“I’ve spent many hours with André’s chef, Pascal and his wife, Anne,” I tell him. “They taught me French cooking.” I raise my eyebrows. “And I’m a good student.”
“French cuisine!” he chortles enthusiastically. “I love French cooking!”
I’m charmed by Grant’s plainspoken honesty. I didn’t know he was an alcoholic. He didn’t try to minimize it by just saying, “I don’t like to drink.” This is another facet that will help me in unwrapping his history. Ashamed and isolated, Grant must have turned to alcohol to numb his pain and to forget, as many victims of abuse do.
I turned to sex for comfort and connection instead.
He’s definitely loosening up, and it only makes him more desirable to me. There are high, unassailable walls surrounding him, but maybe he’s starting to open a small window to give me a peek inside.
André’s cautionary warning runs through my mind. You cannot rescue someone from themselves. People are never as helpless as they feel themselves to be. When they improve, it is not because of you—it is because they have chosen to help themselves!”
If anyone is seriously working toward getting his life on track, it’s Grant. He’s such a good guy and I’m so ridiculously drawn to him. I’m going to do everything I can to help him figure out how to help himself.
The sound of a horn captures our attention for a moment. I look around, but whoever it was wasn’t honking at us.
I leave Mitten in the car when we get out, assuring him we won’t be long. I don’t think anyone would appreciate me bringing a cat inside a grocery store.
Dallas is a thriving city with nice parks, a fascinating skyline and interesting buildings. Everyone is amazingly friendly here. Complete strangers look you in the eye, smile and give welcoming nods.
People here have an overwhelming sense of pride in their state. Texas maps are everywhere, including embossed into the walls on the freeways. Flags fly on many houses—US of A and Texas—American Pride and Lone Star pride.
The service is mind-blowing. Men smile and open doors for women. Bags at the checkout are packed by clean-cut high school students—or by polite, elderly folks working part-time.
It’s like being on the film set in Back to the Future, when Michael J. Fox drives his DeLorean back to 1950. There’s a homey, welcoming, wholesome vibe. The truth is, I kind of like it.
I’ve looked, but there’s not a tattoo in sight.
I snicker because I know Grant has tattoos under that long-sleeved shirt of his. What kind of tats does he have? I can’t wait to see them… and to see him without his shirt. Even fully clothed, the man is such a turn-on.
He’s needy and vulnerable underneath all that confidence. I swallow, because being around him makes me super-needy and vulnerable too. My constant state of arousal is hard to ignore.
We’re in and out of the grocery store in under twenty minutes. Another twenty minutes in his car and we’re pulling into his driveway.
“Oh my God! This is a wonderful home, Grant.”
It’s a cream-colored Spanish Mediterranean style stucco design, with green shutters and red terra cotta shingles. A huge dogwood tree with big white flowers stands out front, nestled within a well-manicured garden.
He drives into the garage and hits the remote button, closing it. When he turns toward me, he’s wearing a boyish grin.
“You really like my house?” he asks.
“I’m blown away.”
His grin widens into a broad smile. “I’ve spent a lot of time doing it up just the way I like.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“I love this house. It was built in the 1930’s, but honestly?” he grins. “I bought it for the garden.”
“No way.”
“C’mon. Let me show you my pride and joy.”
He leads me through a side door out into the backyard, with Mitten happily following behind us. I lift my hand to shield my eyes from the bright, setting sun. The first thing I notice is the fragrance of flowers. There are cherry blossoms in bloom, awe-inspiring puffs of pink and white, not to mention rhododendrons, azaleas and who knows what else.
Grant escorts me down a path where a little stream runs through. A small picturesque wooden bridge crosses over it until it reaches a shallow little pool. A number of colorful Koi fish languidly swim around in lazy circles.
“Oh, I love Koi!” I gasp. “Are they friendly?”
“Sure,” he says with a smirk. “If you feed them.”
