Before heading back to the dressing room, I pop up on my tiptoes and kiss Grant on the cheek. Just a sweet, playful gesture. I give him a wide, warm smile.
“Thank you for being so good to me,” I say, before hurrying back into the dressing room.
I hurry and change into the next dress, and then it hits me. I probably should look at pants and shirts too, especially since it's rather chilly in Chicago. But, God, the way Grant looked at me in that dress. Thinking about it sends a little charge of electricity coursing through my veins.
I have to try on a couple more. Just to see that look a few more times.
* * *
“Happy now?” I ask as we leave the boutique.
I changed before leaving. I'm wearing the blue sundress that made Grant go all googly-eyed for me, a pair of cute boots, and a black wool overcoat draped over my shoulders. I feel absolutely gorgeous. I have a small bag of other clothing, a bag for my clothes I changed out of, two boxes of shoes, and another bag with undergarments, but I didn't go too crazy. I refused to let him. If I'd given him the green light, he’d have bought out the entire store for me. The idea of letting Grant buy me anything still makes me uncomfortable, so I made sure to limit it to just what I needed. Hopefully it was enough to satisfy him and keep him from dragging me into any more stores for a bit.
“Yes, very,” he says, his face unreadable.
His tone gives nothing away either. He's a master of controlling his emotions, and only his words hold any sort of a hint about what he's feeling. At the moment, I can't be sure he's not being snarky with me.
Either way, he won. I picked up a few things.
“What now?” I ask.
“I figure we'll grab a bite to eat, then head back to the hotel for a little sleep.”
Lake Shore Drive in Chicago feels more familiar to me than how I'd felt back in Keys Creek, Colorado. There's a crispness to the air, an energy that makes me feel more alive than I have in days. It just feels so natural to me. So normal. So – familiar.
Half-melted snow lines the rooftops. Strings of lights and tinsel hang from balconies, wrapped around railings and windowsills. The whole city is bustling with energy. I can even hear, somewhere far away, what sounds like a group of people singing. There must be carolers somewhere. People are jostling past, hustling around me on their way to and from whatever errands they're on. Probably Christmas shopping. The throngs of people are the living pulse, the heartbeat of the city, and it all feels like home to me.
Standing there among the crush of bodies, I almost forget that I can't remember who I am, because it feels like I'm right where I need to be. Right where I'm supposed to be. Right where I belong.
Grant, on the other hand, doesn't seem to enjoy it much. He looks out of place and completely uncomfortable among the hordes of people. His face is a stone cold mask, but he gives off the air of a man who would rather be anywhere but here. His jaw is clenched, and he looks ready to bolt.
For someone originally from Chicago, it's hard to imagine him living here. You think he'd be used to the army of people who crowd the sidewalks nearly every hour of every day.
With his bushy beard, and a body made of pure muscle, he looks like someone who belongs in the mountains of Colorado. His eyes narrow as he scours the area. He's watching closely, as if on the lookout for something – or someone. I try my best to ignore it and the ominous feeling it inspires, not needing the reminder that someone is after me.
As we thread our way through the masses, I look into the windows of shops and cafes we pass, hoping that something in one of those windows jogs my memory, and brings back something. Anything.
Grant stops suddenly. I'm not paying attention, so I crash straight into him. I gasp as he quickly turns, and his thick, strong arms catch me, and my hands grab onto his tight chest. I'm not sure if I'm gasping from the near fall or the way he feels against me. Every wondrous inch of him is so strong and rigid. Hard as stone. But still warm.
I look up and see him staring down at me, his lips pulling back into a small smile. He's obviously trying to fight it, but he can't anymore. He wants me, it's clear in those hazel eyes of his. He wants me as much as I want him – and yet, we can't have each other. We're denying ourselves the pleasure we both crave so badly. My question is – why?
“Let's just eat here,” he says, steadying me on my feet.
“Alright,” I say, my mind clearly distracted by other things.
