Page 66 of Anatomy of a Meet Cute
She was just about to put her phone away when Grant buzzed again.
In that case, I feel like we both have tonight off.
Want to come over to my place to celebrate?
Sam’s heart pounded as she watched the little still-texting bubble disappear. Did Grant mean she should come over so they could order pizza and celebrate with junk TV? Or was this like when someone said,It’s your birthday, I got a present for you, and the present is sex? More importantly, did she care?
The answer to that was no, absolutely not. She’d run home and put on cute underwear just to be safe. Hell, if she was lucky, she would getpizza and sex. Smiling down at the phone screen, she took a second to think of something she could say just to make sure that Grant knew she would be wearing her good bra and panties.
I get off at 7. I want to change into something that shouldn’t be worn under scrubs. Be at yours around 7:45.
The text silence that followed almost swallowed Sam whole. Maybe he’d really meant a pizza situation, and now she’d just made it awkward. Hadn’t she just told herself to slow down? Fingers flying across the keyboard, she added,
Unless that’s too late?
Sam held her breath, her heart sinking and her pulse racing all at once. After what felt like the longest thirteen seconds in her life, his response appeared.
7:45 works. See you tonight.
As she felt her pulse plummet back to normal, a grin spread across her face. She could slow herself down and work on that data summary tomorrow. Tonight, she was all about rushing to Grant’s place.
Chapter Eighteen
Typically, Sam enjoyed driving by Golden Gate Park, but as the car crossed the 1 and Grant’s boxy two-story place came into view, it required heroic levels of willpower for her to not throw herself from the moving car.
Nodding thanks to the driver, Sam jumped out onto the sidewalk and smiled. She wasn’t sure what she had expected, but the place was 100 percent Grant in the best way. The building itself was nothing flashy; like a lot of houses in the area, it was squeezed between two houses of the exact same stucco 1940s build, with the paint and window shape being the only serious differentiators. While his neighbors’ houses were all sherbet colored, Grant’s was the color of a gray sky, with a bright-blue, friendly-looking garage door that screamed,I don’t take myself as seriously as you think I do.The small square of grass that passed for a standard front yard in this city was packed with neatly arranged succulents and varying shrubs that made Sam wonder if Grant was into gardening as well as basketball.
Reaching into the neck of her scrubs, Sam rearranged the strap of her favorite teal bra. Admittedly, the lace was a little itchy, but the effect was worth it. Giving her shoulders a shake to make sure everything was in place, she started up the path lined with small solar lights toward the front door. All evening, she had imagined candles, wine, and the lookon Grant’s face when he realized that she’d been serious about putting something sexy on underneath her basic hospital-mandated attire.
Marching up the stairs, Sam took a big breath and knocked twice. She had mentally prepared to admire the landscaping for a minute. Instead, Grant opened the door immediately.
“Hi.” He exhaled the word as if he had been waiting to say it for some time.
“Hey,” Sam said with a small, dorky wave as if he weren’t standing two feet in front of her. She cringed internally at her lack of smooth. Her underwear might be sexy, but her chill level definitely wasn’t.
Grant laughed, a combination of nerves and charm that put Sam at ease, then swept his arm out wide and said, “Come in. I’m cooking.”
“You’re cooking? I figured we’d just be ordering pizza or something. Now I feel spoiled.” Sam tossed her hair over her shoulder and put on mock airs as she stepped into the house.
“Oh. This is not ...” Grant closed the door, then stopped and winced before starting again. “I don’t cook. Not really. That statement was misleading.” He rubbed the back of his neck and looked sideways. “I mean, I know how to feed myself, and I have specific foods I make on special occasions, but day to day, I have a meal-kit service. I plan to put one of those in the oven.”
Sam blinked at him for a second, watching the muscles in his jaw tense as if the difference between a meal kit and him spending hours in a kitchen was a make-or-break issue.
“Well, now I have to leave.” Grant’s eyebrows shot up, and she started to laugh. “Just kidding. I don’t care. In fact, I consume a lot of freezer mac and cheese. What are we eating?”
“Arugula-and-pancetta pizza. But I did have ice cream delivered. And wine. I know you like both those things.” Grant started to laugh as he walked them into the living room. “First, I have to confess that I tried to be low key and ask Duke what kind of wine you like. That guy caught on to me immediately. I think I tipped him off about us. Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. I’m pretty sure he figured it out days ago when you texted me late at night,” Sam fibbed. She wasn’t ready to admit that she and Jehan had shouted the news at him the second he got home. That seemed like she was in way too deep, and this was casual.
“Sorry about that too.” Grant shrugged but didn’t look the least bit apologetic. “Also, he has no idea what you like to drink. He suggested moscato, which sounded aggressively wrong.”
“He is deeply incorrect,” Sam laughed. Duke was a beer drinker. Odds were high that he’d just dug around in his head for the only type of wine he could name and come up with a dessert wine that was so sweet it might rot teeth.
“Well, that’s a relief,” Grant said, steering them toward the living room. “I would have felt terrible if I had denied you your favorite wine when we are supposed to be celebrating. Are you opposed to a red blend?”
“I’m not.” Sam fought the urge to make fun of just how Northern California that question was. Grant had lived here his whole life and had likely been forced to learn about wine from age twenty-one on, if for no other reason than he probably had to take out-of-town guests wine tasting no fewer than four times a year.
“Good, because I have that open in the kitchen. Stay here—I’ll put the pizza in the oven and bring us a glass.” With a smile, Grant sauntered out of the room.
