Mercy “Can she do that?” Grant raked a hand through his hair, and the shifting muscles in his forearm distracted me from the brief moment of imperfection, like a flash of the sun when you’re not pr epared. When he dropped his hand, every single dark strand was perfectly in place. I leaned forward, studying him intently. “How is that possible?” “What?” “Your hair. It just went right back into place. What the hell do you use on it?” “I don’t know, something my sister, Rose, found at a salon in London.” He narrowed his eyes. “That’s what you want to know?” I blinked. “No. I mean, yes, I was wondering. But no.” I straightened my shoulders and took another sip of coffee. “Continue.” Grant sighed, staring down at his mug for a long moment. “I need food first. I didn’t really eat dinner, and my stomach is protesting my choices.” His eyes met mine. “Are you hungry?” Just as I was about to say no, my stomach let out a loud growl. I slapped a hand over it, my cheeks going hot. Grant’s eyes warmed. “I’ll take that as a yes. I’ll make some eggs and toast.” Ten minutes later, I was curled up in the corner of the couch, cheesy eggs and buttered toast on a plate balanced in my lap. We ate in silence, but I k ept stealing glances of his hard profile. Had it been like this in the early days of our marriage? It wasn’t possible that we bickered all the time. At some point, we must have found a different rhythm. Something more polite. Friendly. Friendly enough to have sex, at least. Sex. Me and Grant having sex. Shit. Don’t think about Grant in bed. There must have been baby st eps there, right? We didn’t just hop into the sack in between hissing at each other from across the room. Oh, or maybe we did, and it was angry and we broke furniture and— “You’re thinking awfully hard over there.”
My eyes moved back down to my plate. “Just . . . thinking about you and I being friendly. Wondering when that happened.” “Who says it did?” he asked, warmth cre eping into his voice. My head snapped up. “It didn’t?” “I suppose that d epends on your definition.” Grant took another bite of toast, the muscles in his jaw shifting nicely. He swallowed, licking a crumb off his bottom lip, and I looked away for a moment, heat crawling up the back of my neck. “But rest assured, we never lost that contention between us. It was rather comforting after a while, to know that no matter what changed between us, you could always frustrate me like no one else in the world.” My cheeks were flaming. “Everyone needs a talent,” I said primly. “Just so,” he murmured. “Okay. How and why would your grandmother push for annulment? We . . . consummated.” His gaze lingered on my face, then went back to his own food, his fork pushing the eggs around without scooping any up. “I mentioned earlier that marrying you was a stumbling block for my family. They wanted something for my future that I didn’t. And the pressure of those expectations was disastrous after a while. So when I told you we married over money, it was mine.” He took a small bite, then set the plate aside on the end table, stretching his long legs out in front of him where he sat opposite of me on the couch. “Half my trust was released when I turned twenty-one and finished school. The remainder upon my marriage. That paperwork was in place when I was born.” “So you wanted that last fifty percent?” He nodded, watching my face carefully. “I could’ve lived a very comfortable life without it. But the expectation was that I’d return to London, be groomed to take my father’s place in charge of the Hastings estate, and marry someone with just as much money and property. It’s how my parents’ betrothal happened as well, but lucky for them, it’s what they wanted out of life. And they fell in love in the course of their engagement. There was no hope of that happening with me.” “You were engaged?” “Not exactly,” he hedged. “Oh my gosh, you were, weren’t you?” Grant sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “There was an understanding in place with my father’s best friend and business partner. I’d marry his daughter, and we’d take their places someday.” “But you came here for school?” He smiled faintly. “An indulgence they allowed, thinking it would offer me some controlled freedom before returning home. They wanted Ivy League, but I am quite persuasive when necessary. Michigan is a highly ranked school, and I wanted a different experience for myself. When I visited, it felt . . . I don’t know . . . like I was meant to be
here.” We were tiptoeing closer to really big topics, and the apprehension crawling up my spine primed my nervous system for fight or flight. Instead of trying to ignore what my body was doing, I closed my eyes and let it happen. I didn’t count breaths or try to distract myself, I simply felt it. You’re scared, I told myself. You’re scared because this is something you don’t know. But it’s better that you do. I opened my eyes and found him watching me. For a moment, I simply stared back, until my chest twisted and my pulse hammered in my ears. “And who were you supposed to marry?” “Imogen Beaufort.” “Is she horrible? Is that why you didn’t want to marry her?” Some twisted part of me wanted to hear him say exactly that. Imogen, snooty fucking name that it was, kicked puppies and made little kids cry. She was selfish and vain and probably stared at her own reflection all day for fun. We hate Imogen, I waited for him to say. Team Kincaid-Hastings wanted her gone. “No, she’s not horrible at all.” Then he gave me a rueful look. “You wanted her to be, even back then.” “I did not,” I lied. Grant leaned forward, resting his elbows on the tops of his thighs. “You did. She was traveling when we went to London, so you couldn’t meet her, but oh, my dear, you wanted to hate her so badly, and I can see it in your pretty eyes right now. That spark of vengeance that you wear so well.” I scoffed. “It’s not vengeance.” “It’s jealousy.” My eyes narrowed. “Watch it, buddy. I’m hungover and still a little cranky.” “My favorite side of you, darling.” “Fine. Tell me all about this paragon of English gentility.” “She’s kind. Funny. Beautiful.” “Of course she is,” I muttered, shoveling another bite of eggs into my mouth. “A musical prodigy, too, I bet.” “Not bad on the piano, but her singing is divine.” “Fuck off, now you’re just trying to make me mad.” “Oh no, I’m quite serious.” He licked his bottom lip, eyes holding mine steady. “You couldn’t hate her if you wanted to.” “Wanna bet?”