There’s a rock garden with lavender and other ground covers. Rock steps have been artistically placed throughout. Crepe myrtle trees blossom in mauve and white, and jasmine perfumes the air. A large grassy area is near the house.
It’s like a secret Garden—this open space seems larger than a normal city block. Lavish, thriving, and full of life, it isn't highly manicured as some gardens are. I much prefer it this way. It's wild but not overgrown or messy.
It’s nothing like what I expected, but then, what had I expected?
This creative hands-on interest is another fascinating part of Grant’s character. Betrayed by humankind, I sought love, trust and fulfilment from Mitten. Obviously, in the same boat, Grant turned to flowers, trees and plants for the same reason.
Why not? It makes sense to me.
Chapter 7.
“The only creatures that are evolved enough to convey pure love are dogs and infants.”
― Johnny Depp
~~~
Renata Koreman
Grant studies me, closely watching my reaction to this important place in his life.
“You did this?” I gasp.
“Many of the established trees were here already, but yes, I did. Marie’s nephew, Michael, is my gardener. He looks after the mowing and watering, but I created it.”
“It’s absolutely incredible,” I marvel. “It’s like the botanical garden in a big city—only much nicer.”
Grant’s smile is broad and open. His garden means a lot to him and it charms me to know my opinion matters. I love that he's able to share this part of himself with me.
I turn my head, checking out the abundance of flowers. It’s April, a time of early spring blooms. There will be an even greater riot of colors as spring rolls on. Mitten rubs up against my legs, so I squat down to stroke him. Mitten loves this place.
Grant walks through his garden, telling me the names of his flowers while pointing them out; chrysanthemums, daisies, daffodils, irises, peonies, marigolds, petunias and colorful impatiens.
There are unique garden sections, hidden places to sit, and a variety of trails. Proud and enthusiastic, Grant is transformed by his garden. The stress lines in his face have eased, he looks content and completely in his element.
“Gardening makes you happy,” I say, pleased to discover yet another glimpse of the real Grant.
“Yes, it does.”
“This is the most beautiful garden I’ve ever seen.”
“Thank you,” he says with quiet intensity. Our eyes meet—his are smoldering. A zing of sensual energy blasts between us, almost bringing me to my knees.
My chest tightens and my heart flip-flops as a sudden insight makes me realize how important I am to him. He wants me, he needs me and my libido is now officially on overload.
Burning sexual desire and anticipation will be the death of me.
Jesus, if I don’t get laid tonight, I’m going to have to masturbate for hours to have any hope of falling sleep. Maybe a hundred climaxes will ease my aching need for him. I suspect only Grant can truly satisfy me—flying solo won't even come close.
Of course, a hundred is a ridiculous exaggeration.
I’m sure I’ll be OK after ninety-nine.
“Let’s go inside,” he adds, placing his hand low on my back. The heat of his palm rolls through me. I close my eyes for a moment and I bite back a moan.
Turning my head up, I take in his handsome face. “You’re touching me,” I murmur with pleased surprise. “And you’re comfo
rtable doing it.”
He shrugs.
“Maybe it’s because we’re in your garden,” I suggest.
“Maybe.”
“This is such a romantic setting. With a nice thick blanket, right under those cherry blossoms—I’d like to make love with you in this garden,” I unthinkingly blurt out.
Shit! Bite my tongue! I’m pushing him too fast and too hard. So stupid.
My speech filter is off-line—probably because there's an insufficient amount of blood going to my brain for it to function properly.
Grant snorts in a humorless laugh and turns toward me. His poor, neglected cock is bulging in his Levis and my gaze immediately falls to it. He sees where I’m looking and makes a sound that’s suspiciously like a growl.
“Renata,” he says, his voice husky with need.
Our eyes lock. Grant pins me with the hunger of his passionate stare.
I swallow, utterly affected by everything about him—his smell, his fit, muscular build, his heady male energy, his arousal and his desire for me.
“Do you think I want to be like this?” he asks me in a deep, low voice.
