Page 36 of Mismatched Mates

I paused, looking back over my shoulder.

"Thank you," he said. "For letting me help tonight. It... it felt good to do something worthwhile for a change." Then he hurried off to help two men fold one of the larger tables.

This was the Grant he didn’t usually let the world see, the one hiding under the careless smile. The Grant I didn’t even think his father saw in him. The urge to capture it, hold the image of him doing this like a polaroid, was almost overwhelming, and Iturned away. I had a job to do, and it was decidedlynotto moon over Grant Elston.

But one thing was certain: the line between fake and real was blurring more with each passing day. And I had no idea how to stop it – or if I even wanted to.

Despite the undeniable sexual chemistry, after the gala, I was able to convince myself that I didn't have any feelings for Grant.

But after seeing him volunteer to be auctioned off to help me and staying until the very end, his T-shirt soaked with sweat as he helped clean up, I couldn’t deny it any longer.

I liked Grant. There was a mischief to him, a lightness that made me want to smile the way I hadn’t in a long time. But more than that, there was a good man lurking underneath all those layers of defensive charm, and I wanted to peel them back. Expose him for the man he was.

More than anything, I wanted to see him again. As ridiculous as it was, as unnecessarily dramatic as it was, I found myself craving him. Unable to sleep, tossing and turning as I thought about his hands on me at the gala, or the look in his eyes when he told me he wanted to help me just because. The charity had rang and told me he’d gone on the date, just as promised. Imagining him on a date with that gorgeous blonde made my stomach squelch.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as I stared at my computer screen, the cursor blinking accusingly on a half-finished email. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, but instead of typing, they drifted to the edge of my desk, drumming an absent, nervous rhythm.

Grant's face floated into my mind unbidden. That slight quirk at the corner of his mouth when he'd caught me staring.

I shook my head, trying to focus. "Get it together, Jane," I muttered. The ache in my shoulders intensified as I hunched further over my laptop, squinting at the screen.

The faint scratch of my pen against paper filled the quiet office as I absently doodled in the margins of my notes. Spirals and loops, unconsciously mirroring the circular path of my thoughts. They kept returning to Grant, to the guarded way his voice had tightened when he'd mentioned his father.

I’d always been a nurturer. It was maybe my best quality and biggest flaw. As the days dragged by, I found myself wondering what I could do to soothe the pain he probably didn’t even acknowledge he had.

Five days after the charity auction, I idly corrected the same typo for what felt like the fifteenth time when my phone buzzed beside me. The muted buzz of my phone cut through my reverie. I grabbed it, seeing my son's name on the screen. “What’s up, buddy?”

“Soccer practice finished twenty minutes ago.” He sounded annoyed in a way I was certain would only get worse as he aged. “Where are you?”

“What?” I glanced at the clock only to find it was nearly half past five. “Shit. I’m so sorry, I’m coming now.”

“Was that a bad word?”

“No!”Note to self: stop swearing around the kids. “Are you okay? Is there somewhere safe you can wait?” I closed my laptop without bothering to finish the email and grabbed my jacket, hurrying out into the sprinkling rain. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“Did you forget about us?”

“Of course not..” I felt guilty enough for the both of us already. Even after Jason left, I never forgot about theirpractices. Tuesday and Thursday were soccer days—I picked them up on Tuesdays and Mom picked them up on Thursdays.

How did I not know what day of the week it was?

I hung up and pushed the speed limit—never quite breaking it—to the front of the school, where the boys were sitting on the steps alone. The rest of the kids had all gone home. The guilt rose in my chest. Bad enough their Father supposedly moved on—I couldn’t let them think I’d forgotten them too.

"Hey guys," I called, trying to inject some cheerfulness into my voice. "I'm so sorry I'm late."

"Practice ended forever ago, Mom," Lance grumbled as he slid into the backseat.

I swallowed hard. "I know, I lost track of time at work. How about we grab some pizza on the way home to make up for it?"

“Takeout?” Brandon asked skeptically, tilting his head. Usually pizza meant a frozen pie.

I gave in. “Takeout. But don’t tell Grandma, because she doesn’t think small boys should have pizza too often.”

“We’re not small boys,” Lance said.

“Yeah,” Brandon said. “And last time we were at Grandma’s house, she said we needed to stop growing because it was a crime. So there.”

“It’s true,” I said, catching their eyes in the rear-view mirror. “Youaregrowing up too fast. I want you to stay my little boys forever.”

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