Grant

Grant laid wide awake. His mind and body were weary, but a lingering unease kept the adrenaline steady in his veins—a fight or flight response that wouldn’t be quelled … a fear that if he slept, Blaire would disappear, her presence beside him all a dream.

He touched his nose to her hair, inhaled the citrus-floral scent of her shampoo and drew her closer. She’d probably complain of all the sweat in between them or sleeping beside a furnace, but Grant didn’t care. It meant she was real. He preferred this negligible discomfort compared to the sharp stab in his chest of those times he woke up without her at his side. It had been a hellish few days.

He turned his head to the picture windows. Purple light was breaking through the slats of the blinds, the darkness receding, but he was impatient for the new day to start.

There were things to get done, truths to be heard, and plans to be made. Grant was far from blasé about the whole Blaire affair and that was probably part of his anxiety. He was prepared to accept her past, but how it would affect the people around him like his father’s political allies would be a different question. The tabloids speculated whether the woman with Grant at his father’s first reelection event was the lady who had finally captured the heart of the senator’s son.

He decided to stop brooding and make an early day. He needed to make calls to his real estate investment firm. His buddy from Harvard, Rafael Lopez, headed Thorne Real Estate. They were in the process of acquiring prime commercial areas in several countries, but the ones in Brazil and Russia had been met by stiff competition. He trusted Rafe, but his friend didn’t represent the Thorne Industry umbrella, Grant did. The idea of whisking Blaire away from the dangers stalking her was enticing, but he had a responsibility to his company he couldn’t ignore.

He eased away from his woman, careful not to wake her, although the sounds of her light snoring indicated she was in deep sleep. Poor thing. He still didn’t know whether he wanted to strangle her or kiss her senseless. That was how much she had him twisted up.

After showering, he skipped his facial hair grooming all together. He looked like shit and the bruising had darkened considerably. He’d be working from home for the next few days—that much had appeal. He put on drawstring sweatpants and an ancient Harvard tee. Padding across the black walnut flooring, he headed into the kitchen. If anything, he needed coffee. He pushed the button to make twelve cups and the grinding sound of the coffee station broke through the serenity of the morning. Grant walked over to the living room and tugged back the vertical window treatment—some fancy-fabric accordion-type shit his mother insisted he purchase.

When Grant bought the brownstone, it was for investment. He liked the neighborhood, but the house needed a lot of work. Unlike its typical townhouse architecture, this one was a sprawling bungalow with a basement. One of his companies was a construction firm so it wasn’t hard to get renovation started. They tore up the flooring and put down premium hardwood. The plumbing and electrical work were upgraded. The walls were done in shades of brown or taupe, and the furniture was cream-white leather. The kitchen had coffee-colored granite with antique white cabinets and professional stainless-steel appliances. Blaire remarked that it screamed “bachelor pad” so he encouraged her to give it her feminine touch with an unlimited budget. She was an artist after all. His face turned sour. She hadn’t touched a damned thing, not even hung any of her paintings. Now he knew why. Blaire hadn’t counted on staying. It infuriated him.

The door to the garage opened and Tyler walked in. Above the attached garage were furnished living quarters where the security team stayed.

“Coffee?” Grant offered when his man stepped into the kitchen. Tyler nodded and gave a deep breath. “Donovan called and said he made his flight this morning. He’ll be in by nine.”

“Any progress report from DC?” Grant asked.

“Yes, I talked with him earlier. He alluded to some information regarding Blaire’s background.”

“And?”

“I think they have a match and pieced together why and how she ended up in Colorado.”

“That’s good … that’s good,” Grant murmured distractedly as he poured Tyler some coffee. Afterward, he filled his mug and took a sip. Grant grabbed his tablet from the counter to flip through the morning news, but felt eyes on him the whole time.

“I’m okay, Tyler,” Grant grinned faintly and glanced up at his bodyguard.

“Donovan is gonna have my ass,” the bodyguard groaned.

“I hear you whine about it one more time, Tyler, it’ll be me handing you your ass. Cut it out.”