His eyes darken and his unblinking stare scorches me with sensual heat. His breathing speeds up, displaying his internal battle over his body's response. I see his throat work as Grant swallows hard.
He doesn’t touch me.
If he did, I might go up in flames.
“Renata,” he rasps, “I need to be inside of you like I need to eat, move or breathe. I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anyone or anything before. I want to take you here in my garden, on my bed, on the kitchen counter or on the table. I want to lift you up and fuck you hard against a wall.”
Stunned, I just stare at him with my mouth open and my eyes wide. I think that’s the most he’s ever said to me all at one time. Every single word aroused me further. Desire and lust boils out of him.
“I can't—not yet, but I don’t like waiting either,” he growls, and then strides off in utter frustration.
I follow him as he walks back inside the garage. We leave the air virtually sizzling behind us.
I am so going to help him fix his intimacy issues—and fast. Otherwise, anticipation and sexual frustration will bring us both to the edge of madness.
Luckily, I’ve got an idea.
Grant shows Mitten and me around his home while we try to ignore the stormy, restrained sexual tension brewing between us. Mitten checks out every nook and cranny, but I doubt he’ll find a mouse.
Grant’s house has four bedrooms, four bathrooms and three living areas, all with high ceilings and an open floor plan. Window seats are recessed into a wall, and there’s a balcony with a table and chairs set up, to sit outside and look out over the garden. Marble floors are on the ground floor; hardwood flooring and rugs are upstairs, along with an open fireplace.
“Wow,” I say, stopping to check out Grant’s shooting trophies. He has a ton of them. “You’re obviously a great shot.”
“I should be. I was a sniper in the army.”
“Do you still shoot?”
He shrugs. “I own an indoor and outdoor shooting range.”
He didn’t answer the question, but I don’t pursue it. I grin up at him with a flirty smile. “Will you teach me?”
He smiles back. “Of course I will, if you’d like to learn. It would be my pleasure.”
“Neat. Do you hunt?”
“Not anymore,” he says, his voice suddenly turns as cold as an Arctic winter, changing the climate in the room.
I still have no idea who hurt him as a child, yet I sense another mystery here. Why did he have such a negative response when I mentioned hunting? Clearly, he must have loved it at one time. Then again, he served in Iraq. Did he kill someone he regrets killing? And how did he get those scars? Are the two subjects connected?
“OK,” I say, as I leave his room. Mental note to self, avoid bringing up the subject of hunting with Grant for now.
Everything in Grant’s home is arranged with artistic flair, yet it’s also homey with soft rugs and attractive curtains, all in calming colors. The kitchen table is covered with a huge, thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle. Only the edges have been assembled thus far, so it could be a picture of anything.
I snicker. “Puzzle person, are you?” I ask, bending over and trying to see what he’s working on.
“I find listening to music while doing puzzles very relaxing.”
“Neat. What’s this one of?”
“What else?” He grins and holds up the cover of the jigsaw puzzle box. “Monet’s Garden.”
We both laugh.
The doorbell rings, our baby accessories have arrived. We spend the next hour organizing the nursery, bedding, cupboards and storage. Grant makes a number of phone calls, but I don’t listen in. My bedroom is directly across the hallway from Grant’s bedroom.
Convenient… and tempting.
Grant gets out a tool set and assembles Briley’s crib. I shower, unpack my things and start to prepare dinner, or supper, as Grant likes to call it.
Just as I finished cooking, around 5 p.m., the child welfare workers arrive with Briley. Everything’s already been cleared legally, so they do a basic inspection to check that Grant has appropriate and safe accommodations. With a smile of relief, they hand me the baby and leave.
I sit down with Briley. “How are you, gorgeous one?” I coo.
Instantly and naturally, the mother in me bonds with the most adorable baby in the entire universe. He has a round, hairless head, bright brown eyes and fat kissable cheeks. My God, he’s absolutely perfect and he smells divine.
Briley smiles at me, a smile of the sweetest love imaginable.
With all of the innocence and inexperience a baby is born with, the one thing they know and can fully express is pure, unadulterated love.
