Page 67 of Heartbreaker

She’s not needling me.

In fact, she’s comforting me.

And…that doesn’t compute.

“What do you mean you kind of have a grandparent now?” she asks softly when I don’t reply.

I blink then exhale slowly, clawing my way out of my head to focus on what she’s asking. And truly, it’s not a hard question to answer. “Aspen’s next-door neighbor was this older lady named Mrs. X. She looked out for Aspen when things were really going rough for her, and now that Aspen and Banks are together, they’re returning the favor. She’s become an honorary member of the family.”

“That’s sweet,” Jade murmurs.

“They’re good people. And so is Mrs. X,” I add, rolling to my back when she wriggles against me, as though searching for a more comfortable position. I draw her front against my chest, so she’s lying on me instead of the rug, and smooth my good hand up and down her back. “Of course, she’s also as much of a spitfire as Aspen is, so when those two get together…”

“Fireworks?”

“Sass and laughter and, yes, occasionally there are fireworks.” A beat. “Though usually that only happens if someone insults Mrs. X’s favorite actor.”

“Who’s that?”

“Patrick Stewart.”

She mock gasps and then folds her arms on my chest, resting her chin on top of them. “Who would dare insult the great Patrick Stewart?”

I shrug, as much as I’m able in my position. “Someone who’s dumb enough to miss out on Mrs. X’s baking.”

“She bakes?”

“And cooks. And meddles,” I add because I like the way her eyes look when she smiles. “But mostly, she’s a sweet, little old lady with a big heart whom we’re lucky to know.”

“My grandma was the same”—her eyes twinkle—“albeit without the Patrick Stewart obsession. She was a Denzel Washington fan?—”

“Who isn’t?” I say drolly.

She grins and keeps talking. “Though she did say Chris Hemsworth was quite pleasing to the eye before she passed.”

I chuckle, tug at a lock of her hair, and tease, “Is that the kind of guy you like?”

She grins as she snags my hand. “No,” she says. “I’m kind of partial to tall, dark, and broody myself.”

“Don’t, Shortcake.” I draw my hand free, or try to.

She frowns, her fingers tightening around mine and I hate the sensation—dull, wrong, weak—the reminder—that my entire life imploded and I’m not good for this woman. “Don’t what?”

I tug again, but don’t say anything.

Can’tsay anything.

But she’s smart, and I know the moment she gets it because of the way she changes her hold on my hand.

It doesn’t go soft, like I would expect.

She tightens her grip and sits up slightly. “Because of your hand.”

Normally, I’d shut this down, refuse to talk about it.Normally.I would pretend there isn’t even an issue.

But those stormy gray eyes are on mine and I find that I…can’t pretend to be okay.

“It feels wrong,” I mutter.

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