Mercy
“Before coffee? That’s brave.”
“I’m not sure we have much of a choice.”
I nodded.
Grant’s face was impassive as I wet my lips, then took a seat at the island, tucking my
knee up against my chest as a flimsy sort of armor. He didn’t seem to feel any more
courageous than I did, but we’d backed ourselves into a hell of a corner last night, and
there was only one way out.
“Okay. Where do we start?” I asked.
Grant scrubbed a hand over his jaw, and the sound of his palm catching on the dark
stubble that had grown overnight made my stomach weightless. My fingers curled into
fists as I remembered how it felt against my skin.
There were faint dark smudges underneath his eyes, a stamp of exhaustion that I’d
only ever seen in the hospital just after I woke up. It was unexpectedly endearing, and for
the first time since waking, I didn’t fight the response. Didn’t thrash against the impulse to
soothe him.
“You didn’t have to sle ep on the floor.”
“Yes, I did.” He shook his head. “I couldn’t . . . I wasn’t going to leave you alone in
there.”
“I shouldn’t have drunk so much,” I told him. “My coping mechanisms have left a lot to
be desired. I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to apologize for.”
I raised a brow in disbelief.
Grant set his hands on the counter and let his head hang down for a moment before
raising it, pinning his eyes on me. “I cannot find strong enough words to convey my regret
at how I conducted myself last night. I’m not sure they exist,” he said roughly. “The way I
spoke to you was unconscionable. Unforgivable. And I will regret it for far longer than you
think possible.”
My throat was tight as I watched him struggle through each sentence. Not because he
didn’t mean it or he wasn’t capable of apologizing. On the contrary, I got the sense that he
meant it so de eply that even needing it to be said caused him immense discomfort.
“Your doctors told me to give you time,” he continued, voice still low and de ep and
charged with something urgent. “They told me that overwhelming you with too much
information might have the opposite effect.” He closed his eyes and simply breathed. “I
would never forgive myself if I’ve caused you more pain by a selfish slip of the tongue.”
“It’s okay,” I said softly.
“It’s not.”
“Grant.”
His eyes snapped open at the sound of his first name, and the intensity I saw there
made my chest constrict. “It’s not.”
“I forgive you anyway.” I held his gaze, even though something thick and sweet built in
the air around us and made me want to look away. Whatever this was, it was luscious.
Delicious enough to eat. “I pushed, just like you said, and I shouldn’t have. Even if I didn’t
know what would happen, I added that question just to get under your skin.” I managed a
crooked smile. “It’s what I always do, isn’t it?”
“God, yes.” His chest expanded on a de ep breath. “The devastation you cause is truly
remarkable. The fact that you’ve not had a hurricane named after you is a bloody crime.”
I laughed.
His shoulders dropped, some of the tension leaving his muscular frame. My eyes
lingered over the span of muscles underneath his T-shirt, the swells of his bic eps that were
finally visible. The muscles looked even better when he crossed his arms over his chest.
The fact that he was hiding all this under those tailored suits was the bloody crime, but I
wasn’t about to say that out loud.
“Do I often drink like that?”
“No.” He winced. “Well . . . maybe once.”
“Was that also a form of self-flagellation?”
He exhaled a short puff of air. “Of a sort. Quite early in our marriage, actually. Before
we’d . . .”
Oh, the things that could be inserted into that pause.
“When I get frustrated or sad or . . . lost, I don’t always . . .” I hesitated, searching for
the right words. Noncombative words. Non-gam eplaying words. Honesty. I just wanted
honesty. I had a feeling he did too. “I don’t always know how to handle it.”
Grant didn’t answer right away. “I know.”
“I’m young,” I admitted, glancing at his face to see what I could find there. “It’s not an
excuse, but I hope it’s something I can get better at.” I tucked my hair behind my ears. “Or
maybe I was and I just don’t remember,” I finished quietly.
“You were.” There was no facade. No mask. The weariness of a long night and a
hangover must have made it impossible to ke ep in place. Grant’s eyes seared into mine.
“You were better at it.”
I should have been relieved. Knowing that, with him, I was working on some part of me
that had always felt like a flaw should have eased some of my torment. But I still felt stuck,
just in a different way. And now I couldn’t help but worry that he’d be stuck right
alongside me.
“I have an idea that I think will help,” I whispered.
Grant straightened, glancing away as he tightened his jaw, visibly bracing for whatever
I’d say next. “What’s that?”
“I think maybe I should stay somewhere else for a little bit.”
The effect on Grant was instantaneous. Visceral. Devastating.
His arms dropped. His mouth fell open. And his eyes . . . oh God, his eyes. “What? What
do you . . . what do you mean?”
“I drove to my house yesterday.” My hands wound into the material covering my legs.
“My old house. I didn’t even . . . I didn’t even know what I was doing. I just showed up
there. Like my brain knew exactly where I was supposed to go. And I thought—look at
what a mess I’ve made. I can’t force myself to remember. No one can. And I don’t want to
make things worse because you’re stuck here trying to handle me when I am—” My voice
caught, and I fisted the front of my shirt, pressing down on my skin to assuage the
building ache. “When I am not making this easy on you.”
Grant’s eyes were round, his entire frame shocked into stillness. “No,” he said after
another moment. “No, that’s not going to help, it—”
He spun, bracing his hands on the opposite counter. All I could see was the rise and fall
of his back as he tried to breathe. His head hung down.
“Grant?”
I dropped my legs and started to stand, but he whirled in place, eyes blazing.
“You can’t.”
