Page 9 of Grant
“Don’t fish. You’re sexy and you know it.”
Grant’s grin did wonderful things to Spencer’s insides. So did the roughened voice. “Do I?”
“You should.” Grant turned his head away. “And I really shouldn’t say such things.”
“Why not?”
“It’s unprofessional. You’re a client.”
“What if I wasn’t a client?”
Grant didn’t answer. And while Spencer hadn’t expected him to, he now wished he hadn’t asked.
“If you’re still feeling off kilter … I make a mean chicken and ginger soup,” Grant said as they headed home with Grant at the wheel of Spencer’s car. Spencer could have driven himself, but Grant was feeling protective. He’d wanted Spencer to call in sick, but he’d lost that argument ten minutes after the man had woken.
Throughout the day, Spencer had acted as if nothing had occurred. Now he slumped in the passenger seat, eyes half shut, and dozed. Grant let him rest. He’d have plenty of time to ask questions once they were at the doc’s house.
Grant drove through the villages to avoid the roadworks on the A41 and kept a close eye on the cars doing the same. The sudden bends and sharp dips took many by surprise.
“Watch for the wildlife!” The car in front almost hit a deer crossing the road, making Grant stomp on the brake.
His foot hit the floor of the car without resistance.
“What the fuck?”
He pumped the brake, fast and furious, then tried the pedal again.
Nothing.
“What is it?” Spencer sat up, as alert as he’d been that morning when the EMTs had piled into the A&E, crash victims on trolleys.
“No brakes.” Grant shifted down, still working the brake pedal.
The road dipped and Spencer’s car gathered speed, catching up to slower traffic. The slope wasn’t long, but it was steep, and Grant couldn’t fucking overtake the slower cars with a lorry labouring up the hill in the opposite lane.
He leaned on the horn, shifted into third gear, and then into second. He swerved from side to side, using every inch of road, while cursing electronic parking brakes.
They barrelled down the steepest part of the hill, far too fast for the line of traffic. Then the truck in the opposite lane roared toward and past them. The passenger side front tyre hit a pothole, and the car flipped up and over.
Grant clutched the steering wheel. He heard Spencer swear and added choice words of his own. The car came down, upright again. Airbags burst around them, hemming them in and cushioning the landing.
Then it was quiet.
Too quiet?
The smell of burned rubber had Grant gagging, but he needed to move, talk, make sure that— “Doc?”
“Fine. Rattled. Mostly fine. You?”
“Pissed off. When did you have that car last serviced?”
“About a month ago? Are you sure you’re not hurt? We landed hard on your side and—”
“I’m fine, Doc. Honestly.” He dug for his phone as he spoke, and Spencer heard his sudden intake of breath.
“What?”
“Ribs. Where the seatbelt dug in. You’ll have bruises, too, so don’t fuss. I can handle bruises.” He woke his phone and hit the speed dial. “I need backup,” he barked.
