'm determined to help her out. She's under my care now, and that's something I don't take lightly.
“You'll find out,” I say. “For now, why don't you get some rest. Tomorrow, we will go over to Francelli's. Tonight, we'll relax a bit.”
Celeste grins and glides effortlessly from the window over to the couch I'm sitting on. Instead of taking one of the other chairs, she sits down beside me, curling her feet up underneath her, facing me, resting her head against the back of the couch.
In that moment, she looks so young, so innocent, and it takes my breath away. I have a sudden urge to protect her at all costs. I know nothing about this woman – her interests, her past, her hobbies – and yet, I find myself feeling things for her.
I tell myself it's her vulnerability that attracts me, and that I need to be careful. I can't afford to let myself get wrapped up in her. For all I know, she might regret it as soon as she remembers her old life. Her real life. Hell, truthfully, for all I know, she's married and has kids.
“What does relaxing look like for Grant?” she asks.
“You're looking at it,” I say. “Give me a bottle of whiskey, and I'm good.”
She licks her lips and continues staring at me. There's a hunger in her eyes that has nothing to do with food or drink. I know that look well – I've seen it on countless women's faces over the years. Never one as beautiful as Celeste's though. Nor one as vulnerable.
She runs a hand through the ends of her ponytail before pulling her hair down completely. It cascades down over her shoulders as she shakes her head, and I'm utterly transfixed by it. I can't look away, no matter how hard I try.
I need to get her into some real clothes. Part of me knows that my desire to see her dressed in something that fits her is to get a view of that amazing figure, and I feel guilty for that. But the reality is, she needs things, and I have the means to give her these things, so I will.
Chapter Eight
Celeste
“I can't let you do this,” I say, standing firm in the doorway of the boutique.
Grant sighs and runs his hand through his beard, with an exhausted, slightly annoyed look on his face. His eyes seem heavier than usual, as if there's something on his mind. He's not smiling – and hasn't since we left the hotel room.
“Celeste, you can't wear the same pair of clothes every day. It's not practical,” he says. “Just – relax. Let me do this.”
His tone sounds a little condescending, making me want to push back. I don't like being spoken to like a child. That sets me off every time.
“I know that,” I say, crossing my arms in front of my chest. “But – but –”
“No buts,” he says. “Until we know who you are, you don't have a dime to your name. I do. And you need new things, so relax already.”
I guess I really can't argue with him. As far as I know, I don't have anything. No cellphone, no place to live, no money. Not even the clothes on my back belong to me. My pants, shoes and sweatshirt are hand-me-downs from Grant and the hospital, since my own clothing was destroyed either during the attack, fall, or the ensuing rescue. I literally have nothing.
Still, I remain defiant. Stubbornness isn't always logical, and neither is pride. But as far as I know, I'm not the type to take handouts. I at least know that much is true about myself. Grant has done so much for me already. The idea of him purchasing more things for me is too much. My lip begins to tremble as I think about my situation. How utterly screwed I am.
Grant doesn't notice, though. He walks ahead of me and into the boutique as if he owns the place, and before I even know it, he's speaking to a young blonde at the counter. I hurry over there to hear their conversation, just as Grant motions toward me.
“Oh, there she is,” he says dryly. “I guess she's decided to join us, after all.”
“You're not buying me anything,” I say again.
“I'll be the judge of that,” he says.
He turns back to the blonde, and I see that her name tag says Suzy.
“Can you help me pick out some clothes for my stubborn friend here?” he asks.
“Of course,” Suzy says, leading us over to a rack of dresses and skirts. “If you'd like to see anything on, we're about the same size, and –”
“I got this,” I say, pushing myself off from the counter. I try to hide how red my face is. I’m embarrassed enough, without Suzy here talking about sizes. I grab a few dresses off the racks without even looking at them. “I'll try them on myself, thanks.”
I waltz over to the dressing room, close the door behind me, and throw on the first dress. I
t's a pale cornflower blue sundress, something more suitable for summer than winter. A halter-style top holds my breasts perfectly in place, and there's a white bow around the waist, cinching everything in.
Even though it's the wrong season for such a dress, it does look good on me. Really good. I turn around a few times, and the skirt flares around my body. It hits right above the knee too. With a nice coat, it might be okay for a date night, I suppose.
Date night. Ha. Grant is doing everything he can to keep his distance from me, and I can't blame him. Without knowing who I am – not to mention the fact that there are shadowy people after me, I can see that he's nervous. And I can't blame him.
I am so grateful that he's protecting me, but some small part of me is tired of him always doing the protecting. I want more than this. There's a burning inside of me, a need that I can't explain. Maybe it's just because he's my knight in shining armor but there's a fondness for him that I can't really explain.
I step out of the dressing room and both Suzy and Grant turn their attention toward me. Grant's eyes devour every inch of me. His dark, brooding eyes even light up as he licks his lips, seeming to forget that he's not supposed to look at me like that. His rules, not mine.
I put a little extra swish my hips as I walk over to the two of them, then do a catwalk twirl.
“What do you think?” I ask, even though the answer is already perfectly clear on Grant's face – he loves it.
“I – it looks great,” he says, a distant look in his eyes.
“Don't you think it's a bit chilly for a sundress this time of year?” Suzy asks. “Maybe something more like this would work.”
She hands me a sweater dress. Long sleeves, a high neckline and it lands around knee length – or longer for someone as short as me.
“No thanks,” I say. “I have a few others to try first, but if Grant likes this one –”
“I do,” he says quickly. “I really do.”
“Good. I think it's a keeper then. Since you're the one paying, and all,” I say, still trying to get comfortable with the idea.
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