Page 107 of Built to Fall
“Is that your car?” I ask.
“Technically, no,” he replies, pulling the Mercedes key out of his pocket. “It’s a rental.”
I give him an inquisitive look. “Why would you spend ten times more money on a car you’re going to be driving around for a day when you could have just gotten a regular car?”
“Once you see where we’re going, you’ll understand,” he answers as he unlocks the car and heads toward the driver's side.
“Aw.” I fake pout as I stand at the hood of the car. Grant gives me a questioning look from where he’s sitting in the driver’s seat. “You aren’t going to let me drive?”
He honks the horn lightly, making me jump. “You’re fucking insane.”
I get in the passenger’s seat, setting my purse on the floorboard by my feet. Grant begins to back out of the driveway but puts the car back into park when he glances over at me momentarily.
I’m confused for a moment before I feel a strong arm reach across my chest, grabbing the seatbelt I had forgotten and pulling it over my front.
A sharp inhale escapes me—not from fear, but from the sudden closeness, the unexpected gentleness. It’s not unlike Grant, and it makes me all the more aware of how easily he disarms me.
Once he buckles me, we continue back down the driveway. “Good thing I showed up an hour early, or elseyouwould have made us late.”
“You could have just told me to put it on,” I mumble, pulling my phone out of my back pocket.
“Lina, you can’t even fucking swallow without starting an argument, let alone do what you’re told.”
I giggle at the sexual innuendo, and Grant quickly realizes why.
“Jesus,” he groans. “Not like that.”
“We are leaving,” I say quickly before sealing my lips.
He hums, continuing to keep his eyes focused on the road while I keep my eyes trained on his muscular hand that rests on the gear shift.
Meanwhile, I find myself focusing on the small design of black ink on his hand, closer to his wrist than his fingers. His sweatshirt sleeve is covering the majority of it, though.
Grant’s right, I am nosy. I reach for his hand, pulling up the sleeve of his sweatshirt to see the multiple tattoos littering his hand and lower arm.
“Do you always touch people without permission?” he asks in a calm, teasing voice that startles me.
I try to keep my cool, not wanting to show the effect that he has on me.
“What is it?” I point to the tattoo I was examining. It’s some type of bird, but I’m really wondering what it means.
I’m also wondering how I’ve never thought to look at his tattoos until now.
“A bird,” he answers simply.
“Well, obviously.” I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “What kind of bird? What does it mean?”
I’ve never heard such a sigh as the one Grant lets out next, long and heavy.
But he explains anyway, “It’s a blue wren. I got it a few weeks after my mom died.”
“I’m sorry. I-I shouldn’t have asked.”
“Listen,” Grant exhales. “I know you’re new to this, but there’s sort of this unspoken rule when you join the dead moms club: you don’t pity other people in the club, and they don’t pity you. We all get enough of that shit from everyone else. We don’t need it from each other.”
“Sounds like a pretty shitty club.”
“It is. Nobody wants to be in it, but it’s sort of the way of the world.”
