by L. D. Davis
Grant looked up at me then, with a sad smile.
“This isn’t light conversation,” he said, opening the bottle of brandy.
I warily eyed the bottle in his hand.
“We haven’t had a light conversation since you skipped back into my world. What are you about to do with that bottle of brandy?”
He looked at me like it should have been obvious. “Flambé.”
Ruefully, I asked, “Have you ever done it before?”
“Are you questioning my mad cooking skills?”
“You’re a fugitive recovery agent, not a chef.”
“Baby, I am a multi-talented man,” he said, his voice dipping low and suggestively.
“Yeah, and you’re a hot man, but that does not mean you have to be on fire. Not literally.”
Grant winked at me and gave me a big grin that made my toes curl just a little bit.
“Trust me, Baby Girl.”
He poured the brandy into the pan.
Chapter Nine
“It’s not that funny.” Grant’s deep voice sounded pouty and his eyes were narrowed at me, but I saw the beginning of a smile on his face.
Laughing hard, I was barely able to speak. “I haven’t laughed this much in years.”
Earlier, Grant had poured the brandy into the pan. After giving me another over-confident wink, he’d picked up a long lighter and clicked it on. Instantly, flames had shot up out of the pan. Not just some little flames fit for flambé, either. They were flames on a mission of destruction.
I had watched with horror as Grant, in his haste to contain the fire, spilled the bottle of brandy on the countertop. It only took one tiny spark from the pan to set the countertop on fire.
“Motherfucker!” he had shouted. When he saw that I was still sitting on my stool inches from the flames, he’d yelled, “Mayson, get the hell up!”
I didn’t. I’d pushed my stool away from the heat and flames, but I didn’t get up. I found the scene before me mesmerizing. Grant tried to put a lid on the fire in the pan, but the flames were too high and he’d only succeeded in singeing his arm hair. Looking slightly panicked, he’d spun around and raced for the pantry. He disappeared inside for a moment before rushing out with an industrial size bag of baking soda.
Dumbly, I had wondered why anyone would need that much baking soda.
He’d torn the bag open and had begun to frantically toss the baking soda at the fires. The white powdery substance flew in all directions—including on me, but after several seemingly long seconds the flames shrunk and sputtered out altogether.
He’d inhaled deeply on what would have been an epic sigh of relief but, belatedly, a fire sprinkler abruptly burst to life. He and the burnt peninsula were suddenly sprayed with water as a robotic voice announced that there was a fire.
He had been in such a state of shock that he stood frozen, and with his mouth gaping open like a fish. Water slid through his hair and down his face. His white T-shirt was plastered to his body—which was a total win from my point of view.
After at least a full minute, the sprinkler had shut off and the robotic voice went away as well. Grant had stood there, breathing like a rabid bear and seething with fury as his hands opened and closed into fists.
He’d taken two steps. I distinctly heard the squishing sound his feet made inside his shoes. That was when my stunned horror abruptly left town and I’d lost all my composure. I’d laughed so hard that I had slipped off the stool and ended up on my knees on a damp floor, bent over in hysterics.
“I’m so glad to have amused you,” he’d growled as he splashed around the kitchen.
After several minutes of laughter, I’d slowly stood up so I could go help him with the cleanup. I hadn’t thought to take my sandals off first, though. I’d taken only three steps into the kitchen when I began to slip on the tiled floor. Grant tried to catch me, but he’d slipped as well and crashed into me. I’d let out a shriek of shock and we both went down hard on the floor with a splash. I’d landed flat on my back and Grant had landed on his stomach partially on top of me.
I’d stared up at the high ceiling, stunned. An old Mariah Carey song was playing, and the drains built into the floor had gurgled loudly as water passed through the grates.
“Are you okay?” Grant had asked. His fingers had gently held my face with concern. “Mayson?”
My ass, my back, and the back of my head had throbbed from the impact, but instead of telling him any of that, I’d begun to laugh again. I’d laughed so hard that I had to take in wheezing gulps of air to breathe. Grant hadn’t been amused. He’d finally let out his epic sigh and dropped his head on my shoulder.
More than two hours after the Flambé Fail, I still occasionally and spontaneously snorted with amusement. I had helped him clean up the mess, but I’d giggled almost the entire time. I didn’t even care that all my clothes were wet and I had to borrow a shirt and a pair of lounge pants from Grant.
In the end, we made the most risk-free meal we could without the danger of fire: peanut butter sandwiches with glasses of milk. We carried the five-star meals to the couch in the family area and sat side by side.
“Trust me, Baby Girl! I’m a man!” I said in a mocking, deep timber and then snickered.
Grant rolled his eyes over to me.
“You know you could have helped me out. Instead, you just sat there on your throne like the only job you had was to be beautiful,” he said in an accusing tone.
“You mean that wasn’t my only job?” I blinked innocently at him.
“Well, if it was your only job, you did it well.”
I snorted. “Yeah, my old track marks are so beautiful.”
I held out my arms and looked at the scars that refused to fade away. I used to have many more, and most of them were barely visible, but there were some that just refused to let me forget.
Grant gently wrapped one big hand around one wrist. I, for once, ignored my initial reaction to pull away. I held very still as his fingers lightly explored the old track marks on my arm.
