Junk Mail(34)

“A ride home would be great. Gram would love to see you before I take her to the senior center.”

“Just don’t fall asleep on me during this trip, okay?”

I lift my pinkie finger into the air. “Pinkie swear.”

Josh winds his pinkie tight around mine, pulling his hand against his lips to seal the promise with a kiss. “I’ll hold you to it.”

God, I’d give anything to be that hand.

A shiver flickers through me as the memory of last night dances through my head, the way those plush lips of his felt against mine. Of the way he felt in my mouth. Before I put the brakes on everything, of course. It was the right thing to do, I tell myself.

The drive home is surprisingly quick, the traffic gods graciously opting in our favor for the evening. Before I can dig out my keys, Gram swings the door open, doing an awkward celebratory jig behind her walker.

“She’s home! My favorite worrywart!” She manages to wrap me in a tight, one-armed hug while balancing herself on her walker.

God, I missed her. Even if it was just a couple of days.

A gasp escapes her when she notices that I brought company with me. “Josh, how sweet of you to stop by,” she coos. “I haven’t gotten to properly thank you for saving the day when I took my little tumble.”

I roll my eyes at her choice of words. “Little tumble” doesn’t quite describe the incident. At least the doctor finally got her to understand that she was a little unsteady now and that it was safer to rely on the use of a walker.

We make our way inside and I drop my bag in my room. When I come back downstairs, Josh and Gram are nestled into the couch, chatting up a storm.

“There’s gotta be a way to repay you,” she says. “We don’t have much money, but there has to be something.” She spots me on the staircase, and a flicker darts across her eyes, paired with a mischievous grin. “Or maybe Peyton here could, you know, do a favor of some kind for you.”

“That’s enough of that, Gram,” I snap. This whole back-burner thing is difficult enough without my freaking grandmother nudging us toward each other. Little does she know my evening of favors last night was, unfortunately, our last. “Do you want that ride to the senior center?”

“I’d love a ride, sweetheart. But don’t worry about picking me up. Duncan can bring me back home.” While Josh is busy fishing his keys out of his pocket, Gram shoots me a wink.

“I can drive.” Josh jingles his keys in the air.

I scrunch my brows at him. “Don’t you want to head out?”

The corner of Josh’s mouth quirks into a partial smile. “Nah. I’ve got nothing going on tonight.” He directs his smile toward Gram before adding, “It’s the least I can do after hijacking your granddaughter for the weekend.”

Luckily, Gram spares me any further suggestive innuendos on our drive to the senior center. Instead, she chats our ears off about tonight’s Pinnacle tournament, taking the liberty of explaining the game in precise detail to Josh. I’m not sure whether he’s faking it or not, but he acts genuinely interested, which Gram loves.

It does my heart a lot of good that they get along so well. Even if Josh can’t be more than my business partner, we still have to be in each other’s lives. And with me comes Gram. We’re sort of a package deal.

Once Gram has been dropped off into the arms of her senior-citizen boyfriend, I expect Josh to turn around the way we came to take me home. Instead, he catches me off guard with a proposition of plans for the evening.

“We’re actually closer to my apartment than we are to your place,” he says. “And, full disclosure, I’m starving. How does bringing a pizza back to my place sound?”

A giddy thrill dances along my nerves. How does it sound? It sounds like a date, that’s how it sounds. But inviting me over for a night of pizza and canoodling on the couch certainly steps outside of what we agreed to less than twenty-four hours ago.

“Or would you rather I just take you home?”

Shit, I paused too long.

“No, no, that’s not it.” I chew my lip, searching for the right words. I quickly realize there are none. To hell with it. “Pizza sounds great.”

The pizza joint Josh swears by is a quick ten-minute detour on our route back to his place. That’s the beauty of living in New York City: you’re never more than a stone’s throw from a pizza place. The bonus of living on the outskirts of town? Actually having a place to park your car.

Josh’s building has its own parking garage, a luxury I thought was reserved for the millionaires of the Upper East Side. Then again, Josh is a high-level executive at the top wine distributor in the country. I’m sure he’s not hurting for money.

I insist on being the one to carry the pizza box, using the warm cardboard in my hands as a distraction from how unbelievably sexy Josh looks.

“Feel free to make yourself at home,” he says with a turn of the key. But the apartment behind that door is nothing like any home I’ve been in before.

Walking into the foyer, I quickly realize I was right about the money thing. Josh’s apartment is completely decked out in classy, modern furniture, all white. Not the kind you buy for your college dorm room—the kind you see in the sorts of catalogues where they don’t even list the prices. If you have to ask, you can’t afford it. The only exception? A brown leather couch with a white throw draped over the back. It’s worn in, not new like everything else.