Hold On To Me (Welcome To Redemption) Page 3

  That’s when she got her first look at his face.

  The man from Frank’s apartment! The guy who Grant Walker had assured her was trustworthy. What did he know?

  “Get out,” she ordered. It wasn’t so effective with her voice shaking like a leaf in a tornado.

  “I’m going to need a minute here,” he rasped before resuming a deep, methodical breathing pattern.

  “No. You need to leave right now,” she insisted, each word stronger than the last. “You can’t just come into people’s apartments like this. I did not give you permission to enter, and if you don’t get out of here right now, I’m going to call the owner. Or better yet, the cops. Either way, you’re fired.”

  She clamped her mouth shut with that last bit. Maybe she was as stupid as Roy always said. Why else would she give this man another reason to be angry with her? First day on the job and she’d kneed him in the groin and cost him his job.

  Wincing, he gingerly tried to straighten, only to remain slightly bent at the waist. Jenny raised the door a couple inches, then stared when he extended his hand.

  “Let me introduce myself. Grant Walker. Though walking out of here might be a bit questionable at the moment.”

  Her jaw went slack. A second later, his voice registered. The voice on the phone. Wayside’s owner. She’d asked about references and the jackass had talked about the new guy as if he wasn’t him.

  Grant straightened fully, raised the hand she’d ignored, and brought his other up to join it in a sign of surrender while taking a step back. “I swear, I was just trying to help.”

  She darted a glance at the door before narrowing her gaze. “How’d you even get in?”

  If he’d used a master key, she was calling the better business—

  “It was open.”

  “No.” Jenny shook her head. “I always lock it.”

  Always.

  “Apparently not this time. Otherwise I’d have knocked again.”

  She considered the possibility that she’d been so focused on fixing the closet she’d forgotten to lock the door behind her. No. Lately she’d had the eerie sensation someone was following her, and after seeing Roy outside Coffee To Chai For, there’s no way she would’ve forgotten to flip the deadbolt...

  Or had she?

  Mentally, she replayed entering the apartment and recalled the mail spilling from her arms. She’d kicked the door shut and bent to pick up the bills and junk flyers begging her to vote for some guy she personally thought was blowing smoke up the public’s butt.

  Oh, God, she hadn’t turned back to the door. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  Grant appeared to have mostly recovered from her knee as he explained, “I heard some loud thumps and it sounded like you’d hurt yourself. When I tried the door and it was unlocked, I figured I’d make sure you were okay.”

  It sounded reasonable. She lowered the door a few inches. “Why didn’t you tell me who you were earlier?”

  “You didn’t give me a chance this morning.”

  “I meant on the phone.”

  “Oh, that. Yeah, I don’t know. Clearly, not my smartest move.”

  Before she could say anything—and no, she was not going to apologize for kneeing him—he stepped toward her.

  “Don’t.” She jerked back, raising the door again as her back came up against the counter in the closet. And then, because she couldn’t help it, she added a whispered, “Please.”

  He halted, eyebrows raised. His gaze dropped to her makeshift shield before taking in the rest of the situation. “Is this why you stopped by this morning?”

  She nodded without relaxing her defensive stance.

  “Would you still like some help?”

  A glance down at the track was simply to stall. She knew she’d never get the damn thing on by herself. So far, he hadn’t really threatened her physically, he owned the building, and he was Frank’s nephew...

  Jenny gave him another cautious nod. Palms face out again, he approached as if she were a cornered animal. He took hold of the door, and she found herself comparing the size of her hands to his. Without a doubt, he was stronger than her.

  “Jenny...you’re going to have to let go of the door.”

  An underlying note of humor in his gentle tone summoned a smile to her lips. Just a little one, and shaky at best as she lifted her gaze to his steady brown eyes. But she released her death-grip on the door.

  “You want to step on out of there?”

  Probably a good idea.

  Careful not to brush against him, she sidled past and moved a safe distance away. The phone was within easy reach, but all Grant did was feel the top of the door, squint up at the frame, then bend to feel the bottom before examining the track below.

  “What do you have going in here?” he asked while jimmying the panel into position. With ease, she noted.

  “It’s a darkroom.” Remembering he owned the building, she quickly added, “And Frank is aware of it.”

  He glanced back over his shoulder with a quick grin. “Just curious, that’s all. I didn’t think people still used cameras with actual film.”

  “Some of us can’t afford those new fancy digital cameras. Not the ones that take quality pictures, anyway.” Besides, a computer and photo editing software were way out of her budget and would be for awhile.

