Page 44 of That Time I Kissed The Groomsman Grump
As soon as we’re back inside, Brady takes Willa’s leash from me. When he returns the dogs to their kennels, Willa spins at least a dozen times, scooping her blankets into a pile. Gator plops down the minute Brady shuts his door. As for LuLu, she’s sleeping, her tiny snores like little wheezes. While Brady moves to the sink to wash and dry his hands, he’s still completely silent.
“You got awfully quiet,” I say to the back of him.
Brady turns and leans against the basin. “Moons made out of Pillsbury dough and sky elves are hard stories to top. Not much else to say.”
“I guess.” I reach up to unzip his hoodie. “Thanks for this.” The sweatshirt is warm and soft and smells like him—the perfect combination of spice and cotton. The bottom hangs down past my hips, halfway to my knees. I don’t want to take it off, but—
“Keep it,” he says. “It’s always cold in this place.”
Note to self: Offer to take a piece of clothing off, and Brady might actually speak.
“Now that you mention it, I am kind of chilly.” A shiver runs up my spine, and Brady’s eyes dip to my bare legs.
“Then you can’t spend all night wearing… that.” His gaze returns to my face, and my cheeks heat up. “We’ve got extra scrubs in the cabinet. I’ll try to find a pair that’ll fit you.”
“That would be great,” I say. “And I should probably see if Patrick called. He said he’d let me know when the pizza’s on the way, but it’s been a while now, and they were pretty overwhelmed.”
“Okay.” Brady makes a move to stuff his hands in his pockets, but there aren’t any on the front of his scrubs. His arms drop to his sides. “So, I’ll be right back then. With scrubs. For you.”
“I’ll check my phone.”
On my way to the office, my mind is racing. I likedwalking the dogs tonight with Brady. And watching this big, serious man take care of animals is adorable. Not to mention the sky elves. That story just about blew the top off the cuteness scale. I mean, comeon.Sky elves whose eyes wink open, but they’reactuallythe stars? I just about melted into a puddle on the sidewalk.
For a while there, I thought I was catching a glimpse of the old Brady. The guy who used to be the most talkative, animated, magnetic one in the room. Then he just… disappeared again. To get to the bottom of this shift in his mood, I’ll have to dig deeper.
But first? Pizza.
I find my bag where I left it, on the chair next to the desk. But there are no missed calls or messages from Antonio’s. Shoving my phone back in my bag, I spin around, and run smack-dab into a wall of Brady. “Still no word from the pizza guy,” I blurt.
“That’s okay. I’m not that hungry.” He shoves a pair of scrubs at me. “Here. These were the smallest we have.”
“Thanks.” I hazard a smile, but he diverts his gaze. The scrubs look awfully big, but I’m more than ready to get out of my bathing suit, so I head to the bathroom to change. As I suspected, the scrubs swim on me, but at least I’ve got Brady’s sweatshirt to pull on over them. When I’m done, I find him in the lobby clearing the magazines off of the coffee table. He glances up, and I hold out my arms. The sleeves of his sweatshirt droop past my hands.
“I look pretty silly, right?”
He blinks. “No.”
I wait for him to expand on the answer, but he just stares me down. “No? That’s all you have to say?”
He folds his arms across his chest. “No.”
More staring. More silence.
“Uh uh, Brady.” I shake my head. “I deserve way better communication than this if I’m going to stay here with you all night.” I point at the couch. “Sit,” I command. “Now.”
Brady stands his ground, but his lips quirk. “You’re kinda bossy.”
“And you’re finally catching on.”
Something flashes behind his eyes—a spark of amusement—but he moves to the couch and takes a seat. I drop down beside him. “We’re going to talk to each other whether you like it or not.”
He shifts sideways to face me, and lifts one of his eyebrows. High. His expression is almost like a challenge. Like I can’tforcehim to speak.
“To make this easier, I’ll go first,” I say. “I’m going to tell you something I haven’t shared with anyone—not so much a secret as a story—then you go next after I’ve broken the ice.”
His jaw tips and the other eyebrow arches, like he doesn’t believe this will work. And he might be right, since I’m laying my cards out, explaining my exact strategy.
But this is a technique I learned in nursing school—a way of disarming stubborn patients who think they have nothing to share about their symptoms when they’ve actually got important details stored in their brains.