I'm not even sure where “here” is – my head is spinning, and I can't think straight. My senses are simply overwhelmed by the feel of his body against mine and the subtle scent of his cologne. I'm caught up in my little fantasy world and honestly, don't really care where we eat. He can take me to McDonald's and I'll be fine with it.
Grant pulls open a door and gestures me inside. Loud rock music greets us as we enter – a little too loud for my liking. I may not have my memory back, but I do recognize it as a Christmas song. The place isn't one of the cozy little cafes we'd just passed, but what appears to be a pub. I glance back at Grant as we enter, making sure this is where he wants to eat. The inside looks grungy, even with the holiday decorations, and it's a bit dark. Not exactly the type of place you'd expect a millionaire to visit. Then again, Grant isn't your typical millionaire.
The place is fairly empty, but we pick a table in the farthest corner of the place, well away from everyone else. He pulls out a seat and motions for me to sit down. I sit, and he pushes in my seat. That done, he walks around and takes the seat across from me without saying a word or opening the menu. He flags down a waitress.
“Been here before?” I ask.
“A few times, yeah,” he says.
The waitress approaches the table, and he orders himself a whiskey on the rocks. She turns to me.
“Uh, I'm guessing you don't have wine here?”
“No, sorry,” she chuckles. “Would you like a beer?”
“Sure,” I say. “Surprise me.”
She winks and walks away, and I pick up the menu – which I soon see is pretty much limited to burgers, fries and chicken wings. I settle on a burger and close it. When the waitress comes back with our drinks, we place our orders – Grant orders the burger as well – and we're alone once again.
He stares into his glass, swirling the liquor around in it, as if trying to divine some secret mystery of life in the amber colored liquid.
“Penny for your thoughts?” I ask.
His forehead creases as he scowls – an expression that's more adorable than intimidating. At least, to me it is. He'd probably bristle if I actually told him that. I know this man wouldn't harm a fly, but to an outsider, given his size and general demeanor, that expression on his face might look pretty scary.
“Why do you ask so many questions?” he asks.
“Because what else do I have to talk about?” I tease.
His brow furrows and the lines on his forehead grow even deeper. Finally, he sighs.
“Honestly? I'm just thinking about Sam again,” he says. “Being in the city always makes me think of him.”
“Sam?”
“Yeah, my best friend,” he says. “The one who was murdered.”
Now I feel horrible. Way to ruin a good day, Celeste. Way to go.
“I'm sorry,” I say softly. “Do you want to talk about it?”
He shrugs and takes a drink from his glass. I assume he's going to give me the silent treatment, to shut down the conversation and avoid this discussion. I'm fine with that. It's what I'm getting used to. Grant doesn't answer questions he doesn't want to answer. As much as I want to know this kind stranger, I also don't want to dwell on things that upset him too much. Nor do I want to invade his obviously very thick personal bubble.
He surprises me when he starts to actually speak. “We used to come here together on Friday nights,” he says as he looks around, his eyes filled with emotion and nostalgia. “This was our regular hangout back in the day.”
I look around the worn-out
bar. Hell, I wouldn't have guessed they even served food, honestly. It's the type of place you have to know about in order to find, tucked away from the fancier high-end cafes and trendy bistros lining the main drive. It’s definitely an odd place to just drop in for dinner, especially dressed as nicely as I am. But now that I know the emotional resonance it has for him, it starts to make sense.
I sip my beer and find that I'm not a huge fan of it. It's bitter and thick, not light and refreshing like I'd hoped. I drink it anyway. Grant continues to stare into his glass for a long time, silent and brooding. A few minutes later, the waitress brings us our food.
“Wow,” I say, marveling at the massive amount of food on my plate.
Grant finally manages a small smile. “Yeah, the portions are huge. It's why we used to come here,” he says. “The drinks are crap, but you get the best damn burger anywhere in Chicago. Maybe even in the whole damn state.”
The burger is not only mammoth, it's greasy as hell, and thick rivulets of cheese ooze out onto the plate. The lettuce, tomato and onions are on the side, but the thick slab of meat doesn't leave much room for anything else on the bun – not if you actually intend to put the entire thing in your mouth.