He spoke so softly if I hadn’t been sitting right beside him, I wouldn’t have heard him. “Battle scars. You should wear them proudly.”
I watched his fingers as they stroked my skin. My heartbeat was slow, but hard. Tiny tendrils of static danced up and down my spine.
I matched his soft tone. “I’ve only won a few battles. I’m still fighting the war.”
With those words, I admitted to him that I still struggled with my addiction. What would a man with children want with a woman who struggled with addiction? That was why he’d left me in the first place, and it would be why he would finally give up on me and exit my life again.
I gasped and my eyes snapped up to meet his when I felt his lips on one of my bigger scars.
“At least you are fighting.”
He released his hold on my wrist, but then carefully folded his hand over mine. With his other hand, he pushed a slightly damp spiraled curl of hair off my face. I should have known what was about to happen by the way he touched me and how close he sat to me, but I was still surprised when he cupped the back of my neck, leaned forward, and lightly kissed my lips.
I did not move. I couldn’t move. I was paralyzed as Grant’s full, soft lips pressed against mine. If he wanted to deepen the kiss and taste me with his tongue, I would have been helpless to stop him. He drew back a few inches and looked into my eyes. He appeared to be just as surprised as I was.
“I wasn’t expecting that,” he said as if I was the one that had kissed him.
“Me neither,” I whispered. “I was just expecting lunch…which I still haven’t had.”
Our sandwiches remained on the coffee table, untouched.
Grant smiled apologetically. “I promise you that I’m not trying to starve you.”
“I am having a difficult time believing it.”
His smile melted away and he gave me a stern look as if he were about to give me a lecture. “I’m going to kiss you once m
ore. Then you can eat the elegant meal I’ve prepared for you.”
“Any meal that leaves me with a milk mustache and my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth is an elegant meal indeed. I’ve eaten at El Celler de Can Roca in Spain and Eleven Madison Park in New York, two of the best restaurants in the world, but the lunch you’ve made for me beats all.”
He nodded. “I put my heart and soul into the making of each sandwich, and the pouring of each glass of milk.”
“I can’t wait to appreciate your hard work.”
My whole body trembled, and I could do nothing to stop it. I knew I should get up and out of his reach, but I couldn’t make my legs move more than a few twitches. I couldn’t raise my hand to his chest to push him away, and I couldn’t find the words to throw at him to dissuade him. I wanted him to back off and…I wanted him closer.
Grant used to be my comforter, the source of my smiles and laughter, and home for my heart. He had also been my lover, the man who had set my blood on fire with his touch and kiss, the man who had scorched me deep and always left me pleading for more.
He was also the man that had left me and started a new family with someone else. Introspectively speaking, I understood why he had gone, and it made sense that he found someone else to love. However, from an emotional and completely irrational standpoint, I hated him for it. He was the last person that I expected to give up on me, but he did. He had given up on me and dropped me hard. It had taken years before the sensation of freefalling eased.
I was still furious with Grant and felt a deep hatred for him. At the same time, I wanted to curl into him and tell him everything that had happened after he’d left. I wanted him to comfort me and to fight for me. I wanted that old sensation of his big hands on my bare back, my cheek on his chest, and the feeling of security I hadn’t had for thirteen long years.
As much as I wanted to believe that I’d changed enough for him not to know me at all, I knew he knew me better than anyone still. I was convinced of that by the way he was gazing at me. He knew I was conflicted, and while he probably couldn’t pinpoint every reason why, I had no doubt that he understood a lot.
He leaned in again, but he only left a lingering kiss at the corner of my mouth. I was glad and I was disappointed.
Grant released my hand and backed away a bit, which gave me some much-needed space. He passed me a peanut butter sandwich with a gentle smile. I took one small bite and barely had time to chew when his phone rang on the coffee table. Since it was his mom calling, he picked it up without hesitation.
I only heard his side of the conversation, but in only a few words I understood what was about to happen. I let him tell me anyway after he put the phone back down and got to his feet.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was so late. My mom is dropping the kids off. Usually, she’d keep them overnight, but she has other plans.”
My eyes nearly fell out of my head. I wasn’t ready to meet his kids, like at all! As in never ever.
“They’re coming now?”
He looked apologetic. “Sorry. I have to run downstairs to meet them. I’ll be back up in a few minutes.”
“So much for just lunch,” I muttered, got up, and then carried our food back to the kitchen.
Before Grant returned with the kids, I went to stand in the farthest corner of the ware-home. It was a little book nook, partitioned off from the main living area by large, heavy bookshelves full of books. There was a couch, a couple armchairs, and a coffee table with magazines neatly fanned out on top. The room was clearly for adults only, as there were no signs of the children in there, save for a couple framed pictures. The little nook was directly under a skylight and had large windows on both walls. It was bright and lovely, and I wanted to curl up on the couch and read a book and pretend that my ex-boyfriend’s kids weren’t about to walk through the door.
In fact, I would have gladly given up the nook if I could have slipped out without being seen, but as the door opened, I knew that wasn’t going to happen.
