Page 9 of Resisting Mr. Granville

A short laugh escapes her and she shakes her head. “That’s a crazy thing to say.”

My lips tug up. “Maybe I’m a crazy man.”

She glances back at me, a trace of warmth she doesn’t want to show visible on her lovely features. “Maybe you are.” More gently than the first time, she reaches for my arms and tugs them from around her waist to free herself from my grasp.

I let her go this time and lean back on the counter, watching her grab the milk and cheese and mix it all together.

As much as I’d like to keep touching her, I should probably do my part. I grab myself a skillet and the pack of bacon out of the fridge and stand beside her at the stovetop getting everything ready.

By the time the sandwiches are finally assembled and finished, we’re moving around the kitchen in tandem. It reminds me a bit of how things were with me and my wife when we were young and had just moved into our first place. It was a shoebox-sized apartment with a tiny-ass kitchen. We didn’t have as much room to work as we do here. But to be honest, even once we moved here and had the room, we still stayed close whenever we had the chance to.

I guess Kennedy reminds me of her a little bit.

Maybe it’s just the feeling. I haven’t been in love with anyone since my wife died. Haven’t even been seriously interested in anybody. Not until her.

The boys were little back then. I guess Kennedy would have been, too.

That’s where my mind is when Kennedy starts to reach past me for something on the other side of the counter. She stops when she sees my face. Softens, despite everything.

“Is everything okay?” she asks softly.

I nod. “Just thinking.”

“About what? You looked a little sad.”

My lips tug up, but not with real amusement this time. “I was thinking about Edie.” She frowns, her face showing no recognition. “My wife,” I explain.

“Oh.” Her gaze drifts a bit awkwardly toward the sink. I didn’t expect her to know what to say, but I don’t need her to say anything, I was just answering her question.

Absently, I take a lock of Kennedy’s long hair and wind it around my finger. “She had curly hair, kinda like yours. A little darker, but it felt the same sliding through my fingers.”

She swallows and doesn’t look at me. I can’t tell what she’s thinking. “How did she die?” she asks softly.

“Car accident. Drunk driver. She was on her way home from work.”

“Oh, wow. I’m sorry.”

I shrug. Probably an asshole thing to do, but I don’t particularly want Kennedy comforting me about my dead wife and I don’t even know why.

“That’s life,” I tell her. “Sometimes it’s fucking tragic.”

“Yeah,” she murmurs in quiet agreement.

I grab a serving plate out of the cupboard and take the last sandwich off the stove. “I guess that does it.”

She picks up a stray piece of cheddar from the counter and walks it over to the trash. “I’m going to wash up real quick before we eat. Which way’s the bathroom?”

I point her in the right direction. “Second door on the left.”

She murmurs a thank you, then takes off down the hall. I’m distracted watching the gentle sway of her hips.

An idea takes hold, but I know I shouldn’t do it. I glance at Jet, but he’s still entirely preoccupied with his robot.

Ignoring my better judgment, I take off down the hall after her.

I’m taller than she is, so my steps cover more ground. Just as she’s about to close the door, I brace a palm against the wood and stop her.

Startled, Kennedy turns around to face me. “What are you doing?”

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