Page 86 of Defended By Love

“Technically, I’ve already had a meal with your mom.” I pause mid-step up the stairs. “Or maybe, technically, I haven’t. Either way, it’s no big deal.”

“Definitely not a big deal,” Grant continues to mumble to himself.

And that’s enough of that.

“Okay, Mumbles. Spit it out.”

I stop abruptly and Grant nearly falls over in his attempt to avoid contact with me. I don’t care. I know that Dr. Debbie says that these sorts of conversations should be had in a comfortable, relaxed, judgement-free environment, but apparently it’s happening now—in a dark stairwell while his mother waits for us for dinner.

“Spit what out?”

“Do you have any idea what I charge by the hour for people to talk to me? It’s a lot. So, I make sure to make the most of their time. We’re going to cut through all the muttering and asides and you’re going to tell me what’s going on.” Grant stares at me. “Now.”

Grant runs his hand through his hair. “It’s just… you deserve better.”

I narrow my eyes. “Define better.”

“Don’t make me say it.”

“Define better.”

Grant sighs. “You deserve a guy like you—someone smart and professional. Someone who lives in a fancy penthouse, not in his mother’s basement. Someone cool, who attends yacht parties or whatever, not role-playing with his friends.” His next words come out like an axe ripped from a stump. “And you definitely don’t deserve a janitor.”

Since I’m a stair up from him, I can go up on my tiptoes to kiss him softly before I tear into him.

“That,” I say, pulling away from my gentle kiss, “is some of the worst logic I’ve ever heard.”

“I just mean—”

I hold up a finger to his lips. “No, sorry. You lose talking privileges when you utter complete nonsense.” I smile at him to show I’m being light. Then, I keep going because I’m also serious. “First of all, there is nothing wrong with being a janitor. It’s a great job that adds value to the world, unlike so many of the sleazier lawyers I go up against. Next, I’ll have you know that I once dated someone like me. Almost exactly like me. He was a lawyer—driven, smart, handsome. He had his own apartment and was on track to be partner by his late thirties. And do you know what happened between us?”

Grant shakes his head, taking his no talking privileges to heart.

“Nothing. In fact, I think we’re still dating.”

I don’t continue right away. No, I look at the way Grant looks like his head might explode if he doesn’t track this man down and kill him immediately. It really shouldn’t be sexy.

But it is.

“What I mean, is literally nothing. I got busy with work. He got busy with work and neither of us made time to see each other. We didn’t even make time to break up. So, no, I don’t need someone like me. I’m terrible in a relationship. I need someone like you.

“I need someone who will wake up early to see me off to work if that’s all the time we get to spend together. I need someone who will pester me to have lunch with them. I need someone who will hit me over the head with the fact that they love me because they don’t see emotions as a weakness.

“I need someone like you not just for the sake of our relationship, but also for the sake of me. I need someone to show me why spending time with friends is so important. I need someone who lives for being there for his family. I need someone to remind me there’s more to life than work.

“But beyond that, I need someone who loves me. And there’s no one that can love all my messed-up parts, except you. So, don’t tell me what I deserve. I’m awesome and I deserve the fucking best. I deserve you.”

Despite the fact that I absolutely slay closing arguments, I’m nervous. Usually when I argue, it has nothing to do with me. This, though, was my heart on a platter.

Grant doesn’t answer.

His hands flutter to the sides of my face and he cradles my trembling lips like I’m made of porcelain. He opens his mouth and then closes it again.

“Can I speak now?” he asks in barely a whisper.

Before I can answer, there’s a light knock a few feet up at the door at the top of the stairs that connects to the main part of the house.

“Can I open the door?” Grant’s mom asks.

---