Grant

Dinner put him in a food coma, but Grant woke up feeling a little better than the day before. His head didn’t feel like exploding. His throat was worse, but that was expected. He needed something warm to soothe it. His joints didn’t hurt as much, but his ankle was swollen. Following Blaire around the house like a lovesick puppy probably wasn’t a good idea. He couldn’t help it—she was one of the most nurturing souls he had ever met. It radiated from her like a beacon and he was drawn to her. When he saw her standing in the kitchen, he’d immediately pictured her in his own kitchen in Boston. He loved the idea so much that it had spooked him, which was why he retreated initially, but even that didn’t last long.

He didn’t imagine the spark of interest in her eyes. She was attracted to him but he could see the conflict inside her. Would a quick fling satisfy whatever was brewing between them? As soon as that thought crossed his mind, he dismissed it savagely. The woman saved his life; he needed to leave her alone. His life was on the east coast and he didn’t do long-distance relationships.

With that thought, he decided it was time to get up. He had a feeling he’d been sleeping for some time. He swore viciously as he got off the bed. His ribs hadn’t liked that. When he limped into the hallway, the smell of coffee hit his nose and he realized he’d not had caffeine in almost three days.

An overhead wrought-iron lamp brightened the kitchen, but the whole house was lit by the reflection of snow coming from the windows. A fire was burning in the living room hearth and, as Grant exited the hallway, he spotted Blaire sitting on the kitchen bench in red plaid pajamas. She had one foot raised on the seat and a sketchpad rested on that bent knee. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail, head tilted as she pulled expert strokes of charcoal across paper. He rubbed at his chest, an odd ache forming there. Grant wanted to commit this unguarded moment to memory so he could take it with him when he left.

But when Blaire glanced up and a smile broke across her face, all of Grant’s selfless intentions disappeared. There was no fucking way he was never seeing that smile again.

“You’re awake!” Blaire chirped, setting her sketchpad on the table and jumping up. “Twelve hours, Thorne.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“Nope. You passed out at nine,” his angel informed him. “It’s nine-thirty. Imagine that?”

He grunted.

“How’s the head?”

“Better.”

“Blurred vision?”

“Nope,” he answered, and before she could ask another question. “Coffee?”

“Oh, you’re one of those.” She raised a brow. “The ones who can’t function without caffeine?”

Damn, he wanted to kiss that smart mouth.

“No coffee,” she said. “You’re getting lemon tea—”

“The fuck?”

“And if you still want coffee, you may have a cup.”

Grant was rethinking her nurturing soul. Maybe he’d been hallucinating the past few days. “Do you like torturing your patients?”

“You’re better, aren’t you?” she sassed as she turned around and presented him with her oh-so-shapely ass. She headed to the stovetop to turn on the burner under the kettle. Grant spotted the coffee machine, limp-stalked over to the stove and switched it off.

“Hey—”

“Coffee, woman. None of that lemon tea bullshit.” He started searching the cabinets for a mug. Finding one, he turned around and saw that she had her hands on her hips, her eyes shooting sparks of annoyance at him.

“You’re still sick,” she reminded him.

“And you made me drink fucking spruce tea,” he shot back. “I deserve coffee.”

Grant tagged the pot of brew and poured himself a cup. He took a healthy gulp and enjoyed the burn going down his throat but he had to admit, it wasn’t as effective as spruce or lemon tea.

Blaire threw up her hands. “You’re having oatmeal for breakfast.”

He sighed. “I’m really hungry.”

“I can put some eggs in it,” she offered. “Liam does it and I think it’s disgusting, but I guess you’ll need the calories to maintain those muscles.” Her eyes widened when she caught his smirk “I mean …”

“You perving on my muscles?”

She scowled. “Do you want breakfast?” She spun around and pulled the refrigerator open with a huff. “And I’m not a pervert,” she told the fridge.

“I was teasing, Blaire,” Grant murmured. “You’re cute when you’re flustered.”

