Page 6 of Giving Grace

I’m supposed to be offended, right?

Or maybe scared.

Offended and maybe scared that a guy I barely know is in my bedroom. Standing over me with his hard-on shoved in my face while we hiss and spit at each other like a couple of alley cats.

Yeah, I should probably be offended.

I should most definitely be scared, despite the fact that roughly twelve hours ago, this guy had me pinned against a door and his very rough, very capable hand shoved down the front of my pants. His fingers working in and out of me. Stroking me. Fucking me.

Are you going to come for me, Grace?

Yeah—I should definitely be scared.

But not because he suddenly isn’t as physically broken as either of us thought or because I suddenly have the urge to claw his pants open like a wild animal. Both are unsettling and very, very dangerous—but that’s not why I should be scared.

No, I should be scared because I suddenly don’t care. About the fact that he’s moody at best and mentally unstable as a general rule. That he’s probably still hung up on Tess and that’s the real reason he shut me down last night. That even though the excuse he threw at me when I invited him into my bed was bullshit, he’s still a better parent than me without even trying. That what he finally let happen between us yesterday had been nothing more than a fleeting moment of weakness for him. A dip and crest on the Ryan O’Connell emotional roller coaster. I’ve been riding it for days now and instead of clawing for the escape hatch like any half-sane, rational human being, I just tighten my seatbelt and brace for the next stomach-busting drop.

I should be scared that Ryan O’Connell has the ability to rob me of my sense of self-preservation and overall common sense.

And I should be downright fucking terrified that he does it without even trying.

“Are you guys still mad at each other?”

Molly’s question, delivered in a tone that’s an odd mixture of anxious and impatient, is like a bucket of ice water dumped over my head. Ryan’s too because in an instant the very visible outline of his erection, only inches from my mouth, is gone. So fast, I’m sure I imagined it, but I look up to watch as his blood rushes north, setting his face on fire. He wasn’t embarrassed a second ago, but he is now.

And no, I didn’t imagine anything.

“No.” It comes from Ryan, the sound of it, so thick and heavy that it’s barely recognizable as a word. He clears his throat and tries again. “No—everything’s fine.” His gaze nails itself to mine for a moment, practically daring me to say otherwise. When all I do is stare at him, he clears his throat again before aiming a look down to make sure it’s safe to turn around. Satisfied that everything is back to normal, he takes an awkward step back before turning to face Molly. “Come on,” he says, making a shooing motion with his hands as he limps toward her. “Let’s go clean up and leave your mom alone so she can eat in peace.”

“But—”

“No buts,” he tells her, his tone firm. “The deal was that we’d make breakfast as long as you helped me clean up afterward.”

I expect her to dissolve into tears like she did when my dad got after her last Sunday at the Gilroys, or maybe throw a fit, which is more her style. She doesn’t have many men in her life and those she does have, she has completely wrapped around her finger. Surprisingly, she does neither. It’s like she’s completely tone-deaf when it comes to Ryan. “No, you said if we started a fire, you’d tell Mom that I was the one who did it.”

“Jesus,” he sighs around a chuckle. “What is it with the Faraday women and their semantics?”

“What’s semadics?” she asks, moving away from the door so he can pass through it.

“I’ll explain it to you while we clean,” he says as he moves down the hall, Molly following behind him like an eager puppy, the higher-pitched yammer of her voice punctuated by the shuffle thump of his retreat.

What the hell is Ryan O’Connell doing to my kid?

For that matter, what the hell is Ryan O’Connell doing to me?

Because I didn’t really want an answer to either of those questions, I clear the confusing jumble of it away with a vicious mental shove and dig the fork from the blankets pooled around my lap. Stabbing the perfectly browned slabs of French toast on my plate like they’re out to do me harm, I saw off their corners before stuffing them into my mouth.

Jesus Christ.

Giving the food in my mouth a few disgruntled chews, I sigh and swallow in defeat.

Even cold, it’s hands down the best French toast I’ve ever eaten.

Four

Ryan

I can’t think about it.

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