I pick the burger up with two hands, nearly dropping it twice as I try to raise the massive thing to my mouth. Grant watches me over his glass of whiskey, a smirk on his perfectly chiseled face. I sink my teeth into the burger, and immediately, the grease and juices run down my chin. Warm cheese sticks to my lips, making an absolute mess of my face – though, I have to say, this very well could be the best burger I've ever had. Then again, not having a frame of reference, I suppose I can't really say for sure.
Grant snickers to himself, not even touching his food yet. He's too busy watching me enjoy mine. I wipe my face with my napkin and take another, smaller bite, trying to be a little more delicate and proper. This time, just to mess with him, I groan with pleasure softly as I chew my food. His smile grows even wider. A little more mischievous. Unable to help myself, I run my tongue along my lower lip slowly and sensually, making eye contact with Grant while I do it.
Who knew eating could be such an erotic undertaking?
Grant adjusts himself in his seat, trying to be inconspicuous, but I know exactly what he's doing. I resist the urge to stretch my leg out to touch his own – or worse, touch him in a more sensitive spot. Finally, Grant takes hold of his burger, piling it with lettuce and tomato – leaving the onions off, thankfully – and brings it to his lips. Those kissable, soft lips.
He peers over the giant pile of food at me with his hazel eyes. I notice, for the first time, how they are mostly golden brown, surrounded by the thinnest outline of vivid green. I have never seen eyes so beautiful and unique in my entire life, and I can't stop myself from staring deep into them. He surprises me a little when he doesn't look away from me, not even as he takes another bite. A hunger gnaws at my insides, but this time, it’s not for food.
The waitress comes by and asks if we'd like more to drink, ruining the perfect moment.
Grant seems relieved by the interruption and orders another whiskey. I decide to be daring.
“I'll have the same,” I say.
Grant cocks an eyebrow at me but doesn't argue. He just gives me a quirky little smile. The waitress scurries off to grab our beverages. Grant continues looking at me though, so I smirk and tease him a bit.
“What? I don't remember what I like,” I say. “Maybe I'm a whiskey drinking gal.”
“You never cease to surprise me,” he mumbles, wiping his beard clean with a napkin. “Who knows, you very well may be?”
“But that's a good thing, right?”
He shrugs, but another smile creeps across his face. The more time we spend together, the more he seems to smile when he's around me, which makes me feel good. His smile really does light up a room, and since I enjoy seeing it, I plan to keep him smiling – at least as long as we're together. However long that might be.
When our drinks arrive, I hold up my glass. “A toast,” I say.
“To what?” He asks.
“I don't remember,” I tease. “Just drink.”
He laughs. Not his usual slight chuckle, but a big, rumbling, genuine laugh. It surprises me, but it's music to my ears. In all our – admittedly limited – time together, he’s never laughed like that. We clink our glasses together, and I take a sip from mine. My eyes fly open instantly. My mouth is on fire – and I'm not sure if I like it. Grant is watching me, studying my expression, an amused little grin on his face. He's waiting for me to spit it out and admit defeat, but that's not something I'm willing to do.
I swallow it down, grimacing. It feels like liquid fire is sliding down my throat. I let it settle into my belly and sit there for a moment, letting it absorb into me. After the shock of the taste has passed, I feel a warmth spreading throughout my body. It actually feels kind of nice.
“Not bad,” I say, my voice hoarse and froggy.
While it’s not my favorite drink in the world, I actually mean it – it's not bad. Besides, it's worth it to see the look on Grant's face. I can tell it takes a lot to impress this guy and managing to do so has to be one of my top accomplishments in life. It's one for my own personal record books.
I take another drink, and this one goes down a little better than the first. I'm not as surprised by it, for one. I know what to expect, so the burn is actually kind of pleasant, rather than painful.
“I think I can get used to it,” I say.
