Grip Trilogy Box Set - Kennedy Ryan Page 0,60

he knows they’re my weakness. One of my many weaknesses.

“Baked or fried?” I ask, as if I’m particular.

“Which do you want it to be?” he parries.

“Fried.”

“Then they’re fried.” He hooks the bag handles over one wrist and grabs plates from the cabinet with his free hand. “Come on.”

In utter laziness, I watch him cross the large space to a door in the far corner.

“Make yourself useful and grab me a beer from the fridge and whatever you want to drink.” He looks over his shoulder at me expectantly. “I can’t carry you and the food up to the roof, Bristol.”

“The roof?” I groan my exhaustion and settle deeper into the cushions.

“Oh, sorry.” He pauses, concern sketching a frown on his face. “Is it too high?”

I have a selective fear of heights. Put me in a little bucket in the air on a ride that could plunge me to my death, I’m chop suey. But sitting safely on the roof, I should be fine. I do not, however, need him reminding me of our night on that Ferris wheel. Not tonight when I’m already feeling weak.

“No, the roof isn’t too high,” I answer. “It’s too far away. I’m tired.”

“Well, food’s going up and so will you if you want some,” he says, disappearing through the door.

Sigh.

I grab a beer for him and a bottle of Pinot Gris for me. If I were alone, I wouldn’t bother with the glass I pull from the rack. It has been a straight-from-the-bottle day . . . week . . . month. But I’ll save that for the privacy of my own home. And it’ll probably be vodka, my self-numb-er of choice.

Damn these shoes. I’ve got a thing for heels. Even wearing the romper, I’m still sporting three-inch Jimmy Choos. By the time I make my way up the winding stairs to the roof, I want to toss the shoes off the building despite how much they cost.

The second I step through the door to the roof, I forget about my shoes, my empty stomach. I even forget the empanadas for a moment. We’re just high enough to see the city’s skyline in the distance, set ablaze by the horizon’s last hurrah before sunset. There’s no fear, and the view takes my breath. For just a second, the sheer scope of the sky makes all the problems that followed me home from the office seem small in comparison.

“This is gorgeous,” I whisper, taking the last few steps to the

center of the roof.

“Yeah, I can’t take credit for the view or this setup. The decorator did it.” Grip eyes his rooftop retreat with a pleased smile. “I don’t get up here as much as I’d like, but every once in a while to eat or write.”

I can see how it would be the perfect place to write. Padded benches tuck into the far corner, and slate-colored cushions rest against the brick wall. Four low, square tables stand in the center with candles of various sizes and shapes strategically dotted on them.

Grip sets the bags on one of the tables and walks to the wall to turn a few knobs. Soft music fills the air around me, and strands of fairy-tale lights now glimmer over our heads. It’s all very romantic.

“You know this is just two friends eating dinner, right?” I flop onto the padded bench and put down our drinks.

“I do know that.” The innocent expression is the only thing that doesn’t look right on Grip’s face. “But if you need to remind yourself, I understand.”

I make sure he sees me rolling my eyes before tearing open the bags of precious fried dough.

Correction. Baked.

“You said these were fried,” I complain around a bite of empanada.

“My bad.” He stretches his brows up and takes a leisurely sip of his beer. “That’s your second one, though, right? I guess you barely notice the difference when you inhale them.”

“Very funny.” I actually do laugh and polish off another one.

“Well, so much for leftovers.” He leans back against the cushion beside me until mere inches separate our shoulders.

“You shouldn’t have invited me to stay if you wanted leftovers.”

“I think your company’s a fair trade.”

Our eyes connect across the small slice of charged space separating us. I sit up from my slouch, inserting a few much-needed inches between us.

“You mentioned needing to talk about the email I sent.” My business-like tone clashes with the soft music and lighting, which is exactly what I need it to do.

“Yeah.” He considers me for