“Yes, Mr. Thorne.” Tyler’s face cleared of emotion.

Now the question this morning was breakfast. Blaire usually did the cooking. Grant could manage basic breakfast items like eggs and bacon. Waffles and pancakes from a box. Cereal and milk. He cringed. His housekeeper, who did most of the cooking, came in only on weekdays. She used to come in on Saturdays but, since Blaire moved in, Grant wanted to laze around in bed and all over the house with his woman and didn’t want to chance his housekeeper walking in on them. As he contemplated the cereal choices, he heard Tyler’s radio crackle.

“The vehicles of Mr. Thorne’s mother and sister are clearing the gates.”

Grant groaned inwardly, not ready for company at six-thirty in the morning. He prepared for the inevitable, noting how he looked in the mirror this morning which was actually worse than how he was feeling.

“Where is he?” He heard his mother’s panicked voice before he saw her march into the foyer with Valerie.

Amelia Thorne slapped a hand over her mouth, uttered a strangled cry that wrenched at his heart, and rushed toward his son. Grant loathed putting that shocked, anguished expression on his mother’s face.

“How did this happen, Grant?” his mother demanded.

“The traffic was bad in front of the Hyatt, so I told Tyler to wait for me at the corner of Main. Two men tried to mug me.”

“I hope the cops are looking for them,” Val said, outraged.

“They’re dead; Tyler shot them,” Grant stated flatly.

The two women gaped in shock.

“Are you … are you in trouble with the police?” Val asked worriedly. “It was self-defense, right?”

Grant nodded. “It was. How did you two find out?”

“A friend called me this morning to ask how you were doing,” his mother said, clearly upset. “She saw you sitting on the steps of an ambulance last night, talking to the police. Imagine my surprise when I didn’t know what she was talking about. She was also at the gala—an affair I forced you to attend in my place.” The last four words were uttered with self-reproach.

Grant hugged his mother. “Hey—none of that now. I’ll be pissed if you take any blame for this.” He looked into her distressed eyes. “Are we clear?” A troubling feeling nagged him and it had everything to do with the “mugging” lie he’d just told. He didn’t expect that covering up for Blaire would indirectly hurt his mother. If he told her the truth, the blame would fall on Blaire. If he didn’t, he was sure his mother would continue to harbor some guilt over what happened.

“So, Blaire’s not back yet?” Val questioned. “She had to rush off somewhere, right? Changed your vacation plans. That’s why you were able to attend in place of Mom?”

He didn’t like the accusatory tone in his sister’s voice. He knew she didn’t approve of Blaire. Hell, Val didn’t approve of any of his female friends if they weren’t in the required social class in her head.

“She’s here. Arrived late last night and she’s sleeping.”

Val eyed the row of cereal boxes Grant had pulled out. “So, you survived an attempted mugging, and you’re the one serving her?”

“Val, it’s none of your business,” Amelia censured. If there was one person who could attempt to muzzle his sister, it was his mother. “Grant, did you go to the hospital to have a thorough check-up?”

“No.”

“Shouldn’t you?”

“Nope.”

“Grant …” He was a thirty-five years old and his mother was mothering. He’d once gotten pissed at her for nagging him like he was still a teenager with braces, but she told him until he got married and had kids, he would never understand.

“Good morning,” a quiet voice spoke from the hallway.

He turned to Blaire, frustrated that he wanted to be alone with her, yet knowing it wasn’t happening soon. Add to that Val’s obvious hostility which wasn’t helping his woman feel comfortable about being here.

“Blaire,” his mother walked toward his woman and gave her a hug. “I’m glad you’re back and Grant has someone with him. How’s your aunt? Is she feeling better?”

A pained smile flashed across Blaire’s face. “She’s fine now. Thanks for asking.”

“One has to be more careful as we get older,” his mother offered. “It’s easy to lose balance and fall.”

“How old is your aunt?” Val asked. “Maybe it’s better for her to stay in a retirement home.”

“And it’s your business how?” Grant snapped. As much as he loved his sister, he hated her bitchiness and certainly wasn’t blind to it.