I stood still, except for my fingers, which were busy blindly folding and refolding a paper napkin. Alex walked in first, then Grant, followed by his daughter. They didn’t see me since I was partially hidden by a bookshelf. Grant scanned the apartment and his brow wrinkled in confusion, but before his eyes could find me, he was distracted.
“I smell burned food, Daddy,” little Natalie said upon entering the ware-home.
“Whoaaaaaa,” Alex said with the excitement only little boys could have for destruction. “What happened to the counter?”
Grant seemed reluctant to answer that, which made my mouth twitch with suppressed laughter again.
“Your father caught the kitchen on fire,” I said, stepping out of the beloved nook.
Six eyes landed on me. The kids didn’t look surprised to see me—their father probably gave them a heads up—but Grant looked rather relieved.
“I thought we can’t pway with things that make fire?” Natalie said, looking confused and worried as she looked up at her dad.
My goodness, she looked like Sharice. The resemblance was even more striking in person.
I reluctantly looked away from the little girl and gave Grant a stern look.
“That’s right,” I admonished. “We shouldn’t play with things that make fire.”
I could see the amusement in his eyes, but he managed not to smile.
“I wasn’t playing,” he explained to the kids. “I was trying to make Mayson a nice lunch and it went a little wrong.”
“A little? You set the kitchen on fire and I’m still hungry. I’d say that’s more than a ‘little wrong.’”
“I’m hungwee, too,” Natalie said, squeezing the life out of a small ragdoll she was carrying.
“Can we eat out?” Alex asked. “I don’t think you should try to cook again. You might set the whole house on fire.”
“But then we can have marshmowos like when we go camping,” Natalie said, with a happy look on her face that made me wonder if anyone ever taught her about fire safety.”
“No, Nat,” her brother said with apparent exasperation. “If the whole house catches on fire then everything will catch on fire. Your clothes, your toys, your stupid doll, and all the marshmallows.”
“My doll isn’t stupid. You’re stupid with your stupid fat stupid, stupid head!”
“I think one stupid would have been fine,” I muttered. “Anything more than two is simply redundant.”
Grant gave me a look that said, “You’re not helping,” before handling the situation before it got out of control.
While the three family members chattered amongst themselves, I threw away my napkin and went to get my bag. My clothes were still drying on the deck. I had to accept the fact that I would never see those awesome jeans again.
Grant smiled warmly at me as I approached them again.
“We’re going out to dinner. I can finally feed you.”
I smiled back but shook my head once. “I’m just going to head home. I can grab something along the way. My body has started to eat its own fat anyway, so I should be good for weeks.”
His smile faded as he studied me. He took in my tight smile and my nervous fingers gripping the hell out of the straps of my bag.
Reluctantly, he looked away from me to talk to Natalie. He touched one of her two braids affectionately as he gazed down at her.
“Nat, sweetie, go change your shirt. You’re still wearing your lunch.”
She giggled. “You can’t wear food, Daddy.”
Despite her argument, she skipped away to the hallway that led to the bedrooms.
Stealing a quick glance at Alex, who seemed to be absorbed in a handheld video game, Grant took my elbow and led me back to the nook. He stood so close to me, I had to tilt my head back to peer up at him.
“Come to dinner,” he said in a low voice, just above a whisper.
“I really have no faith that you will give me food to eat. I’m amazed that your children look so hea
lthy. Considering how much you’ve starved me today, I am surprised that you give them any nourishment at all.”
“Since I’m not the one providing the food, chances are very high that you will all get to eat tonight.”
“Be that as it may,” I began, but Grant stopped me before I could finish. He cupped my face in one strong hand and leaned down and kissed me, silencing me completely.
Dear all gods, it wasn’t like the sweet, chaste kisses he had given me earlier. His lips moved sensually against mine, stroking and caressing skillfully. He pulled back slightly, leaving me to give chase, and then chuckled when I did. Before I could get angry and punch him in his stupid, fat, stupid head, his lips were on mine again, harder and more demanding.
He continued to cup my face with one hand and wrapped his other arm around me, pulling me against his body. When I went easily without a fight, he growled appreciatively and grazed my lips with his teeth before pulling back again.
Touching my nose with his, he whispered, “Come to dinner.”
“This was only supposed to be lunch, and you totally failed at that.”
He put his mouth on mine again and held nothing back. His tongue swept across my lips and sought entry into my mouth.
I wanted to keep my lips sealed. I didn’t want him inside me like that, because once I let him in again, I wouldn’t be able to shake him out. He would lazily glide his way inside, slip down my throat, seize my heart, and tangle himself up in it, and I would be at his mercy. Again.
I couldn’t let him in, him and his damn kids. I didn’t even like kids, even though his were kind of cute and funny so far…and they were his. No matter who their mother had been, they were a part of Grant and Shari.
“Let me in,” he whispered against my mouth.
“No,” I whispered back but made no efforts to pull away.
He stroked my cheek with his thumb. “Don’t be afraid.”
My tone was harsh as I lied through my teeth. “I’m not afraid.”
“Then let me in.”
I had no time to respond. The sound of little feet running across the floor halted everything. With great reluctance, Grant withdrew from me. Natalie appeared the next second.