Grant exhaled a short, quiet laugh, and the sound of it made my eyes flutter closed. I forced them open because fluttering anything around this man was a terrible idea. It was his fault, though. He was the one who’d introduced sex into the equation. Naturally, I was thinking things now. Had we showered together? Did we have sex in the kitchen? What was his favorite position? Noises like that—a low, amused sound that would be so nice up against my ear, or the side of my throat, or the skin of my stomach—were meant to be a slow seduction, and there was no way he didn’t know it. I sniffed haughtily. “You’re still not explaining why you didn’t marry her.” “Imogen is a hopeless romantic. She wants real love. Not something that grows out of necessity or in stunted circumstances. We’ve known each other our entire lives, and there isn’t a single spark to be found. We kissed once when we were eighteen, and she nearly gagged.” When I laughed, he paused to watch. “She had that kind of love once, with someone of a much lower social class than her family, and they threatened to cut her off. Kick her out. So she let him go.” “Why?” “Because she was young and terrified of losing the only home she’d ever known.” His gaze cut straight through the noisy clamor filling my mind, the voices I did remember and wished I didn’t. “Not everyone is as brave as you when it comes to starting over, darling.” I couldn’t look at him any longer. It was too hard. He’d been there when I moved in with Connor. When I’d shown up with one bag of clothes and a backpack of ke epsakes, skinny as a rail and scared shitless because I’d walked across town in the cold, not knowing what my future would look like. I stared down at my fingers knitted together tightly in my lap. “Why is it so hard for a family to understand that sometimes children want something different than the life they know.” Grant was quiet, patiently waiting to see whether I’d say something else. When I didn’t—when I couldn’t—his voice was the kind of rough reassurance that I needed. “They should understand.” “I’d be proud if my son or daughter wanted to carve out their own life,” I said quietly. “Wouldn’t you?” “Immensely.” I sighed. “Fine, so we like Imogen. But why marry me?” “It gave me a reason to stay, and she could ke ep her freedom because I’m the one who made the choice to break off the agreement.” Grant rubbed his hands up and down the tops of his thighs, a nervous gesture that I wasn’t used to seeing from him. “There are many reasons why I love my life here, and while my parents—my mother,” he corrected,
“has been supportive, my father and grandmother still view it as a phase that I might outgrow. And if they knew that you remembered nothing of our relationship, she would push for annulment on the grounds of in capacitation. Or fraud. Take your pick.” “Fraud? I’m not defrauding anyone.” “I know that. My parents as well. You had . . . you had very frank conversations with them about how you felt regarding my wealth.” One side of his mouth hooked up. “My grandmother, too, which is why I will never leave the two of you in a room alone again.” I winced. “Was it bad?” “D epends on your definition.” “It was bad.” “Regardless,” he continued smoothly, “I told them you remembered the first couple months of our marriage, but not the visit to London or anything later.” “This is such a bad idea,” I groaned. “I’m going to fuck it up, I just know it.” “You won’t.” I gave him an incredulous look. “Think about what you’re asking, Hastings. I freaked out last night when I found out we had sex, I was ready to pack my bags this morning, and now I’m supposed to be all over you in front of your family? This sounds like a delightful idea.” “All over me?” he said wryly. “We’re British. The snooty rich kind, as you so love to remind me. Public displays of affection are hardly smiled upon.” “Oh good, so I don’t need to mount you in public. How comforting.” “If you tried to mount me, Kincaid, my grandmother’s head would explode.” I smiled sweetly. “I’ll ke ep that in mind.” He tipped his head back, and I found myself staring at his jaw again. “It will be a short visit, that’s something we can be thankful for.” “I’ll add it to my gratitude journal.” I pulled at the hair tie holding my sle ep-mussed braid, combing my fingers through the waves left behind. Grant’s eyes tracked the movements, then looked away with a sharp clearing of his throat. “They booked tickets pretty last minute, I guess.” “They’ll use the family jet,” he said dismissively. My hands fell into my lap. “Of course they will.” For a long moment, neither of us said anything. Then I stood and marched back toward his office, snatching the brown paper bag off his desk. Grant eyed it sk eptically when I tossed it onto the couch between us and lifted my chin. “Well . . . we better do a few of these before they show up, or I’m fucked.” “I’m not sure that’s the best idea.” I held up my hands. “Nothing else scandalous, I promise. In fact, most of them are fairly stupid.”
