I didn’t know why I hadn’t taken it back after canceling the date. Money had never been in abundance in my life, but for whatever reason, I hadn’t.
The longer I stood staring at the dress, the more I came to wonder if the reason was tonight. Maybe that dress had been meant for Grant all along. When I slipped into the dress a few minutes later, I checked my reflection and surprised myself.
I’d lost weight over the past year, so most of my clothes were a bit loose, but this one still fit well. I’d been small my whole life, one of the side effects of being born to a mother who’d been using during her pregnancy, but somehow this dress made my legs look almost . . . long, and it evened out the occasional bulge and roll that I had earned during motherhood.
It was close to seven, so I hurried to finish getting ready, which didn’t take much time. Slipping on a pair of heels, pinning my hair up into something that semi-resembled elegant, and a few strokes of makeup finished my look.
As soon as I was done, I hurried out of the room to keep myself from getting nervous all over again from acknowledging this was my first date in seven—seven—years.
I heard Charlie and Mrs. Kent talking in the kitchen. They’d been busy making dinner earlier, but it sounded like they’d moved on to working on dessert. I could just make out Mrs. Kent going over the finer points of making a homemade piecrust.
At least Charlie would learn to cook from somebody. In my book, cooking was a necessity, a survival mechanism, but I knew from getting to know Mrs. Kent that she cooked for pleasure. It was a foreign concept and one I’d never thought to look for in my daughter, but it was apparent Mrs. Kent and cooking had struck a chord with Charlie.
For the thousandth time that day alone, I was reminded why reaching out to Grant had been the right decision.
I’d just passed the kitchen when I heard the doorbell ring. My forehead creased as I started for the front door. We weren’t expecting anyone, but that didn’t mean Grant wasn’t.
My face ironed out with surprise when I discovered who was waiting out front. “Why are you at the front door?” I was used to him coming in through the back door, which was closest to the pool house. “And why are you ringing the doorbell to your own front door?”
Grant didn’t say anything. He just stood there with a smile that suggested we were the only two people in the world in on some great secret. That smile was so hypnotic, it took me a moment to notice how nice he looked all dressed up, and what he was holding in one of his hands.
“Because this is a date,” he said, opening the small plastic box. “And when you show up for a date, you come to the front door and ring the doorbell.”
I tried to hide the way he was making me swoon by looking at me the way he was. I didn’t think I was very convincing.
“And in what book does it say you have to show up to a date with a corsage in hand?” My eyes dropped to the ornate corsage he was pulling out of the box.
He shrugged, opening the wristband for my hand to slide through. “My book.” After he positioned the corsage on my wrist, he kept my hand in his, admiring the way it looked.
“I like your book, Grant Turner.”
“That’s good. Since you’re on every page in that book.” He moved a few pieces of greenery around, fiddling with the ivory ribbon. “Besides, I owe you a corsage. I owe you a whole mess of corsages.”
I shook my head. Grant had never had enough money to buy me a corsage for any of the dances we’d gone to in high school. Hell, we’d had to sneak into most of them because we couldn’t scrounge up enough between us to afford a ticket. He’d always felt so terrible about it, but I’d never felt like I was missing out on a thing. I didn’t need the right corsage when I had the right guy.
“You owe me nothing.”
Before he could reply, the sound of footsteps charging closer interrupted him. “Mom, Mom! Look what Grant . . . I mean Dad got me!” Charlie slid to a stop, giving Grant an apologetic look. “Sorry. I’m still getting used to it.”
“It’s okay, kiddo. Trust me, Grant and Dad are the two nicest names on the long list of names I’ve had come my way. I’m happy with either.”
Charlie grinned and glanced at me, tapping the new hat on her head. “Isn’t it great, Mom? The whole team signed it. Even the coaches too.”
Leaning over, I took a minute to inspect the New York Storm hat she was wearing proudly. There was hardly any blank space left from all of the signatures scribbled on it. Of course Grant’s name was written ten times larger than anyone else’s, front and center.
