Chapter 12: I'm Starving

My eyes widened at the compliment. After years of Ben telling me I was a 4/10 or the cute wife but never the beautiful wife, I couldn't wrap my mind around that. Grant took the eraser end of his pencil and poked the furrow between my brows, "Stop thinking that you are not good enough. Take whatever that asshole said about you and give it to this painting."

I raised an eyebrow at him and gave a breathy chuckle, "What?"

Grant smiled ruefully and turned back toward the painting. When I followed his line of sight this time, I studied the artwork slowly. It was beautiful. The image was of a 50s-style woman lounging in a robe on a couch, staring into what I assumed was a TV. Her hair was pinned up in those huge rollers covered by a scarf, and the look on her face mirrored the insecurities I felt deeply. The light glow from the TV cast a shadow on one side of her face. For some reason, a small tear slipped out and rolled down my cheek. As I absorbed the carefully painted strokes the woman was comprised of, I understood a little of what Grant had said. He suddenly swiped the tear's wet trail from my cheek with the pad of his thumb.

The gesture called to me, and I found my face turning toward him on its own. I bit my lip, hating that the pity in Grant's eyes would break me in a moment. I would end up sobbing in the middle of the museum with a man I'd only met twice before. However, when his gaze met mine, there was only admiration and softness I would never expect from this brutal hockey player.

"Yeah. Leave it with her," he whispered, his smile not reaching his eyes. I let the side of my face nestle in his touch. Grant's eyes flitted to my lips, and a heat simmered in that gaze. I was about to respond when he pulled away. His attention was back on the painting, and my cheek was already missing his warm touch.

I bit my lip and shook my head slightly to clear out the hazy desire before asking, "How did you know there was some asshole that made me feel unworthy?"

Grant shot me a knowing look, "There is always some asshole, and from that look you gave me earlier, it wasn't hard to guess it was recent."

"You could say that." I should have walked away from him, but something about this humble and vulnerable man made me want to stay. I'd never felt so drawn to someone before. I bit my lip, then blew out a heavy puff of air, "You are so not what I thought you were."

He glanced at me before looking forward, "I know my reputation claims me to be some sort of unreasonable and harsh party boy with a new flavor of the week, but that is not entirely accurate."

I smiled coyly, "You mean you don't usually pick up women at a bar and leave them in the wee hours of the morning?"

Grant gave a breathy laugh as his eyes flicked up toward the ceiling, "Not even close. That was a first for me, but I left a note. I had morning practice and didn't want to wake you at 5 am."

"The maid woke me up, and I didn't find a note. No worries, though; we are both adults. I still have your shirt, so I should bring that back."

He stared at me, a strange emotion passing his expression. Grant's lips parted to say something when footsteps made me jump away from him. We had been close enough that he could have kissed me if I tipped my head just right. I hadn't even realized I was slowly leaning toward him. A couple dressed in a grungy-artist style approached the painting, quietly studying it. The guy's expression grew bored quickly, and his eyes wandered over to where Grant was sitting. "Hey, man! You're Grant Dawes!"

Grant smiled tightly, "Yes, that would be me."

"Whoa! Baby, do you know who this is?" The man tugged at the woman's arm. Her eyes drank in Grant's body, and a slight smirk tugged at her lips. "He is an outstanding hockey player, like hall-of-fame kinda good."

"Oh yeah?" The woman licked her lips and continued to stare at Grant as her oblivious date continued to rant and rave about him. Jealousy I had no business feeling gripped my chest. I watched as Grant's face slipped into a cocky demeanor, and he politely replied to the guy's questions, but his body looked tense. As the guy spoke with increasing excitement, the people around us started to gather. Just like during the interview, Grant's body language seemed to exude a laid-back and arrogant vibe, but his white-knuckled grip on his sketchbook hinted toward his discomfort.

When another stranger placed his hand on Grant's shoulder, I jumped up from the bench and said, "Hey, I know you are all fans. However, we are in the middle of a date. So if you would kindly buzz off, that would be soooo helpful."

Relief flashed in Grant's eyes as the group started to dissipate with apologies and snide remarks about how rude I was. I offered my hand to him, "Well, now it is officially a date, so are you hungry?"

His eyes darkened with an unreadable emotion. Grant stuffed his sketchpad in a shoulder bag I just now noticed he had and stood. He took my hand in his and looked directly into my eyes, saying, "I'm starving."