Page 10 of His to Explore
And it did. Grant has helped me in ways I can’t even express.
“Hey.” Gemma gives my hands a little shake and I snap my attention back to her. “You were a million miles away.”
I give her a weak smile. “Sorry.” And since there’s no way I’m telling my boss that frequenting a sex club had healed something in me, I shrug. “Just thinking about how truly wretched it would be start dating again.”
She rolls her eyes. “Come on. Wouldn’t it be nice to have someone to snuggle on the couch with? Someone to cook dinner with, to bitch about your day?”
A quick flash passes through my mind of Grant in my tiny little apartment kitchen, sautéing something on the stove while I pour us wine.
Where the hell had that come from?
“All of that sounds nice,” I tell her. “But is it worth picking up after a man? The dirty socks on the floor? The wet towels in the bathroom?”
She smacks her hands down on the table. “Or the beard hair in the sink after they shave? Why the hell are they incapable of rinsing the bloody thing?”
I try very hard not to think about Grant’s beard.
Luckily, she drops the topic of me dating and we chat about the craft market we’ll be attending this weekend while we finish our drinks. Back at the gallery, she insists I get off the computer and instead help her to unpack and arrange a new series of table-top sculptures. And when a walk-in wanders in, she lets me take the lead in showing him around. All in all, it’s a pretty decent afternoon.
And I barely think about Grant at all.
My one-bedroom apartmentis a far cry from the five-thousand-square-foot McMansion I was living in while married, but I’ll take my quiet, cozy little home over that house of horrors any day. Gina had secured me a decent payout in the divorce settlement, but I’m determined to save the majority of it.
I never want to be under the financial control of another man for as long as I live.
The first thing I do when I enter the apartment is kick off my heels. I don’t even bother picking them up—another small act of resistance. Fred insisted that I keep our house spotless. Shoes left by the door would have sent him into a rage. I could still feel the way his thumbs would dig into the back of my neck when he screamed at me about being a worthless slob.
Never again,I remind myself as I head into the bedroom to change. Sweats are another new experience for me, as are the oversized fuzzy socks on my feet. Never having to let a man pick out my wardrobe is one of the best things about my new life.
I pour some wine in the kitchen, looking around at my safe little refuge. The first month I’d decorated in bold, bright colors—teal and orange and pink and purple. Basically, anything that I knew Fred would have hated. Once I had that rebellion out of mysystem, I made some changes. I kept the pinks and lightened the orange to a soft coral. Teal became a calming turquoise. I filled my space with softness—throw pillows, rugs, fleece blankets on the back of every chair.
Of course, the art was my favorite part of decorating. I’d spent some of the settlement on one small painting from one of my favorite up and coming artists but the rest of my walls are filled with pieces from unknown painters, even hobbyists. Gemma and I like to scour the local craft markets and thrift stores for hidden gems. The art on my walls might not be worth much, but I picked every piece myself, each one representing me and my taste.
Each one representingfreedom.
God, I love my apartment.
I’m about to settle on the couch with a book—very exciting Friday night here—when there’s a knock on my door. Immediately, all the cozy feelings of safety and independence flee from my body. Very few people ever visit me here, just Gemma on rare occasions, but she wouldn’t have come over without texting me first. I glance at the phone in my hand. It’s after seven. Too late for a delivery, right?
It’s probably just someone’s mixed up door dash order,I tell myself. Or a neighbor needing some sugar or something.You’re still safe. You’re still in control.
Another knock, harder this time, and I force myself to walk to the door. I peek through the peephole, trying to ignore the way my heart is pounding in my chest.
A man is standing there and I immediately want to shrink back. He’s a stranger, and he’s tall, and something deep inside, me some primal instinct, is telling me that I don’t want him here.
That’s just your trauma talking,I tell myself. I make myself look him over, taking in the details. Yes, he’s a stranger. He’s also in what I’m pretty sure is a delivery uniform. He’s holdinga brown paper package that looks like a wrapped bouquet of flowers.
My immediate thought is Grant. Would he send me flowers? The thought has my heart racing in a different way. I can try to pretend all I want, but there’s no way of denying that the thought of him sending me flowers makes butterflies erupt in my stomach.
The man knocks a third time and I take a deep breath, stealing myself. I have to force my hands to move, but I manage to open the door a few inches. “Can I help you?”
“Flower delivery for Kensie Milton,” he says in a bored voice, glancing at his tablet. “That you?”
“It is.” I manage to reach out without opening the door much farther. If the man thinks my overly cautious behavior is odd, he doesn’t mention it. Merely shoves the bouquet in my hands before tapping something on the tablet screen. “Have a nice night,” he mumbles before turning and walking down the hall.
I get the door shut—with all the locks secured—before I let myself open the brown paper. Sure enough, it’s a bouquet, but as I unwrap it more fully, my hands freeze.
These flowers are dead.
