Page 47 of Getting the Grinder
It’s been nearly impossible to keep my mind on work today. What happened with me and Leo last night came out of nowhere. I knew we were slowly becoming friends, but I had no idea he’d ever thought about more than that with me.
There’s never been a time, since the first time I saw you, when I didn’t want you.
I keep replaying his words in my head, and I never stop feeling giddy when I do. I thought being a strong, independent woman meant I didn’t care about a man feeling smitten with me. Especially Leo Abbott.
Everything changed when he opened up to me about his anxiety and depression, and his knee injury. He trusted me with his most closely guarded secrets, and I want to show him he was right to trust me.
For more than a year now, I’ve seized every opportunity to make fun of him. I’m not proud of how I’ve acted. I could see all over his face last night that he wasn’t sure if he’d get a sharp comment about his mental health medication.
Even a tall, strong man like him, who seems to have it all, has vulnerabilities. When we tried to sleep, neither of us could. I whispered to him several times, asking if he was awake and he said he was because he couldn’t believe I was really there with him.
It was the same for me. When he was spooned around my back, his arm tucking me close to him, I’d close my eyes to sleep and I couldn’t stop smiling. Because he wanted me to stay. Because we’d just had the most incredible sex ever. Because he was so warm and solid against me.
I did finally drift off around three thirty a.m., but we had to be up at five thirty so he could get me home and make his flight on time. We both stole looks at each other the whole drive, and he walked me to my door and kissed me goodbye.
I’ve felt like I was floating since I walked into my apartment. I’m not a woman who falls head over feet for any man, but I’m feeling like I could right now.
It’s probably good that he just left for a six-day road trip. Maybe the time away from each other will help me return to my usual, more cynical self.
The space outside the courtroom I’m walking to is filled with traffic defendants. People of all ages are waiting for their hearings, and I’m the prosecuting attorney for all of them.
“Hey, you work here?” a man asks me. “I can’t find my attorney.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t help. Try the bailiff.”
Once I get into the courtroom, I tie my long hair back, already sweating, and regret my decision not to slam an energy drink earlier. My eyelids are heavy. I could easily curl up on the table I’m sitting at and sleep for the next eight hours.
But duty calls. And last night was so worth today’s exhaustion.
It’s somewhere between three and four p.m. when I walk back into the office after making a run to the coffee shop a block away from the courthouse. I powered through my hearings and all the work I needed to finish today. My late lunch consisted of a chocolate chip cookie and a cold brew coffee, and between the caffeine and the sugar, I know I’ll make it through the workday without falling asleep face down on my desk.
“Look what just arrived,” Missy says, gesturing at a vase bursting with red-stemmed roses. There must be at least two dozen, and they smell heavenly.
“Those are gorgeous. Who sent them?”
She lowers her brows. “I guess you’ll find out when you open the card.”
I pull my drink away from my mouth. “They’re for me?”
She grins. “The card says Queen of Mean Mara Torres.”
I laugh, imagining Leo placing an order and asking for the card to be signed that way. How did he pull this off? He’s in Tampa right now.
I snatch the card, my stomach somersaulting with excitement. Red roses sent to my office. That’s a first for me.
When I pull the card out of the envelope, the words on it make me giddy.
Thanks for an amazing night. I can’t wait to see you again.
Leo
The message on the card means more to me than the roses. I carefully tuck it back into the envelope. This is the first time since last night that I’ve felt scared.
I’m already in over my head with Leo. We were both there for each other in moments of vulnerability, and it brought us closer. But this isn’t a real relationship. When whatever it is runs its course, it’s going to hurt. I don’t know how I’ll be able to be around him at fondue nights or all the other times I see him—because of Carter—and not be visibly upset.
“You don’t look happy,” Missy says.
I sigh softly. “I am. Just running through all the ways this could go bad.”