She didn’t say anything, and he began to regret teasing her. She was obviously uncomfortable with flirting. But if her flaming cheeks were anything to go by, she was definitely not uninterested. He’d wondered since the night before if, when she blushed, she was pink all over. Grant groaned inwardly. He had felt her bare legs against him, her soft curves against him—maximum body heat. What he would give to experience that closeness again. Except it would end up with him balls-deep inside her. He’d climb over her, wrap her legs around him, shove her panties aside and slide his cock right into her tight heat. And there was his dick rising up to the challenge.

“Grant, are you sure you’re okay?” Blaire asked, a frown creasing her forehead. “You look like you’re in pain.”

You have no idea, Angel.

“Are the phones still down?” he asked as he willed his wayward thoughts to go on a different track.

She nodded. “You’re worried about your sister?”

“The radio didn’t report her missing the same time they reported that I was. I think she’s fine,” he concluded from what Blaire and Liam told him the day before.

“You sound pissed at her,” Blaire observed, stirring the oatmeal into the pot of water.

He lowered himself to the chair and leaned back. Taking another sip of coffee, he contemplated where exactly his headspace was regarding his sister. “I’m caught in the middle of worry and anger. There’s still a chance that something happened to her. Also,” he sighed. “Not being able to get word to my parents that I’m fine is frustrating.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“Not your fault,” Grant said quickly. “You guys have gone above and beyond for a complete stranger.” And that was why he tolerated Liam’s hostility to a certain point.

“Why were you both out in the snow?”

“Fight with her boyfriend,” he said, his blood starting to boil. “Val got so pissed, she took off on a snow mobile. Fucker didn’t go after her, so I did.”

There was that look on Blaire’s face that tempted him to hug her. The closest word that came to mind was “compassion.” Her face was so expressive, her eyes—he couldn’t even decide what color they were. Dark rimmed around the edges with light brown and green … no, sometimes they were almost blue. The previous night when she stood before him in front of her paintings, she took his breath away. Blaire by firelight was breathtaking.

Grant cleared his throat. “Where’s Liam?”

“Haven’t seen him since dinner.”

He wouldn’t put it past the older man to plow the snow himself if it meant getting rid of Grant.

Blaire turned away from him to check on his oatmeal. Watching her crack the eggs into the porridge and stir it in, he thought about how these moments with her would be perfect if he didn’t worry about his parents, half-out of their minds, wondering if he were dead or alive. Suddenly impatient, he got up from the chair and limped to the window. Liam had indeed cleared the snow from the front of her house.

“Getting cabin fever?” she asked from behind him.

Grant turned and noticed her sad smile. “Thinking of my parents and Val.” Did she sense that she was at the center of his conflicted emotions as well?

“You’ll see them soon,” Blaire said softly. “Oatmeal is ready.”

* * *

A scraping noise jolted Grant awake. For a second, he wondered where he was until he saw the fireplace. After breakfast, which had been an excruciating exercise of shoveling the gruel into his mouth while not hurting Blaire’s feelings, they decided to play cards and board games. Lunch was leftover chicken and dumplings and then that was it for Grant. He hated getting sick. One minute he’d feel like he had recovered enough, and then his head and lungs would conspire to suck the life out of him. He ended up falling asleep on the couch.

The door flew open, sending him jackknifing on the couch and instantly regretting it. He swallowed a curse at the pain shooting up his torso and glowered at Liam who stood at the entrance with a triumphant smirk on his face.

Blaire rushed out from the hallway, this time in pink sheep-print flannel pajamas. For a moment, Grant forgot the other man and decided that he had become fond of sheep-printed sleepwear. But then the look on her face tweaked a muscle on his chest.

“Get dressed,” Liam ordered. “The plows just came through.”

“You?” Grant asked Blaire even as a sinkhole formed in his gut.

She frowned. “What about me?”

“Are you coming too?”

“You don’t need me anymore,” she replied. His mind protested every word of that statement. Groggy from sleep, his brain wasn’t firing on all cylinders and scrambled to find a reason to keep her with him.

