Wild for You (Hot Jocks #6)(12)

He’s a large man, several inches taller than Jason, and broad, well, everywhere. You’d have to be blind not to notice how attractive he is, but I force the thoughts from my head.

Bread, eggs, brown sugar, butter, maple syrup . . . Grant has all the ingredients for French toast, I realize with a grin. I wasn’t lying when I told him that I love to cook. I’m not particularly adventurous with my kitchen experiments, and I’ll admit that they don’t always turn out like I hope. But the classics I have down to a science.

I crack the eggs and get to work, enjoying the sizzle of butter in the pan. Coffee trickles into the pot, percolating quickly in Grant’s fancy, expensive-looking coffee machine. The bread he has is fresh, like bakery bread, as if he just picked it up yesterday. I’m so engrossed with my work that I don’t notice the bathroom door opening down the hall, or the footsteps drawing near.

“Good morning.”

I jump with a gasp, dropping the spatula on the floor with a clatter. Grant steps forward, one hand raised in apology. Feeling silly for being so jumpy, I reach to pick up a dish towel. There’s some gunk on the hardwood floor, and I wipe it up.

“Sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry for scaring you. People say I’m quiet on my feet for such a big guy,” Grant says, reaching down to pick up the spatula before I have the chance.

I get a nice long look at his muscular arms, testing the seams of his T-shirt sleeves. My breath escapes my chest in a whoosh.

“You are a big guy, yeah.” I laugh, and then immediately correct myself. “Broad, tall, muscular.” Why am I describing him to himself? Breathe.

Grant doesn’t seem to notice my awkward fumbling. Instead, he carries the spatula to the sink and rinses it off before bringing it back to me. “What are you making?”

“French toast.”

“I haven’t had French toast in years. It smells good.” He focuses on the pan on the stove before turning back to me. “Did you sleep okay?”

“Yes,” I say, my anxiety slowly melting away like butter in the pan. “Hobbes too.”

“Good to hear,” Grant says with a grunt as the coffeemaker beeps. “Mind if I turn on the TV?”

“Nope, all good. I’ll finish making breakfast.”

Grant pours two cups of coffee, then slides one across the counter to me. He doesn’t bother telling me where the cream and sugar live, since I’ve already acquainted myself with his kitchen. He steps into the living room, his bare feet leaving imprints in the blue wool carpet that spills out from underneath his couch. I really like that carpet.

As Grant flips through the channels, voices carry into the kitchen. Commercials, news reports, entertaining morning shows. For some reason, it reminds me of when I used to cook dinner for Dad while he watched the Monday night football game. My heart swells at the unexpected memory, and I’m suddenly positive this will be the best French toast I’ve ever made.

When I carry two plates to the living room, I find Grant on his feet, the remote suspended in his hand. He stares at the screen, his mouth pulled into a grim line. I follow his gaze to see one of those entertainment newscasts.

“We’re back from our break,” a male journalist says in a deep, smooth voice. “And just like we promised, we have breaking news on everyone’s favorite hockey team.”

Suddenly, Jason’s face is on the screen. My chest seizes painfully as I hold my breath.

“Jason Kress, left winger for the Seattle Ice Hawks, was caught on film this week in a physical altercation with a woman he’s reported to have been in a relationship with for two years. Please be warned the footage you are about to see may cause distress to viewers, so please turn away if needed.”

The screen changes to black-and-white security footage. I recognize it as the hotel hallway adjacent to the spa where I work.

There’s no audio, but a large man yells at a small woman before taking her roughly by the arm and yanking her down the hall at a pace she can barely keep up with. While they wait for the elevator, she speaks to him, placing a timid hand on his shoulder. The doors slide open and he forcibly shoves her inside, where she crumples to the floor like a rag doll, broken, fearful, and crying. He steps inside, and as the doors slide shut, the woman and the monster hovering over her disappear.

I watch the entire exchange as though it happened to someone else.

The journalist is back now, but I can only make out a few words and phrases like abusive, domestic violence, physical, and something about potential suspension. The announcer’s voice sounds garbled, like I’m floating in deep water.

When I realize I haven’t breathed for nearly half a minute, I pull in a deep, shaky breath, but my gaze remains locked on the photo of Jason that now fills the television screen.

“Ana, look at me. Let’s sit down.”

Recognizing Grant’s steady hand on my shoulder, I nod and sit on his couch, never letting my eyes leave the screen. They play the footage again, this time in slow motion, and I’m instantly thrown back to that moment. I was scared of the look in Jason’s eyes, scared of how far he’d go. Then the screen goes black.

I blink and turn to look at Grant, who gently sets the remote on the coffee table. He’s looking at me, concern drawn with heavy lines into his expression.

“We don’t need to watch that again.” His jaw is tense and his face is unreadable, aside from those dark brows that are pulled together in concentration.