Page 25 of The Game Plan
“And that didn’t freak you out?”
She shrugs again. “What’s the matter, Grant? You’re not scared, are you?”
“Menace. But seriously, how did you watch this alone?” I shiver at a particularly graphic scene.
“It was scarier being alone in real life than in the fictional world on screen.” Her voice is barely audible, but I hear it. I hear every word.
I turn toward her, one arm stretching over the back of the couch until my thumb grazes her shoulder. “You’re not alone anymore, Peach. Either of you.”
She doesn’t respond, and I don’t expect her to. Instead, she leans into my touch, falling into my side as I grip her shoulder, offering her comfort.
We watch another episode in silence. Her eyes flick to mine once during another nasty scene, but we don’t say anything. There’s too much that hasn’t been said, and tonight isn’t the night for that.
But maybe we’ll get there again.
Last night was the best sleep of my life.
No, seriously. What is this mattress made of? Clouds?
I haven’t slept this well since the first trimester, when all I wanted was rest. Blinking against the darkness, I try to adjust to the hazy in-between, unsure what day it is or where I am. My limbs are heavy, cocooned in the softest blanket I’ve ever felt, and for a second, I think maybe I’m still dreaming. That once I open my eyes, I’ll be back in my tiny apartment with the creaky pipes and traffic noises as the smell of Chinese food floods my senses.
But as I stretch out, my fingers grazing against the silky sheets, the sheets that were already on the bed that I refused to change, my eyes fly open, and I remember where I am.
This is Grant Campbell’s guest bedroom, and I’m his new…roommate.
The wave of the weekend hits me like a tsunami—the fear, the uncertainty, the gratitude laced with guilt. Hormonal tears that felt endless. Ridge and Grant both showing up for me. Grant’s possessiveness when he thought Ridge was the father, hisconcern for my well-being. Packing up my first place on my own, walking past the caution tape outside my building, realizing how lucky I was not to have been hurt—or worse.
Sitting slowly, my hand drifts over my bump, and I give the baby tiny rubs like I do every morning.
“Morning, Jellybean.”
Flutters erupt in my chest, and for the first time, I feel something that reminds me of happiness. Was this all I was missing? A safe place to call home? Or is it the broody man I’m living with? Shaking my head to push away the thoughts of Grant that have been swirling in my mind—I’m not ready to focus on those quite yet—my eyes flick to the gift basket that was waiting for me on the nightstand. I never thanked him for that yesterday. The truth is, I erupted in tears as soon as I shut my bedroom door and saw the basket sitting there. All these feelings came rushing to the surface, and I hid away in my room like an angsty teenager.
The gesture alone was so sweet, but what was inside caused a lump to form. He thought of practical and thoughtful gifts—stress-relief bath bombs, TUMS, and even belly butter. What I wouldn’t give to see Grant Campbell with his signature scowl perusing the maternity aisles at Target and purchasing belly butter, of all things.
He didn’t have to do any of this—not the gift basket and certainly not offering me his guest room. I told him I wasn’t his problem—that this baby wasn’t his problem, yet he’s still here. Showing up when he doesn’t have to.
And I’m not sure I know how to handle this. How to navigate these murky waters.
My bladder lurches painfully, like my baby somersaulted and landed directly on it.
“Okay, okay,” I groan, shoving the covers off the rest of the way.
The carpet is plush under my feet as I shuffle to the door. Not caring that I’m only dressed in what was once an oversized t-shirt, my bare legs fully exposed, I shuffle a few feet to the bathroom. Closing the door behind me, I take care of business.
Standing at the sink, I let the warm water run over my hands. The girl staring back at me in the mirror looks so different—softer, happier, maybe. Bags are still under my eyes, but they aren’t as purple. With my hair a mess and piled on top of my head, I notice there’s some color back in my cheeks. Almost like sleep and safety were what I was craving most.
After brushing my teeth, I splash cool water on my face, that’s always swollen from pregnancy. As I step into the hall, the smell of coffee hits first—rich, invigorating, wrapping around me like a hug. I sigh. Nothing beats freshly brewed coffee in the morning. Definitely better than the lingering smell of leftover fried rice. The sizzle from the stove draws my attention to the open kitchen.
And that’s when I see him. Grant stands at the stove, shirtless, flipping eggs. Athletic shorts hang low on his hips, showing off every defined muscle he’s worked for. Black ink mars his back.
That’s new.
Oh, god. The ink and muscles have my pulse racing and a thrumming stirring deep in my core.
My hormones are awake now. Wide-ass awake.
Because it should be illegal to look that damn good flipping eggs. It’s been way too long since I’ve slept with a man—not since the night I got pregnant. And now, looking at him—and it’s just his back—I’m realizing how much I’ve missed sex. My battery-operated friend isn’t getting the job done—not like I know Grant Campbell could. Heat pools, soaking my panties, and I’m wondering if I’ve made a mistake moving in here. Between the god in front of me and my raging hormones, I’m in deep trouble.
