“COME ON, MELODY. HURRY UP,” Delaney called to her sister from the kitchen. “If we get to yoga late we’ll get stuck in the front of the room where all the mirrors are.”
Sun shone in from every window as Melody hopped down the hall with one hand on the wall while trying to pull her shoe on with the other. “I like being in the front by all the mirrors. How else can I see myself?”
“Hurry up.” Delaney screwed on the top to her water bottle just as Melody tipped over and fell on the floor.
“This is actually yoga right here,” Mel called out, giggling. “Me trying to put on my damn shoe.”
Delaney laughed at the heap that was her sister. She was glad to be home. Life in the Masterson household had returned to its loosely structured chaos, and the outpouring of support she’d received from friends and fans in the four days since her interview aired was helping to boost her spirits. But the Grant-sized canyon running its way through her heart was just as craggy, sharp, and deep.
She’d thought for sure he’d try to call her by now, but nothing. It had been over a week since she’d left Memphis, but no calls. No texts. Nothing. Then she’d seen a picture of the two of them on the cover of a magazine and wondered if he realized he’d become part of the story. He wouldn’t be pleased by that. He probably thought she leaked those pictures herself. So maybe she should call and tell him she hadn’t, but what would be the point?
She wanted him back. Desperately so, but she hadn’t yet figured out how to make that happen. She’d even thought about calling and pretending to care about the rent money, even though she didn’t care about it. If anything, she was glad for that last link connecting them. But pretending had an awful ring to it these days. No more pretending for her.
Melody scrambled up from the floor after finally managing to put on her shoe, but then she bent over to peek out the front window. She walked over and moved aside the curtain.
“Oh my God, would you stop dawdling? You’re like a little kid.” Delaney picked up her keys and headed to the front door. “I’m leaving without you.”
“Why is there a hottie standing next to a yellow Volkswagen in our driveway?” Melody asked.
Delaney skidded to a halt, her shoes squeaking on the floor tiles. “What?”
“Hottie. Volkswagen. Driveway,” Melody said, pointing out the window and kneeling on the sofa that was in front of it to get a better view. She moved the curtain farther to the side. “Damn. Superhot. Like, supernaturally hot.”
It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be.
Delaney plunked her keys and the water bottle down on the coffee table and knelt on the couch next to her sister to look outside.
And there he was.
Grant, in her driveway, next to her piece of shit Volkswagen. He was standing there in jeans and a white T-shirt, with his phone in his hand.
Delaney’s ringtone chimed from the kitchen, and she nearly twisted her ankle trying to scramble from the couch back to the counter in record time. She did manage to knock Melody on the floor in the process, a feat that had been mostly accidental. Those Masterson girls were nothing if not graceful. Delaney scooped up her phone and stared at the screen.
The number was Grant’s, of course. Of course, it was Grant’s. She could see him through the window. She could just open the door, but . . . she took a big breath. In. Out. Then she answered, trying to keep her voice mellow, which was no easy task.
“Hello?”
“Lane?”
“Yes?”
His pause was just long enough to rattle her senses. Was he happy to be there? Was he still mad? She needed him to talk. She needed him to set the tone.
“It’s Grant.”
“I know. You’re in my driveway.”
“I am? Thank God. I couldn’t figure out if this was the right house or not. The address matches your luggage tag but the place looks completely different on TV.”
She turned around and looked out the kitchen window to stare at him. God, he looked good. He looked perfect.
“That’s because on TV they use a shot of a different house so we don’t get crazy stalker fans hanging out in our front yard.”
Why? Why was this what they were talking about? She watched him nodding his head.
“Oh. Oh, that makes sense. I guess.”
“Yeah.”
She wanted to say something else, anything else. She’d been waiting for his call since the moment that taxi had driven her away from his aunt’s house. Now it was more than a week later, and in spite of all her rehearsing, she couldn’t think of any of the stuff she’d meant to tell him.
He cleared his throat. “So, um, I can’t stop thinking about you,” he finally said, and her heart slammed so hard inside her chest she may have just broken a rib. It felt like she’d broken a rib. She might need an X-ray.
“You can’t?”
“No. In fact, I’ve been thinking about you a lot. Pretty much all day, and . . . definitely all night.” He leaned against the side of the yellow car.