Page 44 of Every Chance After

When the doorknob jiggles, announcing Grady’s return, I nearly call out, “Go away!”

My cats’ scrutinizing glares are bad enough. Their perked ears and rapt big eyes prove their heightened anxieties, and add tension to my pain. I don’t need other witnesses, especially if I break down crying.

Ihatecrying.

But I can’t find my voice or the nerve to be so mean. I refuse to let my pain become someone else’s. Grady overflows with regret as it is.

With a breathless groan, I sit up, gripping my cane like a stress ball.

He pushes inside, arms loaded with reusable totes from Food Lion, the tags still hanging from their handles. Food Lion has thebestreusable totes, and he splurged on the heavy-duty ones.

Elbowing the door shut, his bright blue eyes run over me. “Pain level?”

“Um, rising.”

“Give me a number.”

“Eight.”

He drops the bags at the door and digs through them. Within a minute, he’s beside me, handing over pills and water. I sling them into my throat and guzzle the water to push them down.

But queasiness soon joins the pain, making me think they’ll come back up.

His hand rests softly on my back. “Deep breaths.”

“Hurts,” I mutter, unable to hold it in.

“I know.”

“Please, go. I’ll be fine. I want to be alone.”

“I know, but indulge me. Please,” he says softly. “You should eat. Soup, salad, sandwich, or junk food?”

I want to argue. He’s done enough and surely has better things to do with his time than babysit me. But I don’t have the energy. “Um, soup.”

“Good. Keep breathing.”

He leaves me for the discarded bags, hefting them into the kitchen. Wincing with pain, I grab the remote and turn up the volume onAntiques Roadshow UK, if only to distract me from the intense pain and the man in my kitchen.

But it’s hard not to watch him.

Oh, the gossipers at Sunny’s would have bug eyes and dropped jaws at this sight—hot and mysterious, Grady Tripp in my kitchen. He’s top-tier good-looking. If Seagrove sold a sexy calendar for a Christmas fundraiser, Grady Tripp would be every month; only the cute animal he was holding would vary. He’s not very tall, but he’s solid, like a bookend or brick wall, especially with his arms folded, his signature move. It’s not just his overall ruggedness that makes him so nice to look at, either. It’s his age, too. Men are so dang lucky that way. There’s a mature rigidness to his features, hammered out by years of heavy lifting and farm work. But a gentleness, too. His fine lines and spotty grays make him look approachable when he isn’t scowling. And his smile, when he dares share it, warms me with delight.

It’s almost a surprise to learn that he’s kind, too. The way he helped me, saved me, held my hand.

From the looks of his bounty, he cleared out Food Lion’s premade sandwiches, salads, and soups. He pops one into the microwave before filling my fridge with the rest. He stocked up on staples: eggs, milk, cheese, yogurt, butter. He places Cheerios, chicken noodle soup cans, and mac-n-cheese boxes in my cabinet. A loaf of bread, peanut butter, and a package of deli meat appear next. Frozen entrees go into the freezer along with a tub of Neapolitan ice cream.

It’s more food than I usually have. Or need.

But his kindness keeps showing up in unexpected places.

“You’re turning me into a traitor.” My joke comes across as weak and half-hearted with my increasing pain.

He smirks lightly, holding up Food Lion brand tuna from deep inside my cabinet. “Seems like you’re already converted.”

“Yeah, I can’t afford Sunny’s, either,” I breathe, wincing. “I wear hats, sunglasses, and baggy clothes when I go to Food Lion in case I run into a local. Don’t tell anyone.”

This earns a slight chuckle and that dazzling half-smile. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

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