All of the bliss, delight and happiness I once experienced with my baby brother comes flooding back to me, slamming into me in waves of euphoria. Timmy is gone. Losing him broke my heart, but Briley is here now.
The surge of love swelling inside momentarily overwhelms me. My eyes sting and my throat burns. I can share the love I had for my brother with this adorable child. Timmy wouldn’t mind.
Timmy loved everyone.
My heart is full, my chest rises and falls heavily. I can’t stop smiling as silent tears of loss, remembrance and joy course down my cheeks.
“Are you all right?” Grant asks. His gaze dark with concern as he offers me a box of tissues.
“Thank you,” I say, as I take a few.
My breath hitches as I wipe my tears and blow my runny nose. “I’m just happy.” I look up at Grant’s furrowed brow, his uneasy expression and faint smile. I must look a mess or like a nut case. Probably both.
“I love babies,” I admit, in helpless explanation.
Briley and I instantly get on like old friends, with him smiling at me, holding my fingers, and trying to chew on my face. I giggle, laugh and make stupid sounds.
Mitten jumps up next to us. I introduce him, so he can join in the fun. Mitten eyes me intently while I explain about babies. I tell my cat how important Briley is, how he’s like a kitten and how it’ll be Mitten’s job to make sure he’s OK.
People don’t think animals understand, but I believe they do.
I once considered a career in childcare, but I wasn’t sure I could do it at the time. My brother’s death still seemed too fresh. It seems I haven’t forgotten a thing.
Grant slouches down on the couch beside us. We all sit companionably together for a while, playing with Briley without needing to talk.
“Would you like to hold him?” I ask.
“No.” There’s a hint of anxiety in his expression.
“Do babies scare you? Are you afraid of dropping him or something?”
He shakes his head. “I freak out at the idea of having kids. I’m afraid I’d be a terrible dad—mainly because I had such an awful role model as my own father.”
 
; “Wow,” I say. “Thank you for telling me. I didn’t know your dad was a jerk. See? This is how we do it. We just keep talking and chipping away. Pretty soon we’ll both understand each other really well.”
“Miss Sweet and Positive,” he says, eyeing me with a cynical smirk. “I remember when I first met you. I figured you must’ve come right out of the Disney Channel.”
“Why?” I ask with a chuckle, while bouncing Briley on my knee.
“Because you took one look at my scars and said, ‘You have a nice face!’” He laughs. “I’ll never forget it. You also said, ‘Those scars don’t bother me. It’s what’s inside that counts.’”
“But that’s true!” I protest.
Grant laughs so hard his chest and shoulders heave. I can’t help but laugh myself, seeing him so happy and carefree. The sound of our amusement fills the room, echoing off the walls and beguiling the baby.
“What?” I snicker at the disbelieving look he’s giving me. “I do love your face. I think you’re really handsome.”
This brings a new wave of gleeful, unrestrained laughter to Grant. I swear it’s as though someone is tickling him, he finds my comment so funny. I love seeing him like this.
The man is way too serious. He needs to laugh more often.
Shaking his head, he grins and says nothing. It takes a few minutes for us to calm down. When we do, he’s soon as comfortable sitting here with me, as I am with him.
“Thanks for coming to help me with Briley, Renata,” he says. “I’d be lost without you.”
Smiling, I tilt my head and study him for a moment.
Grant is still lost. I know his problem. When people shut themselves off from painful emotions, they have difficulty experiencing good feelings too. There’s a numb sort of emptiness inside. Grant’s had it for so long, feeling that way seems normal to him.
The man still has a long way to go.
“It’s my pleasure,” I say. “No joke. Hey, you haven’t been so worried about your scars lately. I’ve noticed.”
A wealth of thoughts flash behind his blue-grey eyes, something I can’t quite read. Resignation perhaps, or sadness. Maybe a new sense of understanding? He’s more relaxed somehow, but maybe it’s not in a good way. It’s as if he’s given in—or maybe he’s given up.