Page 18 of Sidelined By Love

“Of yours,” Grant grumbles. “Clearly not mine.”

“Ignore him,” Kenna says, pushing her uncle’s arm and moving him exactly zero inches. “He’s just grumpy because he was taking a nap. He doesn’t wake up happy.” Then her eyes light up. “Can you come in? And stay? Denise made blueberry muffins.”

“I’d be delighted.” I follow her inside, right past Mr. Grumpy, whose whole body seems to be vibrating. Giving a little sniff, I mean to rub it in that his niece clearly likes me better than him. But instead, I pick up all sorts of woodsy, clean scents. Like mountain air and fresh pine.

He has no business being any more attractive than his looks.

At least those will fade. Eventually.

I shake off this new bit of information about him and march closely behind Kenna through the grand foyer with its vaulted ceiling and hardwood floors.

I honestly expected his home décor to feature a series of framed jerseys in purple and silver. Maybe a signed and framed football from Joe Montana or Peyton Manning. But the only nod to the Colorado Fourteeners is a tasteful painting of a snow-capped Pikes Peak. The team is named for the string of peaks in the Rockies that all reach over fourteen thousand feet, and the image somehow feels like a nod to that.

I glance away from the painting’s smooth brush strokes just in time to catch Grant watching me, a dozen questions flashing through his eyes. Probably foremost—what am I doing here?

He should know. And if he’s already forgotten, I’ll be more than happy to remind him.

But before I can do that, Kenna leads me into the kitchen—a chef’s dream. Wooden cabinets all the way to the ceiling in white with slate blue along the bottom cover an entire wall. The white and gray quartz counters are interrupted only by a six-burner gas range. And the island is large enough to seat half the team.

Kenna hops on to one of the gray padded stools on the far side of the counter and motions for me to sit on the one next to her before eyeing her uncle with a face that’s all innocence.

“Go ahead,” he mumbles. “Sit down. Let me serve you both.”

Before I can decide if he’s serious, Kenna leans close to my shoulder and stage whispers, “He thinks he’s being funny.”

“I am funny,” he grouches, and I can’t argue.

In short order, he pulls out three small plates and places an overflowing blueberry muffin on each. The cinnamon-and-sugar topping smells sweeter than sin, and I close my eyes to let it fill me as Grant pushes a plate in my direction. Let’s just call this one more thing I don’t need to tell my trainer about.

If I ever get back to see her.

When I open my eyes, Kenna is sitting still as a statue, unblinking eyes boring into me as though she’ll be able to read all of my secrets. “Are you and my uncle friends?”

I glance at the uncle in question as he conveniently shoves half of his muffin into his mouth.

“Yep. We’ve known each other for. . .” I look up toward the wrought iron lights hanging over the counter. “Years.”

Knownis way too strong of a word, but I’m determined to change that.

“Uncle Grant,” she leans heavily on his name. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“We just recently reconnected,” he quickly clarifies.

Kenna seems satisfied, but I can’t help but feel a little guilty for getting him in trouble. “So, how long have you been staying with your uncle?” I tear off a bite of my muffin and nearly groan as it lands on my tongue, the tang of the berries enhancing the sweetness of the bread and topping. I’m not usually one for sweets, but I’d eat one of these every day. If I was capable of baking anything except burnt toast.

“Thirteen days. My mom is deployed.” Kenna’s little voice makes me jump, but I nod quickly to let her know I’m listening. “She’s in the Navy.”

“Oh.” I blink a few times before leaning in closer. “I’m sorry. That must be hard. I bet you really miss her.”

She nods, studying her muffin as she tears it apart but doesn’t put any of it in her mouth. “I think about her all the time. But I guess Uncle Grant is okay.”

I look up in time to see the surprise written in his raised eyebrows. His mouth opens and closes a few times, but no sound comes out. Maybe this is the first time he’s heard anything remotely affirming. Not unusual for a young teen girl.

When I was around Kenna’s age, I was pretty much on my own. My mom—a recent divorcée—had given up pretending she wanted to be part of my life and dumped me with the housekeeper to jet off to the Mediterranean and stay on whoever’s yacht she could find a bed.

Back then, I would have given my first-generation iPhone to have a real parental figure who cared enough to take me in.

It doesn’t take much to see that Grant cares. Even if he looks uncertain with his role, his features tight as he watches his niece closely. It can’t be easy to have a teenager and all her emotions and hormones dropped into your home. Especially a home that’s based on a rigid NFL schedule.

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