from Grisham?
Warmth floods my belly again at the sight of his name on my phone’s lit-up screen, but this time the feeling has nothing to do with fatherly love. This feeling is all about the elusive butterflies that have been missing from my life ever since Grisham went MIA more than a year ago.
I press the green call key and listen to the ringing.
“Hello?”
Grisham’s voice from the other end of a phone is the chocolate coating over a delectable piece of caramel. All of the rough embers of masculine goodness smoothed out over the cellular waves. I shiver with excitement.
“Grisham? Just got out of a meeting with my dad and saw that you called. What’s up?”
“Hey, Grits. How did it go with your dad?”
I flop onto the couch and put my bare feet up on the coffee table. I watch my wiggling toes as I think of how to tell Grisham about my father’s job offer. For some reason, the entire story wants to pour out of my mouth.
And I let it.
After I’m done, Grisham whistles. “That’s quite the offer. I get the feeling your relationship with your dad is kind of strained. Am I right?”
I nod before I remember he can’t see me. “Yes. It’s definitely that.”
He chuckles darkly. “Trust me, I get it. More than you know. You gonna take it?”
“That’s the thing! I’m not sure. I told him I’d take the long weekend to think it over. But…I kind of want to, you know? If for no other reason than he’ll pay me well and I can put money away for culinary school.”
His voice is full of something I can’t quite pin down when he answers. Admiration, maybe? “It’s a good plan. It’s smart to at least consider it.”
“Yeah. So, what were you actually calling me about before I spilled my guts?”
His outright laughter sends a pool of desire splashing through my core. How does he do that to me with just one sound?
God. Imagine what he could do to me with his hands. Or his mouth.
Oh, hell. The thought of Grisham’s big, strong hands on my body…or his hot, sweet mouth connecting with my skin…
“So how does that sound? Greta?”
Damn. My runaway imagination made me miss what he’d asked me.
“Um, I’m sorry, Grisham. Can you run that by me again?”
Sounding amused, he repeats his question. “Do you want to come to my Labor Day cookout? You can bring Mea. I’d…I’d like to have you there.”
I decide to play coy, rather than standing up and shouting “Hells, yes!” at the top of my voice. “Why? Why would you like me there?” I let the teasing show in my tone.
“Because if you don’t come, who else is going to cook up some potato salad in my kitchen?”
I gasp, and his laughter rings out through the phone.
“I’m kidding! Can you come? Please?”
On the last request, his voice drops an octave, and I’m putty in his hands. I’d probably say yes to just about anything he asks if he uses that deep, sexy tone again.
“Sure. And I’ll bring potato salad.”
My voice is breathless when I accept.
“Yes! Mission accomplished.”
Laughing, I stick my tongue out at the phone. “And if you’re good, I’ll bring you a special dessert.”
Silence stretches across the line, and a hot blush creeps across my face as I wonder if my flirting went too far.
“Um, chocolate pie tarts. That’s what I meant.”
Grisham’s voice is sand rolled in my palm when he answers, rough and coarse. “Damn. The dessert I’m picturing doesn’t have anything to do with chocolate. But it’s still really fucking sweet.”
Oh, Lordy in heaven above. I fan myself with one hand while I tuck the other between my knees as hard as I can. Tension is building fast and hard in my belly, and I squeeze my eyes shut as I silently count backward from five.
“That image might stay in my head all night.” My voice is just a whisper. “Good night, Grisham. I’ll see you Sunday afternoon.”
His low, sexy drawl will be repeating long after we hang up, I just know it. “’Night, Grits.
Warmth floods my belly again at the sight of his name on my phone’s lit-up screen, but this time the feeling has nothing to do with fatherly love. This feeling is all about the elusive butterflies that have been missing from my life ever since Grisham went MIA more than a year ago.
I press the green call key and listen to the ringing.
“Hello?”
Grisham’s voice from the other end of a phone is the chocolate coating over a delectable piece of caramel. All of the rough embers of masculine goodness smoothed out over the cellular waves. I shiver with excitement.
“Grisham? Just got out of a meeting with my dad and saw that you called. What’s up?”
“Hey, Grits. How did it go with your dad?”
I flop onto the couch and put my bare feet up on the coffee table. I watch my wiggling toes as I think of how to tell Grisham about my father’s job offer. For some reason, the entire story wants to pour out of my mouth.
And I let it.
After I’m done, Grisham whistles. “That’s quite the offer. I get the feeling your relationship with your dad is kind of strained. Am I right?”
I nod before I remember he can’t see me. “Yes. It’s definitely that.”
He chuckles darkly. “Trust me, I get it. More than you know. You gonna take it?”
“That’s the thing! I’m not sure. I told him I’d take the long weekend to think it over. But…I kind of want to, you know? If for no other reason than he’ll pay me well and I can put money away for culinary school.”
His voice is full of something I can’t quite pin down when he answers. Admiration, maybe? “It’s a good plan. It’s smart to at least consider it.”
“Yeah. So, what were you actually calling me about before I spilled my guts?”
His outright laughter sends a pool of desire splashing through my core. How does he do that to me with just one sound?
God. Imagine what he could do to me with his hands. Or his mouth.
Oh, hell. The thought of Grisham’s big, strong hands on my body…or his hot, sweet mouth connecting with my skin…
“So how does that sound? Greta?”
Damn. My runaway imagination made me miss what he’d asked me.
“Um, I’m sorry, Grisham. Can you run that by me again?”
Sounding amused, he repeats his question. “Do you want to come to my Labor Day cookout? You can bring Mea. I’d…I’d like to have you there.”
I decide to play coy, rather than standing up and shouting “Hells, yes!” at the top of my voice. “Why? Why would you like me there?” I let the teasing show in my tone.
“Because if you don’t come, who else is going to cook up some potato salad in my kitchen?”
I gasp, and his laughter rings out through the phone.
“I’m kidding! Can you come? Please?”
On the last request, his voice drops an octave, and I’m putty in his hands. I’d probably say yes to just about anything he asks if he uses that deep, sexy tone again.
“Sure. And I’ll bring potato salad.”
My voice is breathless when I accept.
“Yes! Mission accomplished.”
Laughing, I stick my tongue out at the phone. “And if you’re good, I’ll bring you a special dessert.”
Silence stretches across the line, and a hot blush creeps across my face as I wonder if my flirting went too far.
“Um, chocolate pie tarts. That’s what I meant.”
Grisham’s voice is sand rolled in my palm when he answers, rough and coarse. “Damn. The dessert I’m picturing doesn’t have anything to do with chocolate. But it’s still really fucking sweet.”
Oh, Lordy in heaven above. I fan myself with one hand while I tuck the other between my knees as hard as I can. Tension is building fast and hard in my belly, and I squeeze my eyes shut as I silently count backward from five.
“That image might stay in my head all night.” My voice is just a whisper. “Good night, Grisham. I’ll see you Sunday afternoon.”
His low, sexy drawl will be repeating long after we hang up, I just know it. “’Night, Grits.
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