  One more forceful jerk and the panel popped into place. Grant slid it back and forth with one finger. “All set.”

  “Thank you.”

  He turned, paused when he saw she’d already moved to the door to see him out, then smiled and headed in the same direction.

  Jenny breathed a silent sigh of relief when he maintained a minimum arms-length distance—until he paused with his fingers wrapped around the handle and did not open the door.

  Chapter 4

  Grant turned to face the girl who’d somehow managed to completely intrigue him in two brief meetings and a two-minute phone call. The deer-in-the-headlights expression on her face told him the answer to his next question, but he asked anyway.

  “Any chance you’d like to join me for a drink tonight? I’m meeting a friend at Rowdy’s in a little while, but I’d like to apologize for being so…rude this morning. On a good day, I’m not a morning person, and you caught me on a bad day.”

  Surprise flashed in her blue eyes, and then he got the response he expected, just not in the right words.

  “I don’t drink.”

  “At all?”

  “At all,” she repeated. Shadows flitted across her face, hinting at deeper reasons behind her firm conviction.

  To ease the sudden tension in the air, he joked, “Isn’t that against the law in Wisconsin?”

  “Some people like to think so.” She shifted from one foot to the other without even a hint of a smile.

  Before she became more uncomfortable, he opened the door and stepped into the hall. “Well, then, have a good night. And if you need anything else, you know where to find me.”

  “So long as it’s after what, eight a.m.? Nine?”

  Her unexpected tease gave him hope. He winked and said, “Nine fifteen,” as he closed the door between them.

  The instant click of the deadbolt made him pause. After the past ten minutes, and despite the lingering dull ache in his groin, he was surprised to realize he didn’t take her distrust personally. It was obvious she’d been through something, and maybe someday they’d know each other well enough for her to trust him with the story.

  He hoped.

  In the meantime, he’d take it slow.

  Back in his apartment, he tried calling the hospital to talk to Uncle Frank, but the nurses said he was sleeping. After leaving a message, he had some extra time before heading out to Rowdy’s, so he boxed up a few more of his uncle’s things. The books he found on the bedside table made him chuckle; he’d had no clue Uncle Frank had a hidden vice for romance.

  A closer look at the paperback on top made him shake his head. A bare-chested man had his white shirt ope
n and billowing in the wind while skin-tight material highlighted the exaggerated bulge in his pants.

  Really? Women went for this crap?

  Apparently so, since the cover of Moonlight Encounter proclaimed Katelynn Meadows to be a New York Times bestselling author.

  Curiosity had him opening the book to where a slip of paper marked his uncle’s spot. Handwriting made him focus on the book marker instead of the printed page.

  A little bit of romance goes a long way, the note said. Mrs. Martin will appreciate your efforts.

  Jenny.

  Hmm, so Ms. Timid Two-Thirteen was giving his uncle advice on love? Interesting.

  Grant started reading from where the note had marked. A few paragraphs in and his eyebrows rose. So did his temperature. Damn. No wonder women went for this—talk about hot. By the bottom of the next page, he had to admit he was a little turned on. Only in his mind’s eye, the woman didn’t look like the luscious redhead on the cover, she had brunette hair that swept back in a ponytail and guarded blue eyes.

  Strange, this growing fascination with the woman upstairs, considering he hadn’t felt an overwhelming attraction when they’d first met. She was definitely cute, but she’d kind of annoyed him with her mousy little ways.

  Then he thought about their second meeting, and realized his morning grouch-fest had more to do with his first reaction than she did. And, seeing as how he could now recall the color of her eyes with vivid clarity, and her hesitant smile when she’d accepted his help with the closet door, his physical reaction made a bit more sense. Probably had to do with her reserved demeanor. Like how guys found an uptight, buttoned-down librarian sexy.

  And on the bright side, he thought, shifting for a more comfortable fit of his suddenly tighter jeans, thank God her knee hadn’t inflicted lasting injury.

  He flipped to the back cover blurb to see what the book was even about. Twenty minutes later, and thirty pages from the beginning of the story, he realized he was going to be late.

  “Well, hell,” he muttered. He shoved Jenny Clark’s note between the pages to hold his place before snapping it shut in one hand. After leaving the book on the nightstand, he scooped up his jacket and keys, and left.

  At Rowdy’s, Grant took a moment to survey the inside of the bar he’d only ever seen from the outside. Typical of what he’d expect of a small town country bar, and he meant that with no sarcasm or disdain. A nicked, polished wood bar ran half the length of the back wall, and behind it hung a mirror lined with bottles of top shelf booze. Big screen TV and tables on one side, jukebox and dance floor on the other. The faint scent of stale cigarette smoke lingered despite smoking being outlawed in Wisconsin for years.