“Wow, that’s a treasure. I bet you could sell that online and put aside some money for college.”
Charlie’s face blanched. “What? No way. I wouldn’t sell this for a million bucks.”
“And I’ve already got her college fund . . . funded.”
My head twisted Grant’s way, a single brow lifting.
“What? She’s my only kid. I make gobs of money. Gobs,” he repeated when I started to sigh. “My financial planner recommended some education plan, so she’s all set. You know, when that day comes.”
“In eleven years?”
He held out his arms. “It’s never too early to plan for your child’s education.”
I blinked, wondering where the hotheaded, living-in-the-moment boy I’d known had gone. I wondered if there was any semblance of that boy inside the man before me now.
“Thanks again for the hat.” Charlie settled it lower on her forehead, rolling back and forth on her toes and heels.
“You’re welcome again for the hat.”
“Bye, Charlie-Bird.” I gathered her into my arms and gave her a hug. “Love you.”
“Love you back,” she replied when she’d wrestled free of my hug. Her eyes suddenly went wide like she’d just noticed I was wearing a dress. “Wow. Mom, you look pretty.” She pinched the skirt of my dress like she’d never seen anything so lovely before. “Why are you so dressed up?”
“I’m not that dressed up,” I argued, not exactly eager to admit that Grant was the last guy I’d been on a date with. Forty-nine dog years ago.
“Eh, yeah, you are,” Charlie fired back. “Your idea of dressing up is wearing something other than tennis shoes.”
“I’m sure your mom gets dressed up when she goes out with her friends or on a date,” Grant added.
Charlie’s face pinched together. “What’s a date?”
And fantastic.
“You know. It’s when a guy picks up a girl and takes her out to dinner or a show or something like that.” Grant motioned between himself and me like we were a physical explanation to the verbal one he’d just given.
“Oh,” Charlie said, blinking. “Mom’s never been on one of those.”
“And I think I just heard the timer in the kitchen. Better go check to make sure the lasagna isn’t burning.” Dropping my hands on her shoulders, I walked her back inside and halfway through the hallway before she could dish about any more of my private life.
“Night, Dad. Have fun. On your date.” Charlie waggled her brows at me.
“Your father and I are going out to talk. That’s all. This isn’t a date.”
“Okay, thanks! We will!” Grant shouted from outside.
Grumbling, I dropped another kiss on her head and watched her disappear into the kitchen. When I emerged out the front door, Grant looked amused.
“What’s this about you not going on those date things?” His grin stretched across his entire face.
“Oh, please. Let’s see how many dates you get to go on when you raise a child on your own for seven years.” I shot his smirk right back. “I thought it was common knowledge.”
Grant came up beside me when I started down the walkway. “Is that why you visibly winced when your daughter just sold you out?”
“Can we change the subject?”
“No more talk of dating history?”
“None.”
Grant held his arm out for me as we wandered toward the drivew
ay. He waited until I took it, then he asked, “Okay. So how many boyfriends have you had since me?”
I shoved his arm aside, but my sigh only made him laugh.
“It’s a good thing you showed up with this corsage. It’s buying you a little leeway.”
“God knows this fuck-up needs as much leeway as I can get with you.” Grant came around in front of me to open the passenger door of his truck for me.
“Grant, you are one of the best players in professional football today. You made regular visits to an elderly woman until she died, you started a free football league in one of the poorest places in the country, you forgave me for what I did, you accepted your daughter without giving it a moment’s thought, and you’re respected and adored by the entire nation. You are not a fuck-up. You are the opposite, and you should stop seeing yourself as the same kid who had to fight to survive The Clink.”
He paused in the door after he’d helped me into the cab, looking at me sitting there like he was seeing something I couldn’t. “I don’t ever want to stop seeing myself as that kid. Never.”
“Why not?”
“Because the best part of me is in that tough, cocky-as-shit kid.”
