My father turns his gaze to me. “What’s going on, Rita?”
The wordkidis gone now. Rita’s back.
“Grant and I have some things to discuss.”
Debby pushes back from the table and takes her plate to the sink. “Grant, can I get you something to eat?”
One thing about Louisiana is no matter how awkward a situation, food will always be offered. Nobody’s going hungry in Debby’s kitchen, even if it’s only four in the afternoon.
“No, thank you,” Grant says even though I can see him eyeing the Crock-Pot.
“Mississippi pot roast,” Debby says. “Only five ingredients but it’s darn good. Secret is the peperoncinis. How about just a bite?” Debby takes a plate to the counter and dips out about a thousand bites from the Crock-Pot. She piles the plate high and brings it to Grant along with a roll.
“We’ll take it upstairs,” I say to him.
Debby goes to the refrigerator and returns with a large glass of milk. She holds it out to Grant.
“Thanks, Debby,” I say, taking the milk.
Milk is not the drink we need right now.
“We’ll be upstairs,” I say to them.
Debby makes a tsk sound, but I ignore her.
“Nice to meet you both,” Grant says. “I’ll bring the plate down when I’m done.” He holds it up. “Thank you.”
I’m not used to men with manners. The men I’ve dated, like most of the people I’ve worked with, compete with me. They would have turned their noses up at Debby and her pot roast, made a joke about it as soon as we were out of the kitchen. A kitchen the men I’ve dated have never been in. I’ve never brought a guy here. Except for the one I snuck in when I was a teenager. The one who bought me my ticket to Poison Wood. It’s no wonder my dad’s gaze feels like it’s burning a hole in my back.
I pause on the first step on the back staircase. Love interest? I glance back at Grant, who is smiling. Now I’m even more unsettled.
He follows me up the stairs to my old room, and with each step up, I know I’m doubting what I’m about to show him. This decision may not turn out to be the best one. I’m about to trust him with something I’ve never trusted anyone with. It feels reckless but somehow still right.
I stop at my bedroom door and open it before I can change my mind. The contents of the old suitcase are still scattered and stacked across the floor along with the journals I didn’t hand over to Erin. Grant steps in behind me and studies the mess.
“What is all this?”
“This is Poison Wood,” I say.
He bends down, sets his plate on the floor, and picks a journal. “What is all this?”
“My past.”
He looks up at me. “Why are you showing me all of this?”
“I’m not sure,” I say, glancing down. “I need someone I can trust right now. And I want to trust you.” I meet his gaze again. “I think I might like you.”
He laughs and shakes his head. “That’s good. I think I might like you too.” He finds a spot on the floor and sits. “Do we need to talk about what happened the other night?” He takes a bite from his plate. “Damn. That’s good.”
I set the milk beside him. “I’ll be right back,” I say.
Downstairs, I beeline to the bar and grab the Macallan and two glasses of ice, ignoring Debby’s sour stare and my father’s worried look as I march back upstairs like a petulant teenager.
I shut my bedroom door behind me and join Grant on the floor. I pour two glasses, handing one to him.
“Now, let’s talk,” I say.
He removes his suit jacket. “You first.”
