Page 36 of Endeavor

Me: It’s only 9:30

Grady: GET READY! (and wear comfy clothes)

Me: So not my ballgown?

Grady: Not unless you want me to take it off you

Me: And there’s the Grady I know

Grady: (angel emoji)

Me: Did you hit the wrong emoji by accident (devil emoji)

Grady: (zipped-lips emoji)

Me: le sigh

Grady: see you in thirty minutes

I glance at traffic and smile. It’ll be at least forty-five.

I run up to my apartment and grab a shower. I rummage through my wardrobe, tossing countless clothes on the chair in the corner of my room. I finally find a semi-cute pair of shorts and a Bohemian top and some fun but practical walking sandals. I grab a cardigan and my giant floppy hat in case it’s cold where we are going.

I’m walking to my door when there’s a knock.

“Just a minute,” I call out as I run to the door.

I peek through the peephole, but I don’t see anyone. Weird.

I open the door a crack and the hallway is empty. I look around but see no one. I glance down to see a sticky note on the ground. I pick it up to throw it away assuming it’s trash. I happen to glance at it as I make my way back to my kitchen.

“Do all men kill the things they do not love?”

I stare at it a moment, the quote seemingly familiar to me. Oh, William Shakespeare Merchant of Venice. I saw the play once in high school. Sighing, I toss what I assume is a note that a student in the building dropped on their way out, and I go to pick up my purse just as there is another knock at my door. I check again but this time I see a familiar face.

I open the door with a grin. “Forty-five…” I glance at the clock on my microwave. “Forty-seven minutes.”

“You weren’t supposed to dress up,” Grady states as his eyes leisurely peruse my body. My body heats under his intense inspection.

“I-I’m not,” I stammer as I step back to let him inside.

He steps through the threshold, shutting the door behind him. His presence seems so grand in my small apartment. I don’t know why I think that as I take him in. He’s tall, but not overly tall, maybe six feet. His body isn’t lithe nor is it bulky. He clearly works out beyond jumping around a stage and performing. His arms sport muscles that make me want to touch them. And even right now as he stands in my apartment wearing gym shorts, a gray college shirt, and a baseball cap, he still looks like sex on a stick.

“Stop gawking at my sexiness and go put on some gym clothes,” he says.

I roll my eyes and turn to go to my bedroom. I feel a “thwack” on my ass, and I turn in shock.

“You just slapped my ass!” I yell. I don’t know why I yell it as he’s standing three feet from me.

“Damn right I did, now get a move on,” he growls.

“Alpha much,” I grumble under my breath as I walk to my room.

“I heard that.”

“I hope you did,” I reply in a sing-song voice.

I hear him chuckle and sit down on my couch which makes a squeaking sound when anyone sits on it. I sort through the pile of clothes on my chair until I find a new outfit. I change and come back out. This time I have on my favorite USC t-shirt, a cute cotton pair of shorts that technically you could wear to the gym, but you could also wear them out to grab a coffee or run to the store, and I complete the ensemble with a sweatshirt I got at one of my favorite band’s concerts last year.

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