A sad frown quietly crept over Sophie’s delicate features. She knew exactly why he was using the word “boss.” It was a term of respect for corrections officers, a word that made her shudder. Apparently Roger had not shared Grant’s prison history with his coworkers.
They made it to the street in the fading daylight and thankfully didn’t wait long for an available cab. A few minutes more and Grant might start singing again—or possibly start vomiting. He seemed more incoherent with each passing moment.
As Tommy helped her stuff Grant into the taxi, grunting with exertion, he asked, “So, you’ll be okay, then?”
“I think so,” she replied nervously, feeling Grant’s warm body close to hers in the backseat. His head lolled against the headrest, and his eyes were closed.
“I’ll lock up and go see about Rog,” Tommy said. “Catch you tomorrow.”
When Tommy closed the door, the cabbie looked at Sophie expectantly. She realized she had no idea where they were going. “Grant? What’s your address?”
He laid there motionless. “Grant!” she repeated, poking his shoulder. “Where do you live?”
“Studio,” he mumbled. “Eggs and sausage.” She scrunched her forehead. His next utterance was not any more helpful: “Snoring. Really loud ssssnoring.”
She gave up and told the cabdriver, “It’s 900 North Lake Shore Drive.” She hoped Kirsten wouldn’t be upset about an unannounced houseguest.
During the ten-minute cab ride, Sophie wondered how she was going to get an unconscious, six-foot-one man up to Kirsten’s apartment. However, about a minute into the drive, Grant came back to life. His long eyelashes fluttered open and he glanced around, his intense blue eyes coming to rest on the strawberry-blonde returning his gaze.
“Sophie.” He smiled, reaching out to caress her face with his hand. She held her breath. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, stroking her cheek softly. “You’re my angel. My elegant angel.”
Her face burned with his touch, and the heat only intensified when he leaned in and brushed his lips across her cheek. She closed her eyes and reveled in the sensation of his full, luscious lips planting soft kisses, starting at her temple and then languorously descending to her jaw. She stroked the length of his thigh, urging him onward. His usual sandalwood scent had been replaced by the sweet, almost nutty smell of agave emanating from his pores. He was a walking tequila shot. Well, the walking part remained to be seen.
“We’re at 900 North Lake Shore,” the driver announced after the fastest cab ride ever. Sophie glanced at the meter and grimaced as she withdrew a ten-dollar bill from her pocket. Living in the city could sure cut down on her profits. As she started to hand over the cab fare, Grant, suddenly lucid, reached out and clutched her wrist.
“No, I got it,” he insisted, energized by kissing her soft skin. He quickly whipped out his own money despite Sophie’s protests. After he paid the driver they both managed to scoot out of the seat and stand at the curb.
“Where are we?” he asked.
She stared into his tired, half-lidded eyes. Grasping his hand in hers she told him, “We’re home, Grant.” He nodded gratefully. Indeed, when it came to Sophie, he definitely felt he had found his home.
13. Low Lo
The cries of seagulls could barely be heard over the pounding surf. A solitary man stood silhouetted against the setting sun’s brilliant orange glow. Frothy ocean waves crashed at the shore and raced toward his cowboy boots before receding once again. Like the repeated screw-ups in his own life, the waves just kept coming.
He was a strong, strapping man, and he cut an imposing figure if anyone were to study him from the beach. His black leather jacket and worn jeans were out of place in Hilton Head, South Carolina. He faced the mysterious and powerful sea, his chiseled features drawn with lines of worry and regret as his deep-blue eyes stared, mesmerized, at a piece of driftwood bobbing in the ocean.
Logan Barberi had been hiding out on this island for a little over a year, feeling as adrift and cast aside as the piece of weathered wood now capturing his attention. He had disappeared the moment Sophie called him, her voice shaking with betrayal and disbelief. It had taken only a few heatedly exchanged words for her to arrive at icy resolve. When she’d coldly informed him it was over, he’d realized she was lost to him forever. And that he’d better get the hell out of Chicago if he didn’t want to spend a long time locked away with his father.
“Sophie …” he whispered gruffly. The painful memories threatened to drown him.
As soon as Logan had entered her office, she asked, “Would you like some coffee? I can just go down the hall and get some from the break room.”
Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he shook his head.
“I was hoping you’d come back.”
“Do I have a choice?” Logan retorted.
“We always have choices, Logan. You just might not like the consequences of particular choices. If you choose not to return to counseling, the consequence will likely be prison. That’s not such an appealing consequence, but you still have a choice.”
He shot her an uncomfortable glance. He despised being tied to her, betrothed to her stamp of approval. Once she gave him the thumbs up, confirmed that he was cured of his gambling addiction, he could end this little dance they performed once a week: her asking questions and him evading her at every pass. Nevertheless, Logan had realized he would miss her once this was over. She was beautiful and kind, a real classy chick. Certainly out of his league.
“I was worried that last week’s session might have been a bit rough for you,” she explained, and they both silently recalled him bawling like a baby as he discussed a childhood beating by his father. Sophie had assumed his tears were about failing to protect his brother back then. But she was wrong. What really hit him in the gut, causing him to weep uncontrollably, was his guilt about something that happened to them as adults. What he had done to his brother was unforgiveable.
“It was fine,” he lied.
Sophie gave a nervous smile. It was now time to address the kiss—the smoldering smooch Logan had planted on her as she tried to comfort him last week. The kiss she did not stop. The kiss that heated her to the core.
She cleared her throat. “Uh, I need to talk to you about something.”
He watched her slide her hands beneath her lithe, long legs, tucking the sides of her unusually long skirt against them. Dismayed to find those gorgeous gams hidden, Logan eyed her blushing cheeks curiously.
“The, uh …” She cleared her throat again. “When I sat next to you, and tried to, um, provide support as you were reliving that painful memory, well …”
Logan was amused to watch her avert her gaze, not daring to meet his intense stare. After her countless comments about how he refused to maintain eye contact, he enjoyed this little role-reversal.