Grip Trilogy Box Set - Kennedy Ryan Page 0,250

him. I know his schedule as well as I know my own: he had class today then a session with Qwest’s producers and writing team this afternoon.

Grrrrr.

I refuse to torture myself with thoughts of them working together while I was stuck in LA, although “stuck” isn’t the right word. I was just a little busy making Kai’s debut the freaking number one album in the country. If we thought the offers were pouring in before, now I’m flooded with movie roles, endorsement options, and more opportunities than she’ll be able to handle. If all goes according to plan— mine and Rhyson’s, that is—soon Broadway will be knocking, too.

“Dammit.”

The muffled curse reaches me from the greenhouse, and quiet steps take me toward the outdoor retreat where I’m now sure he is. I wonder if it will always feel like this when I’m about to see him. Anticipation trembles in the air. My mouth dries and then waters with the promise of his kiss. There’s a pillow fight in my belly and feathers float all around. Mrs. O’Malley’s eyes still gloss over when she thinks of her Patrick, of the years they had before his illness. They made this place together. I take in the tinted windowpanes and the space they created for one another.

Great love must be tested.

Is there a greater test than your soul mate no longer knowing you? Than the memories you created together forgotten, lost to an encroaching darkness? I’ve seen Mrs. O’Malley clinging to what they had with all her strength, and it makes me want to cling to Grip harder and as long as I can—especially when he does sweet things like stringing fairy lights and preparing a dinner that even now prompts my stomach to growl. He stands over the table, the width of his shoulders and the strength of his arms confined in a slate- colored button-up, rolled up to his elbows. A black vest molds the power of his chest, and dark jeans fit the flexing muscles of his thighs.

“What the . . .” He trails off, clicking the lighter over the candles and looking baffled when there’s still no fire.

“Need some help?”

He whips around toward the entrance where I stand. His expression shifts from surprise to pleasure and then settles into a slight frown.

“You’re early.”

“Sorry.” I turn on my heel. “I can leave.”

I don’t make it half a step out of the greenhouse before a strong arm wraps around my waist. Grip presses me into his chest, inhales a deep breath of me, and kisses my neck.

“You aren’t going anywhere,” he mumbles into my hair.

I face him, reaching up to rest my elbows on his shoulders.

“Make up your mind. Do you want me?” I dust my lips across his, dropping my head back before he can take command of the kiss. “Or not?”

“Oh, I want you.” Lust roughens his voice. Love makes it soft.

His gaze drops, a lazy, heated sweep over my body, a sweet searing of my skin. The look is as heavy as a stroking hand, but so gentle that I barely feel its tantalizing weight.

“What’s all this?” I gesture over his shoulder to escape this hypnosis of passion. We could stand here all night staring at each other, and after nearly two weeks apart, I want to do more than look.

He takes my hand and walks us over to the table in the corner, the same place it was when we viewed the place a few weeks ago. Now it’s loaded with domed dishes, sparkling glasses, cutlery, wine, and a bottle of champagne chilling in ice.

“Champagne and wine?” I ask.

“One for dinner,” he says with a grin. “And one for a toast.”

I grab the note propped against the wine bottle.

Eat. Drink. Dance. Love. It’s all better under the stars!

Welcome! Take care of our home and don’t waste one moment. – Esther

“How thoughtful” I consider the beautifully set table. “Did Mrs. O’Malley do all this?”

“She sent the champagne to celebrate your first night here.” Grip plucks the note from my fingers and drops it to the table. “The food I ordered from this place up the street that delivers and makes things look fancy.”

The smell of him, the heat of his proximity works on my resistance—never the strongest to begin with—and I tip up to take his lips with my mouth, stroking his tongue with mine until he growls, his hands tight at my hips.

“We are not doing this out of order, Bris,” he says, his breath misting my lips.