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I bolted upright, knocking Michael’s arm off my shoulder. “No,” I muttered as I hit the call button. “No, no, no.”
“Everything okay?” Michael asked.
My hand sliced through the air to silence him. “Grant,” I said the second he answered. “This wasn’t the plan. I was going to pick Brandon up after work this evening from your place, remember? Not this morning.”
“It won’t work this evening. You misunderstood.” His voice was firm, brooking no argument.
I rubbed my forehead. I had two basic rules for communicating with Grant, for the sake of my sanity. Rule One, use email when possible, so everything was in writing. Rule Two, neverevertalk about the past. And “the past” was anything from thirteen years ago right up to thirteen seconds ago.
But I had somehow forgotten Rule One when I had made these arrangements. What was it he had said, exactly?I have a work dinner. Can you pick Brandon up instead?I had assumed he meant at the same time as usual. But he hadn’t said those exact words. He hadn’t said anything about the timeframe.
Dammit.
Another misunderstanding, which meant unnecessary conflict. I hated conflict. This was exactly what these rules were supposed to prevent. Would I never learn?
I took a deep breath. It was too late to do anything about it now, and it was my own fault for not getting clarification. “Okay. I’ll be there in half an hour.”
We hung up. I tossed my phone aside and reached for my shoes. “Sorry, can’t stay after all.”
“Yeah, I heard.” He hesitated, then said, “Brandon?”
“My dog. I share custody with my ex.”
“Huh. That’s…unusual.”
There was a question in his voice, an invitation to tell him everything. I ignored it. I didn’t have time or the bandwidth to discuss it right now.
Brandon had been a present from Grant on my thirtieth birthday—my first baby test, and one I had failed spectacularly when Brandon had developed Type 1 diabetes at seven months old. Michael didn’t need to know that, especially since he was going to be instrumental in a new baby test—one I was determined to pass. One Icouldpass, because this time I was the one making the rules.
“I’m sorry to leave you in the lurch like this,” I said.
“It’s fine. I hadn’t really counted on having help today, anyway. I knew you had to work. Go do what you need to do.”
“Okay.” I was on my feet now, purse and phone in hand, but I hesitated, feeling guilty.
“Nora. Go.” But then he stopped me from doing that by grabbing hold of my arm and tugging me down to his level. He kissed me lightly, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “I’ll call you.”
“You don’t have to,” I said hastily, and immediately wanted to bite my tongue off. Why did I say that? Iwantedhim to call me. That kiss, on the porch last night? I wanted more of it. I just didn’t want him tosayhe was going to call me…and then not call me.
He cocked his head, studying me with those chocolate eyes.
“I mean, I know you’ll be busy. With the kids. And such.” Great, now I was babbling.
“Right.”
He continued watching me, like he was trying to read my mind. I hoped for my sake that he lacked the power because, phew. My mind was a hot mess at the moment.
“So, um, call me if you need anything,” I said, and his eyebrows shot up in surprise, because hadn’t I just told himnotto call me? God, he was going to think I was crazy. “I have to go.”
Then I got the hell out of there.
Ruth and Jim lived on the outskirts of Asheville, about fifteen minutes from where Grant and I had shared an apartment. Grant had moved back to that same building after the divorce. I couldn’t stand the thought of seeing him every day, so I took the opportunity to do something I had always wanted to do: give small-town life a try.
I did the math in my head as I drove. Fifty minutes to Ruth and Jim’s house. Then another fifty minutes back to Hart’s Ridge to drop Brandon off at home. Andthena fifteen-minute drive to my scheduled interview. At most, I had enough time to change my clothes into something slightly more professional than the sundress I was still wearing, which was perfect for a summer barbecue but not great for explaining to a sixty-year-old man how to file for disability. But I definitely didn’t have time to shower.
I wrinkled my nose and did a quick sniff under my arm. No B.O., but the scent of Michael lingered on my skin, a reminder of how I had woken up this morning. I cringed just thinking about it.
When I pulled up to the red brick colonial, Grant’s car was still in the driveway. Dammit. I ran a hand over my unbrushed hair. A quick peek in the rearview mirror revealed faint smudges of yesterday’s mascara under my eyes.
