Hopefully he'd gotten the picture last night. Now that he knew I wouldn't play along with his redemption kick, he was sure to get bored and give up on us. I ignored the twinge of loneliness that triggered. We didn't need him. I certainly didn't need him. Greyson wouldn't have stuck around anyway; once he felt like he'd done his good deed, he'd ride off into the sunset again, leaving us right back at square one. It was better to nip this in the bud before it even started.
A knock at the door snapped me out of my daydream. Unease settled in the pit of my stomach; no one ever knocked on my door. Could it be a bill collector? Fuck, I thought I'd made all our minimum payments for this month on time. But there was always some hidden fee, some surprise deadline, some fine-print bullshit meant to nickel-and-dime us out of an honest living.
Setting the ingredients on the counter, I lifted Maple into my arms and headed for the front door.
“Yes?” I asked loudly through the thick wood. I didn’t have a peephole, because my stupid landlord never got around to installing one, and I wasn’t about to open the door up for just anyone.
“Finley? It’s Grey,” a masculine voice rumbled.
Motherfucker.
I didn’t bother asking him how he found out where I lived. He worked for a private security firm. I was pretty sure he could get the records to my last Pap smear if he wanted to badly enough. The man had connections. And balls of steel, apparently, if showing up here tonight said anything.
Knowing how much Greyson could dig up on me should have been unnerving. But for whatever reason, I didn't feel like I was being stalked. Why wasn't I more scared or pissed off? Why did my gut tell me I could trust Greyson? Maybe I was just relieved that he wasn't some bill collector nagging me about late fees. This was a different kind of interruption entirely—one I could send packing if he annoyed me.
“Can I help you?” I asked through the locked door.
“Open the door,” he said, his voice unamused.
With a grumbled curse under my breath, I unbolted the dead lock, and pulled it open.
“Hey.” His voice was soft as he took in the view – me in an old t-shirt and yoga pants – hair up in a messy ponytail, with a baby on my hip. “Wow. She’s beautiful. She looks just like you.”
Surely he hadn’t just called me beautiful. I straightened my shoulders, tightening my grip on Maple. I wanted to ask him what the fuck he was doing here, but I was trying to cut out cursing for my daughter’s sake. “Why are you here?”
He held up a brown paper bag from the local organic grocery store – the one too expensive for me to shop at. I drove an extra ten minutes to go to the mega-mart in the next town over, where the aisles were wide and prices were rock bottom.
“I thought I made my point clear last night. Have you guys eaten?” He lowered the bags, but his eyes drilled into me. A little shiver tingled at the base of my spine.
The scent of mouth-watering food called to me. Much more than the stale bread and jelly in my kitchen did, but he would never know that. “Actually I was just about to start dinner.”
“Come on, it’s one meal. I even asked the lady at the deli what a toddler could eat. There’s homemade mac and cheese in here.”
“We don’t accept charity.”
“Dammit, Finley—”
“And don’t curse in front of my daughter.”
“Shit.” He took a deep breath. “I mean, shoot. Let me start over.”
I motioned for him to say his piece. Clearly he wasn’t leaving until he got something off his chest.
“Last night was …” He paused, frowning. “It was unexpected. And I think there’s a few more things that need to be said between us. Whether you want to do that tonight, or not, I still would like for you to enjoy this dinner.”
The food smelled amazing and the idea of not having to cook and clean up on my night off sounded even better. “Fine. Thanks.” I made a grab for the bag, but Greyson was faster. He held onto the bag and let himself in, essentially inviting himself over for dinner. I guess the food wasn’t just for me and Maple. I should have known.
“One dinner. And this doesn’t change anything,” I said.
“I know that.”
Seeing my place through his eyes, I was embarrassed. It never bothered me before that my furniture didn’t match, or that my carpeting was worn and stained. I was doing the best I could – playing both mom and dad to my little girl.
“What’s her name?” he asked, following me into the kitchen.
I set the bag of food on the kitchen table, and put Maple in her high chair. “Maple.”
“Sweet,” he replied.
An involuntarily and rare smile crossed my lips. “Yeah. She is.” She was my saving grace.
“You sell the house?” he asked while I grabbed plates from the cupboard.
I nodded. “It was either that or be foreclosed.” He was referring to the home Marcus and I had painstakingly restored one summer while he was on leave. Built last century with a huge front porch, we dreamed about filling all the bedrooms. It was our sanctuary. But after the stress of losing my husband, I went on bedrest for much of my pregnancy and couldn’t work. Then Maple was born early and the extended hospital stay caused me to rack up medical bills into the tens of thousands. Even my veteran's spousal benefits could only stretch so far.
“We’ve lived here almost a year now,” I added.