“Look, I . . .” he starts, and I know it’s serious. “About that first time, at the bar—”
I hold up my hand. I don’t look at him—too embarrassed. “No need,” I mutter. My face has grown hot and my hands are shaking slightly as I pretend to write in my notebook. “Don’t worry about it. Honestly, it’s forgotten. I don’t hold it against you, and I don’t think you’re a bad person,” I say without making eye contact. Good, my heart hums in my chest. That’s the first word I think about when I look at him.
“Don’t you dare say sorry,” he hisses, and at the tone of his voice, I force myself to look up at his tormented expression. “I’m the one who should be saying sorry. You had every right to be upset with me.”
“It’s okay,” I promise earnestly. I don’t want to disregard his feelings or his sincere apology, but this isn’t a conversation I’m comfortable having. The memory of being left in that alley is embarrassing no matter how much time has passed.
“It isn’t. I can see it in your eyes, Bridget. Please don’t lie to me.”
“Honestly, Grant, I’d rather not relive that night.” I lower my gaze, hoping he sees how over this conversation I am.
“Bridget—”
My eyes meet his and I hope he hears my next words. “No. Please. Things are good right now. Let’s not make it more complicated.”
He nods. “Fine.”
Yesterday didn’t go well.
Yes, he respected my decision to shelf the conversation of that night, but I can’t help but feel bad. As much as I didn’t want to talk about it, I could tell he really did, so today I’m second-guessing my decision to push the memory to the side. Did I ruin our easy work atmosphere? Will things be stifled and awkward again today?
When I arrived today, Grant wasn’t in his office yet. I decided to grab the items I needed from his office before he got in. Maybe I can buy myself a couple of hours before I have to face him.
I’m in the corner of his office bent over riffling through files when Grant sneaks up behind me. “Bridget,” he calls, causing me to jump a mile.
“Jesus, Grant. You scared the ever-loving shit out of me.”
He chuckles. “Sorry about that. I probably should’ve announced myself in my office.”
“Hardy-har-har.” Relief. That’s what I’m feeling. The fact we’re able to fall right back into this easy conversation makes me happy.
“Could you check in the bottom drawer to see if there’s a file called Access? I can’t find it anywhere,” Grant asks.
I pull the lower drawer open and look through all the files, but it’s not there. “I’m not seeing it,” I say, looking over my shoulder at him. He’s staring at me intently. I know that look. Lust. He likes what he sees, and God if I can help it, but I feel the same damn way every time I look at him. “Um, let me check one more spot,” I say, breaking our stare. This train of thought isn’t healthy for me.
I move a few things around until I spot a misfiled item tucked within another folder. Access. Bingo. I lift the file, but as I do, I notice there’s also a framed photo in the file. I take both out and look up at Grant. He narrows his eyes as he spies what’s in my hand.
“I forgot that was in there,” he states with a hint of sadness.
I look down at the photo. In it, Grant looks much younger and much happier. He’s smiling into the camera, looking carefree. It’s a look he definitely doesn’t wear often anymore. Next to him is a young woman, and in his arms is a little girl.
“Your family?” I ask hesitantly. For as long as I’ve worked here, I’ve never heard of a daughter. I obviously knew about the wife, of course, but not the child. There’s a lot about Grant I don’t know, and right now that thought hurts. We’ve spent so much time together in this office and he hasn’t confided in me at all.
“It was my family. Things aren’t the same as they were then.” His eyes are hard. He almost seems angry.
“Grant—”
“There are parts of my life I’d rather not discuss.”
And there it is. Once more I’m shut out. Suddenly, I feel unsure about everything. The thought sours my stomach, but then my uncertainty is replaced with sheer . . . anger. He’s acting like I snooped or I’m pushing him into sharing. I’m not, dammit, and I’m tired of always feeling awkward and out of place. Fuck this.
“I’m not asking you to share parts you don’t want to share. I stumbled across this because you left it lying around in places I’ve been given access to . . . to do my damn job. It’s not as though I was digging through your personal items.”
“I’m sorry. You’re right. It’s not your fault. I put it there and truly forgot.”
“It’s a nice picture. You look happy in it.” The words come out before I have a chance to think.
He stiffens. “It was a lifetime ago, Bridget. Trust me, you don’t want to know about any of that.”
He’s wrong. I do want to know about him. I don’t know why after everything. I shouldn’t care, but I do.
“You’re wrong, Grant,” I say honestly. “Tell me. Please.”
He stares at me for what feels like a solid minute. “That photo was taken two years after I had a falling out with my family. Chelsea was pretending to be a doting wife. I thought things between us were turning around. She seemed to be obsessed with our daughter.” He huffs. “But it was all a mirage. If I’d look closer, I would’ve seen what was really going on.”
“What was going on?”
“A hostile takeover. Soon after this picture was taken, she suggested we take my family head-on by starting our own luxury brand of hotels. It was all an act to butter me up.”
He starts pacing the room, toying with his watch absently. He looks tortured, and I can’t tell if it’s because of his relationship with Chelsea or the fallout with his family. Perhaps it’s both.
I need to comfort him.
I approach him like one would a wounded animal. Slow and steady. When I reach him, I place my hand on his shoulder, stopping his movements. He turns to look at me.
“I can’t claim to know anything about what happened between you and your family, but I’m sure they miss you too.”
He scoffs. “Not after everything I’ve been a party to.”
What exactly did he do? What’s the hostile takeover that he mentioned? I’m finally starting to get answers, and I don’t want to push too hard, so I switch up tactics. “Starting your own chain of hotels seems like a big undertaking. Was it something you’d thought about doing before?”
I know very little about the Lancaster family, but from what I do know, he would have never needed to start his own. In fact, it would be in direct competition unless he was opening another branch or sister hotel, but that’s not what The L is.
“I always planned on owning and operating my own hotel. It’s my family legacy. It was always supposed to be mine.” His tired eyes pierce mine. “I fucked that all up. I’m not a good man, Bridget.”