Page 67 of Anatomy of a Meet Cute
Sam used the moment alone to look around his place. As expected, there was no clutter or mess. What surprised her was that Grant had left a lot of the vintage quirks that came with a place this old. The edge of the room that faced the street had a cozy little window seat, adorned with squishy-looking big pillows and a small stack of books, including a detective paperback. In the center of the room, he had a set of couches and chairs that looked like he’d spent much more than he would ever admit on the perfect 1960s-inspired furniture in the same blue as the front door. Instead of installing overhead lights, he had simply used anumber of brass floor lamps of different shapes, heights, and sizes. The light from the lamps cast a soft, low glow around the room.
Wandering over to a long, low sideboard cabinet, Sam touched the cover of a coffee-table book titledTrolleys: The Radical History of Transportation in San Francisco. She’d started to open the book to find out exactly what about trolleys was so radical when the sound of two glasses clinking interrupted her. Turning to find Grant standing in the entry, Sam felt her heartbeat stutter.
Memories of the first time she’d seen Grant washed over her and rearranged themselves in front of her eyes. He was still handsome. But when he was standing in his own space, all the hard edges seemed to have been sanded off. The same cheekbones, strong shoulders, and lean build made softer and rounder in the low light of his living room. Even his haircut seemed less stark. Standing there in his typical formfitting navy-blue sweater and basic gray jeans, holding two red wineglasses in one hand and a bottle in the other, he seemed in his element. Everything about the transformation appealed to Sam.
“Food will be ready in fifteen minutes,” Grant said as he walked into the room. The entire experience was literally causing all but the most basic want signals in Sam’s brain to cease firing. Unaware of what the movement was doing to her, he rearranged the glasses on their own coasters. The muscles in his right arm flexed as he began to pour wine into each glass. The sound alone was like some sort of lust-triggering ASMR experience, sending tingles from her scalp down her spine. Combined with the way the light caught his jaw and traced the line of his neck ... it was too much.
Lowering himself onto a corner of the couch, Grant looked up at her with curiosity. “Did you want to sit? You’re welcome to bring the trolley book with you.”
“Ah. Yes.” Something about his smirk shook Sam out of the lust corkscrew she was in. Giving her head a shake, she started toward thecouch, saying, “Riveting as it is, I think I can have dinner and then come back to it.”
“Suit yourself,” Grant said, bringing his glass to his lips and taking a long, slow sip that seemed determined to stop Sam’s heart.
Forcing herself to focus on something other than how desperate she was to kiss him again, Sam settled into a spot on the couch and picked up her own glass. When she took a sip, her entire body softened as the wine’s gentle sting worked its way across her taste buds and down her throat. Sighing heavily, she said, “This is delicious.”
“Glad you like it. I know people say don’t do red with things like pizza, but I think this wine proves them wrong,” Grant said, smiling into his glass. “Plus, it’s twenty dollars at the wine shop right now.”
Sam laughed. “A good deal for a good day. Who could ask for more?”
“My thoughts exactly.” Grant leaned back into his corner of the couch, carefully holding the glass from the base of the stem, then said, “So tell me about the program feedback so far.”
“I thought you’d never ask.” Sam smiled. There were other things she was dying for him to ask about, but it seemed like they were having dinner first, so she’d just have to be patient. Taking another sip of wine, Sam outlined what Kaiya had told her.
Eventually, Grant stood up and brought back their perfectly cooked, premade meal. Before she’d even had a chance to blow on a bite, he asked her about the feedback they’d received from the doctors so far. Of course, she left out Dr.Franklin’s nonanswer and stuck to the positive aspects, of which there was a lot to say. With each sentence, the look on Grant’s face grew prouder, as if Sam were telling him how well their baby had done in day care or something ...
Not that she was thinking about babies with him or anything. Sam had zero idea where that thought had come from. It was just that he talked about how proud his father was of him and his siblings, and she could totally see the same trait in him. He’d probably make a greatdad. Again, not that she was thinking about him as a dad or anything. Sam decided to blame her job. She did spend all day thinking about babies, after all.
She refocused her attention, and the two of them slipped into the easy rhythm of conversation. Somewhere in between trading questions and answers, they managed to finish their food. As if watching her gradually melt with desire were his goal, Grant reached for the bottle of wine to pour them a second glass. Bringing the glass toward her very unkissed lips, Sam said, “Thank you.”
She was halfway to a first sip when Grant’s eyes opened wide and he said, “We didn’t say cheers last time.”
“That’s okay. That’s what second glasses are for.”
“Cheers,” Grant said as he finished filling his glass. Sam raised her glass toward Grant, who was preoccupied with trying to take a sip. Clearing her throat, Sam waited until he looked at her fully before she said, “Careful, we have to make eye contact before saying cheers.”
Grant made his eyes wide as if to exaggerate eye contact. After taking a sip, he asked, “What happens if we don’t do that?”
“Cursed with bad sex for seven years,” Sam said, letting her lips curl into a devious smile.
Grant’s expression moved through surprised to pleased to hot in the length of a second. Biting down on his bottom lip, he returned her half smile and said, “That’s worse than breaking a mirror. That feels mean.”
“I wouldn’t level that curse before the end of the evening. I deserve better.” Sam couldn’t decide if she wanted to punch Grant. Who cared if it was mean? This was an invitation to get busy, not engage in banter. Sam almost said as much, but Grant’s face changed again. This time, it seemed like a joke was fighting desperately to make its way off his tongue. Would but jokes were kisses, Sam thought. Instead, she said, “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing is always something, so tell me,” Sam said, pulling her shoulders back and setting her wineglass down.
“Okay, showing you my hand here, but I low-key thought that’s what we were doing tonight.” Grant looked at her with his head tilted to one side as if he were trying to solve a puzzle but couldn’t touch the pieces until he knew where they went.
Sam felt the corners of her mouth turn up as she said, “Is it not? ’Cause I am wearing my good bra.”
“I mean, I thought it was based on your text. But then you were wearing your scrubs, and I thought maybe you were kidding,” Grant said, gesturing at her attire with his glass.
“Nope. I was absolutely serious about that.” Sam reached for the hem of her shirt, feeling the fabric beneath her fingers for only a moment before she made up her mind. Taking the shirt off in one move, she tossed it away from the couch and said, “If you don’t do something about it now, I really will curse you.”
The room felt like someone had pressed pause. Like the earth had stopped spinning on its axis. And then something in Grant’s face changed. Sam felt held in place by the look, as if she had crossed some invisible barrier and now she was on a course collision with him. The once-playful expression was gone, replaced with sheer desire.
Sam watched his chest rise and fall for one breath. Then two. Then a third. With each of his deep breaths, her breathing became shallower, as if her heartbeat were compensating for his pace. The air felt thick with tension, and her skin tingled as she waited for him to respond.