Grant sighed, digging into the bag and pulling one out. One eyebrow arched slowly. “Favorite comfort food.” His eyes locked onto mine. “Mac and cheese spirals,” we answered at the same time. My mouth fell open. “You knew already? I hardly ever eat that.” He hummed. “You don’t have it often, maybe only twice since we got married, but when you come home from work and pull that blue box out, I know you’ve had a terrible day and to give you an incredibly wide berth.” He gave me a look. “I still maintain that the fluorescent-orange color cannot be good for human consumption, but it was quite delicious when you forced me to try it.” “The orange powder is what makes it taste so good,” I r eplied archly. He did that slow-blink thing because he was too well mannered to roll his eyes. “What about you?” I asked. “What’s your comfort food?” Grant held still, watching me carefully for what felt like an hour but was probably more like thirty seconds. “Victoria sponge.” “Oh.” The mess I’d made. The worn recipe card. The shaken look in his eye when he saw what I was doing. Something built in my chest, bubbling up to the point of painful, and yet again, I felt the metaphorical muscles stretching for something I couldn’t reach. There. It’s just right there. Can’t you touch it? my brain seemed to say. But when I swiped my hand forward to grab hold of something solid, I came up empty. Always empty. I wet my lips. “And I’ve made it before.” Grant’s throat worked on a swallow, his rib cage expanding on a de ep breath, then another, before he could meet my eyes. “You’re quite good at knowing when I need it.” There was a tipsy, unbalanced feeling to this entire exchange, much like the alcohol had provided last night, but this was so much more specific. So much more dangerous. The fact that he knew those kinds of things, that he could so confidently speak to what I liked and didn’t, what made me feel better after a hard day, that I could read when he’d had one—it was like tiptoeing across a rain-slicked balance beam. When it was just us, it didn’t bother me so much, but he was asking me to stay in that position with numerous sets of eyes on us. Eyes just waiting for me to stumble. I’d almost fallen a few times since I woke up, hadn’t I? And every time, he was right there. And he’d caught me. Even if I didn’t want it. He was there. “Okay.”
His expression was hopeful. So hopeful that it cracked my chest open. “Okay?” “I’ll agree on one condition.” “Name it.” “When they’re gone, assuming that I still don’t remember and that I haven’t fucked up your relationship with your entire family—” “You won’t.” “Assuming both of those things,” I said slowly, “we revisit this conversation.” “Which one?” “The one where I leave for a while. Take the pressure off both of us.” He sucked in a breath, eyes flickering. “Revisit it. It’s not a final decision, yeah?” I nodded. “That’s all I’m asking for.” Carefully, slowly, like he was expecting me to pull away, Grant extended his hand. For a moment, I could do nothing but stare. It was the most honest we’d been. In the last twelve hours, I’d learned more about my husband and our marriage than in the last week and a half combined. So why did everything still feel so precarious? A stiff breeze, a nudge in the back, and it felt like we’d topple off a tight rope. I eased my hand into his. The length of his fingers wrapped around mine in a way that made my heart thud noisily behind my ribs. “Are you certain?” I managed a smile. “Not even close.”