The way he sounded . . . it was pain. Anguish. My heart shook. My ribs trembled. The
hairs on my arms lifted. “I . . . I can’t?” I r epeated quietly. “I thought—”
“I was talking to my mother.”
I blinked. “What?”
“Yesterday. In my office. All those calls at the hospital that I took in the hallway.” Color
tinged his cheekbones, but he never looked away. “It was my mother.”
“Oh.” I licked dry lips. “Do you . . . do you not usually talk to your mom?”
“Not as often as she’d like,” he answered carefully. “But since your accident, she’s
been quite concerned.”
I sat up straighter. “About me?”
He nodded. “Please don’t go anywhere. Please.”
My mouth fell open, but he inhaled sharply through his nose, closing his eyes as he
exhaled. When he opened them again, he looked determined. Clear-eyed. The anguish and
torment gone so completely that I wondered if I’d imagined them.
“I’m about to ask you an incredibly large favor, and I wish I didn’t have to.”
My brows furrowed. “What is it?”
“My family.”
“What about them?”
His fingertips drummed against the side of his leg, then he straightened, walking over
to the coffee maker. From the cupboard above, he removed two mugs—one a solid matte
black, sleek and expensive, and the other with a chip in the handle, the vintage Michigan
wolverine-head logo stamped on the front. Connor had bought it for me when I was
sixteen. For years, it held pens and pencils on my desk.
My favorite mug.
He filled them both, then wordlessly went to the fridge and pulled the creamer from
the middle shelf, adding a generous splash to mine, a much smaller one to his. There was
muscle memory to what he was doing, pulling a spoon from the drawer in front of him and
giving both a quick stir, and the thought that he’d made my coffee frequently enough to
know exactly how much cream I liked was disconcerting in the wake of all this brutal
honesty.
With a quick look, he slid the mug in my direction. I gave him a small smile, and his
gaze lingered on my mouth before he reclaimed his spot and took a few quiet sips of his. I
held the mug in my hand for a moment, then sipped carefully, so as not to burn my tongue.
The warmth slid down my throat, and I made a small noise of satisfaction.
“Good.”
“Indeed.” He was watching me over the rim of his mug before he set it down and took a
de ep breath. “My family is coming here, despite my fervent attempts to dissuade them.”
“Okay,” I said slowly. “What’s the deal there? Do we hate them or something?”
He arched an eyebrow. “‘We’?”
“You know. The collective we. Team Kincaid-Hastings. Because I may not remember
marrying you, but I’m down for hating someone on principle if you ask me to.”
Grant closed his eyes and let out a sharp exhale through his nose, the edges of his lips
curling up on one side. “No, we don’t hate them.”
“Oh.”
“But they’ve always wanted something different for my life,” he answered carefully.
“Marrying you was a stumbling block in them getting what they wanted for me.”
“Oh.” I took another sip of coffee, swallowing slowly as I processed this bombshell.
Less disruptive to my sanity than the whole sex thing, but I could still feel a distinct
rumble to the foundation the longer I thought about what he was saying. “Why the sudden
visit?” My eyes flew to his. “Is it because of my accident? Oh God, they really love me,
don’t they, and they’re worried and want to make sure I’m okay? Do they know?” I tapped
my temple for dramatic effect, and he sighed with obvious exasperation, but the look in his
eyes was fond enough to make me twitch in my seat.
“My mother and sister do love you, yes. We visited London a few months after we
married. You were done with school for the summer. My father, as usual, was too busy to
do much socializing.” He paused, narrowing his eyes. “And my grandmother . . .”
“Oh God. I don’t like the way you’re saying that.”
He fought a smirk, and some sick part of me wished he wouldn’t. “You and my
grandmother are both strong, stubborn, opinionated women.”
“She hates me.”
“Just so.”
I dropped my face into my hands and sighed. “That’s so great. Love that for me. Please
tell me she’s staying back in jolly old England.”
“She is not, I’m afraid.”
I raised my head. “And when are they arriving?”
His expression was grim. “In two days. For my birthday.”
“What?”
“I know, it’s not convenient.”
“No, it’s fucking not! I can’t even remember marrying you, and the entire royal family
is descending.”
“That’s hardly an accurate description.”
I gave him a flat look. “Does your house in England have a name?”
His jaw worked back and forth. “D epends which house you’re referring to.”
I held my hand up like, Thank you for proving my point. I set my chin on my knee and
squinted in his direction. “So I’m assuming you have a country estate and a home in
London.”
He sniffed, eyes anywhere but on me. “A correct assumption.”
“What’s the country estate called?”
“Blackmoor House,” he answered tightly.
“Cute. How many bedrooms does good ol’ Blackmoor have?”
His right eye twitched. “Seventeen.”
“I grew up in a trailer park, bro. Tell me again it’s not like the royal family.”
“All right,” he sighed. “It’s understandably stressful.”
“Wait.” I narrowed my eyes. “What’s the favor?”
He rolled his neck until I heard a pop, his jaw shifting before he answered.
“Oh, it’s bad, isn’t it?” When he couldn’t even make eye contact, I knew it was.
“Hastings,” I snapped. “Speak.”
After another lingering pause, he finally met my impatient gaze. My stomach twisted
because what I saw there gave me a bad, bad feeling of badness.
“They know about your accident,” he answered carefully, “but they don’t realize you
forgot me entirely.”
The breath left my lungs in a shocked burst. “Excuse me?”
Grant’s eyes weren’t cold. Weren’t impassive. What I saw there shook me to the core.
“I need you to pretend with me while they’re here. Otherwise my grandmother will
press for an annulment.”