My eyebrows pulled together. “What part is that? The ability to sleep with one eye open?”
He shook his head slowly. “You. You’re the best part of me. The best part of that boy and the best part of this man. I’d rather be a fuck-up with that, than the golden boy without.”
My heart stopped. I could actually feel it pulse to a stop. Right before it restarted with a vengeance. What did a girl say after that? What did she do? More importantly, how did she keep up with her agenda to keep things friendly, a thick line drawn between us to keep our hearts and souls safe?
Grant answered part of my conundrum for me, closing the truck door a minute later. By the time he’d come around to the driver’s side and slid behind the steering wheel, the fervent lines drawn on his forehead were gone.
“When are you going to take your Benz out for a spin?” He lifted his chin at where the white gleaming car sat inside of the garage as he fired up the engine. “Mrs. Kent told me you had a cab take you to and from your appointment today.”
How did I explain this? How did I explain it gently?
As I warred with getting out the first word, Grant continued. “If it has anything to do with being nervous about driving in New York City traffic, I get it. I could go out with you until you get more comfortable if you want.”
My head shook as my hands wrung at the hem of my dress. “It’s not that.”
Grant shrugged as he pulled out of the driveway, waiting for the gate to open. “Then what is it?”
Realizing there was no gentle way to put anything like this, I exhaled. “I don’t think I should be driving anymore. I’m not sure it’s safe.” I paused to take a breath, focusing on the dashboard when I could feel Grant’s focus on me. “Back in Texas, before we flew up here, I had a bad bout of chorea while I was driving.” I heard the breath hiss past Grant’s teeth when he realized what I was getting at. “Charlie was in the car, and even though I didn’t crash, it was only because luck or angels or something was on my side. I couldn’t control my body, Grant. I couldn’t do it.” My hands were shaking from the memory. “I shouldn’t drive anymore.”
It wasn’t so much this first loss of freedom, of the many I knew were coming, that made the tears start—it was acknowledging what could have happened to Charlie as a result. I should have stopped driving weeks ago, maybe even months. I’d known that. Hell, my doctors had advised it, but I hadn’t listened. I’d been selfish and determined that I could hold off. I hadn’t been ready to give up this first form of independence, and it had almost cost me my daughter’s well-being.
She was already an unwilling victim, being the daughter of a parent with Huntington’s—what in the hell had I been thinking almost making her one of a vehicular accident?
Grant had always hated watching me cry. Legitimately hated it. It was no different now.
“Come here,” he said quietly, draping his arm around me and pulling me close until my head could rest on his shoulder. “It’s okay. You’re fine. Charlie’s fine. It’s okay.” His arm tightened around me the harder I sobbed. “I’m sorry about the car. I should have stopped to think. I should have known . . .”
My head shook against his shoulder. “Don’t apologize. That is, by far, the nicest gift anyone’s ever gotten for me.”
I wiped at my eyes and made myself smile. This was supposed to be a date. My first one in seven years. And I hadn’t even made it out of the driveway before bursting into tears. God, what had happened to me? The strong, crying-is-for-babies girl I’d been before? It was almost like being around Grant made me weak. Why else would I be crying so much?
Or maybe it was the opposite. Maybe being around him made me stronger. Strong enough to be vulnerable and express my emotions. Whatever it was—strength or weakness—I knew I felt better with him that I had before, when those silent tears had been shed alone.
“Even if all I ever get to do is sit in it and pretend to be driving, I’ll still enjoy it.”
He kissed the top of my head, ringing his arm around my neck. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, holding me so tightly it was almost like he thought he was fighting some invisible force trying to rip me away. “I’ll hire a driver. Keep one on stand-by so you can come and go whenever you want.”
My head had started to shake before he’d finished saying driver. “No, I’d rather call a cab or catch a bus when I need to go somewhere. That way Charlie won’t get suspicious. If you go and hire a driver to take me wherever I want to go, she’ll know. She’ll know something’s wrong.” My head shook against him. “No driver.”