“They might need information.” Grant directed his question at Blaire.

“About what?” Liam cut in. “We found you. You have a concussion, maybe a respiratory infection, bruised or cracked ribs, and a sprained ankle. End of story.”

Blaire hugged her biceps as if she was suddenly chilled. “You guys need to get going. Another round of snow is on its way and the roads might not stay open.” She turned away and walked into the kitchen.

“Get moving, Thorne,” Liam said, coming up beside him and, for the first time since he’d known the older man, concern showing on his face. “I’m sure your folks are worried. The sooner they see you’re okay, the better.”

How could Grant argue with that?

* * *

“End of the road, big shot,” Liam informed him when the SUV pulled in front of the emergency room entrance.

“Shouldn’t you come in with me?” Grant said, not willing to lose his last link to Blaire. “They might have questions.”

“Tell them a good Samaritan found you,” the other man said.

“There might be a reward,” he pointed out.

Liam’s jaw tensed. “Blaire and I were just doing what normal human beings would do.” He nodded to the entrance. “Go on. There’s another storm coming and I’d appreciate not getting stuck in it.”

The older man’s expression was flinty; it was obvious that Liam couldn’t wait to get rid of him.

Grant couldn’t recall a time when he’d taken a person’s order, but he felt honor-bound to respect Liam’s wishes. For now.

He tentatively stepped down from the vehicle, but nearly retreated back into it when people loitering around the entrance paused, gasped, and started murmuring amongst themselves. It felt as though his face had been on posters everywhere. As soon as he shut the door to the SUV, Liam screeched away from the curb, leaving Grant standing in the clothes he’d been found in.

“Mr. Thorne?” A woman dressed in green scrubs approached him with tentative steps, head tilted to the side with bright eyes taking him in from head to foot.

Grant, still feeling like death warmed over, longed for the coziness of Blaire’s cabin, but he wanted to get this over with, so he simply nodded and followed the woman.

After hours of prodding, scans, and needles, Grant was ready to check himself out of the hospital.

Within half an hour of his appearance at the Summit County Hospital, his parents—Senator Marcus and Amelia Thorne arrived with an impressive entourage of family, friends, and a security team. It was the Thanksgiving holiday weekend after all, and they’d been keeping vigil at the family residence in Vail.

Grant experienced a pang of guilt. As everyone worried, he’d been selfish in his reason for wanting to stay with Blaire. Seeing his family, he wondered if how he felt about his time with her would change. Maybe the isolation of the cabin had magnified the significance of his moments with her? Grant squashed that assumption. How could he easily forget a woman who had saved his life?

The first person to hug him was Val. He had never seen his sister’s face so ravaged before. He found out from his mom that she’d been crying non-stop since they’d discovered his wrecked snowmobile with no trace of him.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Teddy,” Val cried. She uttered her childhood nickname for him—from his middle name Theodore. She did this when she was highly emotional and that moment qualified as one of those times. Val would have climbed into his hospital bed if the nurses didn’t warn of his possible injuries. After about ten minutes of being fussed over by his mother and sister, and to a certain extent, his dad, a series of medical tests commenced.

The final verdict was Grant was battling a respiratory infection, he had two bruised ribs, a sprained ankle, and a concussion but, luckily, no cerebral edema.

“You gave us a scare, son,” his dad said while his mother and sister sat on either side of his bed. “A state trooper found Valerie; we had to pick her up from the sheriff’s station. Even then it took forever to get to her. The roads were a mess. It was hours after the blizzard hit that we were certain something had happened to you.”

“I don’t recall much except my snowmobile struck something and I flipped over.”

“They almost didn’t locate your ride because the snow had come down heavily and covered all other tracks. We had to rely on Val’s recollection of her route to find you,” his dad explained.