“What?” his sister replied innocently. “I’m just showing my concern for Blaire’s aunt. What if her neighbor hadn’t found her.”

Bullshit. Grant fumed and judging by the tight expression on Blaire’s face, she thought the same.

“I appreciate your concern, Val,” Blaire said with saccharine sweetness. “I’ll look into it.” Walking past his sister, and clearly dismissing her, Blaire opened the refrigerator to take an inventory. “I can make eggs and sausage for breakfast. Anyone hungry?”

Unconcerned that they weren’t alone, he approached his woman and brushed her ear with his mouth. “I am.”

Blaire inhaled sharply and flicked him a glare even as she turned scarlet. “Grant …”

“What?” His brows shot up innocently.

“Maybe we should go and leave you two lovebirds alone,” his mom suggested, smiling at him slyly. “On second thought, are you sure you should be exerting yourself, Grant, after the night you had?”

“Mom,” he growled at his mother’s innuendo even if he did bring it on himself.

Blaire, turning redder if possible, grabbed the eggs and sausage from the fridge and moved to the center island. His woman was flustered and damned if he wasn’t fucking turned on. His frustration at having unwanted company increased and Grant hoped he could make it through breakfast.

The morning meal progressed without much drama or any more embarrassing moments. To Grant’s surprise, Valerie behaved and didn’t make more snide comments toward Blaire. He was proud of his woman as she turned out to be a gracious hostess. She sent one of his security guys to the bakery at the corner street for some crusty French boule and assorted muffins. She cooked enough for an army and even invited their security detail, including his mother and Val’s teams, to the table. They respectfully declined, so Blaire made them a platter to take back to their quarters and sandwiches for those who needed to stand guard outside.

“Your dad is flying up tomorrow,” his mother informed him. “He was worried for you. If he didn’t have that breakfast meeting with the president’s Chief of Staff, he’d be on his way to Boston right now.”

“What’s the meeting about?”

“Your dad’s reelection campaign. The party is discussing the next presidential election.” That was three years away, but potential candidates were being scouted and built up early. There were a lot of lessons learned from the tight and controversial race of the last election.

“Is Dad interested?”

His mother sighed. “He’s keeping his options open, but I’m not too keen on the idea.”

“I don’t blame you, Mom. Being a senator is one thing, but president?”

“You know how all these newly inaugurated presidents enter the White House with a head of black hair but when they leave it’s all gray?” his mother quipped.

Grant laughed. “You’re concerned with Dad’s gray hair? It’s almost all gray now.”

“Pshaw, you know I’m not that superficial,” his mother said, her Southern accent more pronounced. “But it’s a tell of how stressful the job is. I don’t want that for your dad.”

“In any case, Mom, you’d make a great first lady.” Grant meant that statement wholeheartedly. His mother had Southern charm and warmth that could relate to the people in the Heartland that felt disconnected from their leaders in Washington.

“Well, then you probably need to think about settling down soon,” Mom looked pointedly at Blaire who lost all color.

“Uh …” his woman stuttered, caught off-guard by his mother’s comment.

“Less tabloid fodder that way,” his mother sighed. “I know you’re not the playboy the tabloids make you out to be, Grant. I know my son better. Your dad pretty much has the senate race locked down.” His mother shrugged. “Unless some God-forbidden scandal happens to our family, which I hope it won’t.” His mom looked pointedly at Val, but Blaire was the one who choked on her orange juice.

“The pressure, Mom,” Val grumbled and forked a spoonful of egg into her mouth.

“It would help if you stayed away from college professors for a while.” Mom didn’t specify “married college professors,” probably to spare Val the humiliation in front of Blaire, but Grant didn’t think his woman heard anything else other than “scandal.”

This breakfast needed to end soon, he thought grimly as he watched Blaire swallow a piece of bread with difficulty. He tried to catch her eyes, but she wouldn’t look at him and instead stared at her plate.

It was with much relief when Jake stepped through the threshold because he could ask his surprise visitors to leave without offending their sensibilities. Grant hated the political correctness of it all.