Grant was silent for a few minutes, nothing but the rumble of his truck and the sounds of traffic outside filling the quiet. When I heard him take a breath, I braced myself.
“You’ll have to tell her sometime, Ryan. Sometime soon.” His hand on the steering wheel tightened. “She’ll figure it out—she doesn’t miss anything. Or else . . .” Another pause, this one longer. “Or else the media will find out and blast it the hell out there until every last hermit, loner, and recluse will know about Grant Turner’s woman having Huntington’s. You don’t want her to find out that way. Trust me.”
Lifting my head up enough I could examine his face, I quirked an eyebrow. “Grant Turner’s woman? Is that what I am?”
He shot me an amused look as he pulled in front of some nice building where an army of valets came jogging toward the truck. “You’ve always been my woman.” He shrugged and put the truck into park.
I leaned back so we could unbuckle, and when I did, the heaviness of his words settled over me. “I know. I’ll tell her soon, but not yet. I don’t want her to find out from anyone else, but not yet.” I inhaled and tried not to think about tomorrow, despite tomorrow always being in the front of my mind. “I want her to have as many carefree days as she can.”
Grant held onto the door when one of the valets tried to open it. “Just because she knows about what’s going on with you doesn’t mean her carefree days are over.”
I forced a smile like I believed him, but I didn’t. I knew the opposite was true. I knew once she knew what her mommy had, and what that meant for her, the days of whimsy and carefree would come to a screeching halt.
“Where are we?” I asked when Grant finally let his door be pulled open.
He was already tipping the valet before he’d climbed out. “I can’t say the name. It’s French. Or Italian. Or something I can’t pronounce.”
A laugh slipped out of me as the valet helped me out. “Have you ever eaten here before?”
Grant had already come around to get me before both of my feet had hit the pavement. “No, but everyone in New York says this is the place to eat. The place to take a special person. It’s one of those four of ten or whatever star rated places.”
I let him take my hand after I’
d woven my arm around his, happy to let him lead us into the building. So far, the media presence had been non-existent in Storm country, however, this was also the first time Grant and I had been out in public together here. If Nowhere, Texas, was any indication of what was in store for us, I knew I’d have to grow a skin at least half a foot thick.
“Well, I can’t wait to try this restaurant that’s name we don’t know that’s been rated a handful of stars and recommended by everyone who’s anyone in this great metropolis.”
Grant peered over at me as a doorman swung the door open for us before we’d barely left the truck. “The sarcasm. Rein it in, wiseass.”
The street was busy and people were starting to recognize Grant as we moved toward the restaurant. Shouts and cameras started filling the air around us, but it didn’t seem to faze him. He gave a wave to the crowd then pressed his hand into my lower back and urged me a little faster inside the restaurant.
“Can you go anywhere without having to worry about fighting off a mob of fans?” I asked after the doorman had sealed the door behind us. The din of noise behind us continued to grow.
“It’s not like I can just blend into the crowd.” Grant lifted his chin at the hostess who was waiting for us.
“Hard to blend in when you tower above the crowd.” I craned my neck looking up at him to prove my point. Sometimes Grant didn’t feel much bigger than me, and other times, he felt like a giant. This was one of those giant times.
“Hard to blend in with this ugly mug.” He grinned at me as the hostess led us through the dining room. “Why do you think they insist we all wear helmets? For our brains’ sake? No, it’s to spare the viewers at home any unwanted nightmares.”
Nudging him, I tried to ignore the way people were turning in their seats to watch us as we filed through the restaurant. “Good to know.”
All teasing aside, Grant’s face was nowhere on the offensive spectrum. It was the face of my best childhood memories, and every scar, bump, and break had been earned in defense of himself or someone he cared about. When I looked at Grant, I saw beauty. Those men with pretty faces, teeth too straight, and hair too perfect didn’t know sacrifice like Grant did.