When Grant stepped inside and closed the door, he hung close to it, looking almost uncomfortable. “Listen. Ryan. I don’t know—”
“Come here.” I held my hand out for him and waited.
Grant studied it with the same look of conflict I’d seen on his face so many times, like he was debating which choice would cause him less pain because either way, he’d come out gutted in the end.
A moment later, his hand slipped around mine.
Cruz had left a few lights on in the living room and kitchen, but the hall lights were off. As I led Grant down the hall, into the darkness, I could hear his breathing pick up. His steps behind me became more hesitant, but his grip on my hand tightened. It was as if one part of him was trying to leave while another part was vying to stay.
When we came to the closed bedroom door, I set my hand on the handle. My hand was shaking again, but this time, it was for a different reason. I couldn’t go back now. I couldn’t go back ever. Opening this door was like opening a portal to a new world for us. All of us.
The door opened with a low whine, and I stepped inside, guiding Grant in with me. It was dark except for the streetlights casting in through the closed window. Grant stopped in the doorway, still keeping hold of my hand.
“Ryan . . .” His voice was low, thick with an emotion I wasn’t familiar with. Then he exhaled. “I can’t.”
It took me a moment to realize what he was getting at. When I did, I felt heat rush up my neck into my cheeks when I realized he thought I was inviting him into bed with me.
Reaching over to where I’d set a night light on the dresser, I clicked it on. A cool glow of light spilled into the room, illuminating it just enough. My eyes drifted to the bed, my face softening as my whole body relaxed from seeing her sleeping peacefully.
I heard Grant’s footsteps behind me. There was a moment of silence, then his breath stopped. Twisting around, I looked up at him, not knowing what I’d find written on his face.
His eyes were trained on the bed where she slept, a myriad of emotions playing in his eyes. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t blink as he stared at her.
“Grant,” I whispered a minute later, my hand squeezing his.
My voice or my touch or both made him flinch, but his eyes never roamed from where they were stuck. “She’s yours?” His voice came from low in his chest, vibrating in his throat.
Sucking in a breath, I nodded. “And yours.”
His breath stopped again, his eyes sliding to mine. Something flashed in them. “Mine?”
I reached for something else on the dresser. “Yours.” Then I held out the picture for him. A photo of her.
His eyes dropped to the photo I was holding, realization settling in at the same time his head started to shake. “No,” he said, letting go of my hand. “No.”
“Grant, she’s yours. Look at her.” I lifted the picture closer for him to see how she had the same wide brown eyes, the same mouth, and color of hair.
“No . . .” He rolled his neck, shaking his head almost like he was in shock.
“Look at her,” I demanded, holding the picture even closer. I knew this would be a shock, but I also knew if anyone could handle it, it was Grant Turner. He’d been through worse. He’d come out ahead of bigger curveballs. The sooner I got him to accept that this was his daughter, the sooner we could figure out what came next. “She’s yours. She’s your daughter.”
Finally, his gaze landed on the photo. The skin between his brows drew deep as he studied it, his breath coming in labored pulls again. “What’s her name?” When his eyes moved from the photo to where she was in bed, he swallowed.
“Charlie.” I smiled. “She’s seven.”
Grant shifted, a pained expression settling into his face. “I have a seven-year-old daughter and this is the first time I’m finding out about it?” At first, it sounded like he was talking to himself, but then his eyes cut to mine. “You kept my daughter a secret from me for seven years?”
He was still managing to control his voice, but I knew the look working its way onto his face well enough to know it wouldn’t stay that way. Squeezing between him and the door, I moved into the living room. He lingered in the bedroom for a minute before following, but he paused to close the door quietly.
Instead of barreling into the living room and saying everything I could see firing in his eyes, Grant tucked the picture of Charlie in his pocket and stormed for the front door.
“Where are you going?” I rushed after him.
“I need to go.” He already had the locks undone and the door open.
Where did he think he was going? I’d just told him he had a daughter. And he was about to walk out? This was not the way I’d planned this going. Not even close.
“Stay. Talk.” My fingers curled around his arm, but he shook it off.
“I can’t talk because I don’t want to say something I’d regret and right now” —his jaw ground together as he took a breath—“anything I say, I know I’m going to regret. Just give me some space.”
“Grant . . .” I followed him a few steps into the parking lot.
“No, that’s not the way this works.” He spun around on me, throwing his arms out at his sides. He looked angry. Chernobyl angry. “You don’t get to hide my daughter from me, surprise me with her like this, then decide how this is going to work.”
Something that felt like a sob lodged in my throat. “I’m sorry.”