“We thought you were buried under eighteen inches of snow and we’d never find you,” Val sobbed. “I wasn’t thinking when I took off. I was just so mad at Paul.” Grant adored his sister, but he wasn’t blind to her faults, especially her choices in men. The siblings often clashed because he had yet to approve of a single guy his sister dated.

“Please tell me your son of a bitch boyfriend is gone.” Even in his bed-ridden state, he wanted to wipe the floor with that bastard for putting his sister in danger.

Val nodded. “He left this morning. I’m done with him.”

His sister linked her hand with his. “I’d never forgive myself if we lost you.” She hiccupped as wet misery trailed down her face.

“Hey,” Grant whispered, used to his sister’s emotions. Reaching out to her, he drew Val’s head to his chest. “I’m here. I’m whole. Don’t blame yourself, but, please, for the love of God, no more losers, all right, Val?”

He heard his father grumble in agreement. The problem was both he and his dad were guilty of spoiling Valerie. They’d nearly lost her to a drowning incident when she was five years old and Grant was fifteen. Both men had been with her at that time. She fell off a sailboat, got tangled in some fishing net, and nearly drowned. She had suffered a hypoxic brain injury because of it. This affected her neurological and motor skill function. It took years of therapy, but Val recovered fully with only the occasional tremor. Sometimes Grant wondered if her out-of-nowhere impulsive behavior and adrenaline rushes were side effects of that brain injury.

“What I want to know is whom we should be thanking for helping you,” his mom was ever gracious and skilled at changing the subject when it was called for.

Grant smiled, remembering Blaire, but he shook his head. “They’re private people and don’t want the publicity.”

“They don’t want the ten-thousand-dollar reward?” The speaker was August “Gus” Lynch, his father’s political advisor. He stood at the doorway like a hawk assessing his prey. The tone in the man’s voice raised Grant’s hackles.

“Doesn’t anyone find this suspicious?” Gus continued asking. “Or do they have a problem with politicians.”

“Gus, now is not the time or the place,” his father reprimanded.

Planting a kiss on Val’s forehead, Grant gently eased her away so he could sit up on the bed. He and his father’s right-hand man didn’t see eye-to-eye on many issues, which was why Grant stayed away from the senator’s politics when he could.

“I believe the doctor said family only,” Grant said coolly. “Why are you here, Gus?”

Valerie tittered while his mother looked disconcerted.

“Your father’s communications director needs a statement from the family,” Gus replied even as redness crept up his neck.

“Tell them I’m alive and well.”

“They’ll want details of the past two and a half days. We need to know the name of your rescuers.”

Blaire Callahan and Liam Watts, he thought, but the world and Gus weren’t getting their names.

“No,” Grant growled, turning to the senator. “The people who helped me want to remain anonymous. That’s the least I could do—”

“We’re missing an opportunity here, Senator,” Gus appealed to his father and, if his mother hadn’t been sitting on his right, he would have gotten off the bed and punched his dad’s advisor straight across the jaw.

“Opportunity? Fuck you, Lynch,” he snapped. “Get the fuck out of my room.”

“Grant, language!” his mother admonished, but she glared at Gus.

As for Grant, he was too pissed to care. He nearly died out there. The only reason he didn’t reiterate that point was because he didn’t want his sister to feel guilty all over again.

“I mean it,” Grant said, looking at his father. “We’re not turning this into a media circus. This ends here. At the hospital. I walked through those doors and I’m alive. End of story.”

His father nodded and turned to his advisor. “You heard my son, Gus. You can communicate to the public that Grant is a bit battered but, otherwise, healthy. He’s recovering among family and friends.”

Gus’ lips flattened, but he acknowledged the orders from his boss and left the room.

Exhaling a sigh of relief, his mother began making plans for his homecoming.

“We never had that Thanksgiving party. Some friends are staying past the holiday weekend,” his mother covered his hand. “There’s so much to be thankful for.”

Grant soaked in his family’s presence, and yet his thoughts kept drifting to the cabin. It seemed surreal … like a dream, a different world. All he knew was he needed to see Blaire again.