Page 141 of Built to Fall
I’ve known for a long time that I saw something more in him. Between the way his sisters pried him out of the shell he was in—showing me all the ways in which he cares for the women in his life—and the way I’ve practically taken a can opener to his ribs, revealing the heart and soul inside of him.
That’s the scariest part of it all. Somewhere between me doing everything in my power to get Grant to show who he truly is and him memorizing every jagged piece of me, he cracked me right down the middle.
I handed him the key to unlock my rib cage and then the flashlight to explore my heart. I gave him an open expedition to the mess of me, and he picked up the most broken parts like they were diamonds instead of glass shards.
Walking into his apartment, the feeling doesn’t leave, even as we head for his bedroom. The rushing of blood through my head doesn’t slow. I can still hear it in my ears.
Then Grant turns toward me, and when he says something, I have to reorient myself in order to comprehend exactly what he asks me.
“Do you want to talk about it?” is what I think he asks.
I hadn’t even noticed my hands were wringing around themselves in front of me. The only time they stopped awkwardly moving in circles was so I could run them through my hair.
Jesus, I look nervous.
I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak quite yet.
“Are you sure?”
He takes a step forward, making me swallow past the feeling of a boulder being lodged in my windpipe and take control of my hands again to reach out and grab his.
“Sorry,” I say. “I don’t know why I’m suddenly so freaked out.”
Grant tilts his head, like he knows why, but he doesn’t know what to say about it.
Before he can, I take a step forward, molding my lips to his in a searing kiss. With the way he’s moving against me right now, the memories are coming at me from every which way, threatening to break down every barrier I’ve built between us.
But along with that, and the way he’s kissing me, I’m reminded ofwhyI’m standing in his bedroom. The longer I spend in his hold, feeling like he’s completely undoing me, I remember how I felt a few hours ago. I was crying in the bathroom of the stadium because I thought he didn’t want me, while the girl he’s been regularly hooking up with comforted me.
A prickle of unease settles deep in my stomach, trying to replace the arousal that was threatening to bubble there a moment ago.
I think Grant notices, because his kisses slow, and his touch becomes more languid. His hands are no longer gripping my biceps to keep me in his hold. They’re resting there, moving up and down my arms carefully.
After one hookup, it feels like Grant knows my body better than I do. It feels odd.
I handed him the blueprints to something I didn’t even know I was building, and he studied them in the quiet in order to memorize every inch of me before I had the chance to second-guess it.
The sudden influx of everything I was feeling—all the hurt, the disdain—has soured this moment beyond repair, and I know I can’t have sex with him tonight.
Because my body’s been bracing for disappointment, and my heart’s not far behind.
This isn’t about sex. It never was. It’s about trust. And while I trust Grant more than anyone else, I don’t trust that he’s not going to leave.
Grant’s hands immediately soften, one smoothing up my spine and the other threading gently into my hair again.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to chase away the shame clawing its way up my throat.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, so quietly I’m not sure he hears it.
Grant leans back enough to look at me, his brows drawn together, concern written all over his face.
“Hey, hey—” His voice is a low, careful thing. “It doesn’t matter.”
“What?” My voice shakes the same as my hands.
“What we do, or don’t do, tonight doesn’t matter. It won’t change anything.”
He backs up, sitting down on the edge of his bed before reaching out for me. I’m a bit calmer now, and the anxiety is beginning to lessen as I take a few steps closer to him.
