Page 30 of Built to Fall
They’re both wearing Yale Football sweatshirts. I try not to let my gaze linger long on Grant’s obvious quad muscles, but I can’tnotacknowledge that they’re there, visible through his sweatpants.
Grant slides into the booth uninvited, settling next to me with a crooked grin that lets me know he remembers every single detail from last night. “How’s the head?”
“Fine,” I say quietly, scooting as close to the wall and as far from him as possible.
Grant smirks, leaning back like he owns the booth. “You sure? You look like you’re goingthroughit.”
“Wow. Thank you so much. That means so much to me,” I reply with a sarcastic smile. “I’d say I hate you, but that would be a waste of my breath.”
“Youdidtell me that last night,” he says, like he’s genuinely proud of it. “Twice. Once while threatening to bite me if I didn’t stop laughing.”
Meredith snorts into her water. “Sounds fair.”
I only glare at him. “I’m sober, and the offer still stands.”
“Kinky,” he jokes with a cocky grin.
“In. Your. Dreams,” I say slowly, enunciating every syllable before making a show of reopening the menu in my hands and looking up at Eden. “What do you think I should get?”
“The strawberry pancakes aresogood,” she says, but I’m barely listening because I can still feel Grant’s attention on me.
Then, he tugs lightly at the sleeve of my sweatshirt. “You don’t strike me as the basketball kind of girl.”
The comment feels like the equivalent of a match being struck inside me. I snap my head to turn back toward him and say, “Well, I didn’t strike you as the kind of girl capable of going to Yale either, did I?”
Grant’s eyes go wide for a second, then narrow. “You’re still harping on that?”
“Forgiveness isearned, Vandenberg.”
Truly, I don’t think I have any right to hate Grant for no reason. I also don’t necessarily have the energy to. But I’d be lying if I said Gage didn’t tamper with the lens I see men and their intentions through.
I’m working on it, but for now, I have a sinking feeling that I shouldn’t trust Grant. It’s why I don’t.
Eden chokes on her sip of water. “She’s awake now.”
“I’ve been awake,” I mutter, still feeling the buzz of heat in my cheeks. It’s not embarrassment; it’s the way he’s looking at me now—less smug, more intrigued. Like I’ve stepped onto a playing field I didn’t even know existed.
Our waitress swings by, asking if we’re ready to order. After Meredith, Eden, and I rattle off our relatively easy requests, all hope I have of Grant leaving diminishes when he and Braxton order next.
All of us girls are still gawking at the crazy amount of food the guys ordered as the waitress walks off, scribbling furiously.I pretend not to notice how Braxton leans over, whispering something in Meredith’s ear once he’s finished.
“Are you actually going to eat all that?” I ask, eyes wide. “That’s a week’s worth of food.”
Grant leans back, stretching his arms across the back of the booth like he’s been waiting for this exact moment. “I’ve got a fast metabolism. Plus, hangover cravings don’t mess around.”
Braxton laughs. “You didn’t even drink last night.”
“No, but I had to carry someone’s drunk ass home last night. Pretty sure that in itself warrants a secondhand hangover.”
I flip him off under the table, but not because I’m trying to be discreet. Eden coughs to hide her giggle.
Then Grant leans in, elbows on the table, chin propped in his hand. “Who knew you’d be even more feisty when you’re hungover?”
“Don’t make me regret waking up today.”
“You didn’t regret it when I carried you to bed last night.”
“Grant!” Eden scolds.
