“Tommy told me. I found out all kinds of fun facts about you last night, Lieutenant Madsen.”
A tendril of fear crept up his spine. He wondered what else she now knew about him. He needed to be more careful. Grant swung his legs around the sofa and willed himself not to groan as he sat up. “Actually I better go get cleaned up at Roger’s.”
Sophie hid her disappointment and nodded. Kirsten would be bummed not to see the conscious McSailor before he left.
Once Grant determined Kirsten’s apartment was not all that far from Roger’s place, he went home to shower, but promised to return immediately so they could walk to the hospital together.
*
An hour later, Grant and Sophie walked to the hospital: him freshly shaved with a splash of tantalizing aftershave, her smelling of soap and lavender.
“So, about last night,” Grant began. “I don’t remember everything, but …” His eyes widened with horror. “Oh my God, was I singing?”
She giggled. “Yes, you were!” She wondered if he remembered the best part of the evening—the cab ride home.
“Oh.” He groaned in embarrassment.
“How did you know the lyrics to all those Frank Sinatra songs?”
“My mother was a huge fan of Frank.”
“She was a fan? What—she doesn’t like Ol’ Blue Eyes anymore?”
Grant looked down awkwardly. “Actually, my mother is deceased.”
Sophie wondered if her entire foot would fit in her huge mouth. “Oh, Grant, I’m sorry.” They walked in silence until she quietly asked, “How old were you when she died?”
“Twelve.”
Sophie suddenly understood his kind response to learning of her own mother’s death. They had yet another thing in common. Affectionately she stroked his hand, and her touch made Grant feel instantly better.
“That must have been really hard, to lose her when you were so young,” she ventured, drawing herself closer to him.
“It was horrible.”
“You said your dad was a jerk. Did you have to live with him then?”
“No, my mom left him before she died. My uncle adopted me instead. Wait a minute.” He paused midstride. “I thought we agreed not to discuss our pasts?”
“Whoops, there I go into psychologist mode again. I obnoxiously start interrogating everyone. No wonder my dates think I’m analyzing them.”
“Your dates?” Grant cracked a smile. “Do you wish to elaborate on that?”
Sophie returned his smile. “No talking about the past, remember?”
“Oh, so that rule only applies when it’s convenient?”
They continued walking until Sophie could no longer contain her curiosity. “So, anything else you remember about last night?”
“Hmm, let me think. It seemed like the cruise went pretty well, but I don’t recall much after that. How did we get to Kirsten’s place?”
“We took a cab,” she reminded him.
“A cab? No, I don’t remember that. Though there is a memory nagging at me. Seems like there was something I wanted to do last night, but I didn’t get a chance. What was that?”
With his free hand he tapped his chin while Sophie studied him, almost bursting with anticipation.
“Ah, now I remember!” he cried victoriously. “I wanted to do this.” He pulled her toward him and gathered her in his arms as his hand lovingly cradled the back of her neck. She stopped breathing as he leaned down—ohmigod, the Adonis was about to kiss her—and planted the softest, most sensual kiss on her lips.
Time stood still on the busy Chicago street.
She drew her hand to his face and gently stroked his cheek as their lips melted together. Their first kiss lasted far longer than a chaste peck, but not so long that Sophie lost the ability to stand. But the intensity and spine-tingling power of his exquisite lips caressing hers lingered long after he reluctantly ended their liplock.
Sophie glanced around and was relieved that nobody seemed to be staring. “You, uh …” She cleared her throat. “You remembered what you started in the cab.”
He smiled, noticing the flush of her cheeks and the fire in her eyes. “Kissing you on the cheek was only the beginning, Sophie.” He gave her hand a squeeze. “I may have been drunk, but I would never forget kissing your beautiful face.”
*
Arriving at Roger’s hospital room, Grant and Sophie heard an argument inside. Grant rapped lightly before sticking his head cautiously into the room. Roger glared at the nurse, who looked disapprovingly at her patient.
“How’s it goin’, Rog?” Grant inquired uneasily.
“Not good, Madsen. Not good at all. This nurse,” he gestured emphatically toward the older woman standing at his bedside, “wants to ‘accompany’ me to the bathroom. Ain’t no way a chick is gonna watch me take a piss.”
“It’s standard protocol, Mr. Eaton,” she replied. “You’re at a higher risk for falls following surgery.”
“You had surgery?” Sophie asked.
Roger grunted. “It’s no big deal. They went in and messed with my ticker, and now I’m good as new.”
“Mr. Eaton had a procedure called an angioplasty,” the nurse chimed in. “We inserted a stent into his artery to open up the blockage to his heart.”
“That does sound like a big deal,” Grant said.
Roger rolled his eyes.
Grant glanced at the nurse. “How about I take Mr. Eaton to the head? Would that be okay, Rog?”
Roger reluctantly nodded. This hospital thing sucked.
The nurse briefed Grant on preventing falls as he assisted Roger into the bathroom. “Tell Mr. Eaton I’ll return to give him his sponge bath later,” she said.
A few minutes later, Sophie was dismayed to see the color drained from Roger’s face as Grant helped him back into bed. Walking across the room was clearly exhausting.
“Where did Nurse Ratched go?” Roger spat.
Sophie giggled. “She’s coming back to give you your sponge bath later.”
Grant arched his eyebrows. “I think she likes you, Rog. Maybe if you weren’t such a pain in the ass, you two might get along better.”
“Save it, Madsen,” Roger growled. “Now, give me an update. Did you two sink my ship last night? Do I have a business to return to when I get the hell out of here?”
Grant and Sophie exchanged nervous glances, and he tentatively spoke first. “Yes, we had a sold-out cruise last night, sir.”
“No shit. I’m asking how it went. You were almost pooping a brick about being the docent for the cruise. What happened? Did you pull it off, or royally fuck it up?”
“I think it went well,” Grant said.
“You think it went well?” Roger studied Grant, wondering why he looked a bit ill. He turned to Sophie. “How did Madsen do?”
“He did great, Roger. I was the one who struggled, trying to get the drink orders right.”
Sensing evasiveness, Roger folded his meaty arms across his chest but stopped when it turned out to be painful. Angrily he demanded answers. “Tell me how you described the Trump Tower to the passengers, Madsen.”
“You know, I said the same stuff you say, but I added how Trump was planning a one-hundred-fifty story building before the World Trade Center thing, and I tied in the winner of The Apprentice—stuff like that.”