Grant chuckles to himself, throwing back his glass and swallowing about half of it in one gulp. As eager as I am to impress him, I'm not there yet. Nowhere near, actually. A moment later, he finishes the rest of his drink, and slams the empty glass down on the table, licking his lips as our eyes lock. I take a larger drink, and slowly, I finish the glass. My throat and stomach are on fire, but the look in Grant's eyes is one of pure respect. When I slam my empty glass down on the table and give him a wicked little smirk, he laughs.
“How about another round then, princess?”
“Let's do it,” I say.
I don't even get onto him for calling me a pet name, even though I cringe inwardly. Another thing I just discovered about myself: I've never been one for pet names. His face betrays his true feelings – he knows damn well I'm not a princess.
The second glass of whiskey sits on the table, only half finished. My head is spinning lightly, but not enough for me to feel woozy. It's nice buzz, and I feel peaceful. I have no desire to go further than that. Grant is done by his third drink. While he seems a little more relaxed, he doesn't seem all that affected by the liquor either. The man can obviously hold his drink.
“Ready to head back?” he asks.
“God, yes,” I say. “I'm so tired, and I am craving that bed.”
He shoots me a crooked grin, and there's a mischievous twinkle in his eye. I know what he's thinking, and as much as I want to flirt, to say something about us sharing a bed, it almost seems too forward. Instead, I wink at him as we gather our things.
The hotel isn't too far from the bar, and the two of us are just buzzed enough to keep things interesting. Night has fallen, and long strings of lights fill the streets and sidewalks with warmth. I giggle at pretty much everything we see and everything Grant says, while he just looks amused. He holds onto my arm, as if to keep me from falling, but we both know I'm not that drunk. I lean close into him, maybe a little more than I really need to. I'm giddy and tipsy, but I can walk just fine. I just like the feel of his strong hands on me.
We make it back into the hotel lobby. I barely register the large, ornate Christmas tree in the entryway. The elevator ride to the room is mostly a blur. All I can focus on is the feeling of his hands on my arm. Without thinking, I place my other hand on top of his, and we share a look – a long, lingering look. When the elevator opens up to our floor, we almost miss it entirely. The doors start to close again, but Grant pulls away from me and stops it with a laugh.
; Where he touched my arm is warm, and it feels like his hand is still on me. In that moment, I want nothing more than to feel his big, strong hands all over me, but I know it shouldn't happen. I know it probably won't happen. I'm learning that Grant is a man of remarkable self-restraint. He has an iron will and can deny himself those things he wants. He'll never allow himself to lose that control and give himself over to me – no matter how much he wants it.
No matter how badly we both want it.
He holds the elevator door open for me, and I step out in front of him. The weight of his gaze is heavy on my body as we walk down the hallway to our room. I can practically feel him undressing me with his eyes. Once the door to our room swings open, I step inside and Grant follows, this time a little closer than I expected. His hand brushes against my ass, just barely. It's the lightest of touches, but when I look over my shoulder at him, I'm expecting to see a flustered and maybe, embarrassed look on his handsome face.
Instead, I see a look of pure heat and lust.
Before I can convince myself it's a bad idea, I drop my bags and twirl around until I'm facing him. He's standing mere inches from me, barely stopping himself from colliding into me. His hands find their way down, encircling my waist, to steady us both – or, at least, trying to make it appear that way. He doesn't let go right away though. Instead, he holds me there, close to him, the smell of whiskey thick on his breath, which is warm against my cheek.
I lean in closer to him, and suddenly find myself standing closer to him than I've ever been. I can smell the whiskey on his breath. The musky scent of his cologne. Everything about him causes my heart to race, and my body to ache for him.
I stand up higher on my tiptoes, he leans down, and our lips are suddenly pressed together. A rush of warmth courses through my body that feels even better than the whiskey. Unlike the last time we kissed, Grant holds nothing back. His beard softly scratches against my face as he kisses me with such force that it very nearly takes my breath away. I feel his hands running along my body, pulling me in closer to him. There's a bulge in his jeans, a large one, and feeling it against my stomach brings a small gasp from my throat.
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