  Grant’s gaze swept the bar stools, but he didn’t see who he was looking for. Then again, they’d only exchanged texts a couple times a year since he’d left Redemption. Enough to know he’d gotten married and moved from the sales floor to management in his father’s car dealership, but he wasn’t sure how much the guy had changed physically.

  “Walker. Over here.”

  He shifted his attention to two men sitting at a table to the right of the TV and smiled as he switched direction.

  “Hey, man. You haven’t changed a bit.”

  Roy Adams stood and shook Grant’s hand with a grin. “You got better looking you sonofabitch.”

  The guy still wore his wealth with confidence. He must be doing well at the dealership.

  Smiling, Grant hung his jacket on the back of the chair and took a seat as Roy poured him a glass of beer from the pitcher at the table. He introduced his companion as Walt Fitz.

  “Fitz sells cars at the dealership.”

  “Good to know.” Grant saluted with his beer before taking a drink. “I was planning on coming by tomorrow for some wheels of my own so I can return my rental.”

  “Come see me; I’ll hook you up,” Roy said.

  Grant thought his territorial tone a bit odd, but let it slide. He probably figured Grant would expect to be taken care of by an old friend. Which was fine—and a bit of a deal certainly wouldn’t hurt his checkbook after paying Hutch for the window he’d broken fifteen years ago.

  “I was just telling Fitz about the parties we used to have at your place when your parents were out of town. They were wild.”

  “Those were some crazy times,” Grant agreed. Though he didn’t even have to think about it for more than a second to know he didn’t miss that life at all these days.

  “You guys had it made,” Fitz said. “Especially with that old cabin behind your house way back in the woods.”

  Grant smiled at the memory. “I forgot about that place. Back in high school my dad threatened more than once to tear it down, but never did. I wonder if it’s still standing?”

  “Oh, it—”

  “It’s been roped off for years,” Roy said, cutting Fitz off. “No one goes back there anymore.”

  The two exchanged a glance that Grant couldn’t decipher, and then Roy smiled at Grant. “You gotta admit, we did have it made back then. Sometimes I miss that easy life.”

  Grant shrugged and took a drink, smiling inside at their opposite thoughts. For lack of anything better to say, he noted the gold band on Roy’s hand and changed the subject. “On that note, do I dare ask how married life is treating you? Any kids yet?”

  Fitz made a face. “Damn, man, he just shut up about the bitch before you got here.”

  Grant tensed and slid his gaze to Roy, who’d raised and drained his glass. Seemed to him if someone called his wife a bitch, he’d have to take immediate offense. Roy simply refilled his glass and reclined in his chair with a scowl that ruined his projected air of success.

  “No, thankfully no brats since I’ve kicked her ungrateful ass to the curb. Wouldn’t want to have to pay child support when I know she’d just spend it on herself.”

  Beer halfway to his mouth, Grant paused. “You’re divorced?”

  “Almost. Tuesday I’ll be free-wheeling and single again.” He grinned at Fitz and then raised his glass in a toast. “To being single.”

  Grant toasted with them, seeing as he was single, too, but Roy’s rough words and attitude took him by surprise. Then again, some divorces got ugly. Maybe the ex had raked him over the coals—especially since Roy’s family came from old money. If that were the case, the guy had a right to drink away his bitterness.

  “Though I might just keep the wedding ring on after I’m free,” Roy contemplated after downing half his next beer. “It’s gotten me plenty of decent ass the past five years. Some chicks dig the ring.”

  Fitz leaned forward with a grin. “Like the blond down at the bank?”

  “Hell, yeah.”

  As he and Fitz laughed, indignant heat swept through Grant at the thought of anyone bragging about being unfaithful.

  “That why you divorced your wife? Did she cheat on you, too?”

  “Hell no.” Roy’s grin faded, and a malevolent gleam darkened his eyes. “She knew better than that.”

  Some things really hadn’t changed. The past couple minutes left Grant dumbfounded that the guy hadn’t matured with the rest of the world. Instead, it appeared he’d descended a slime-covered slope, and along the way honed the mean streak Grant remembered glimpsing back in high school.

  The whole conversation left a bad taste in his mouth. If any of this had come across in the occasional texts they’d exchanged over the years, he’d never have gotten in touch with Roy. Now he sat there, not sure what to say to the man he’d just lost immediate respect for.

  While he was debating how long before he could say goodbye and get the hell out of there, the door opened for some new customers. Grant gave the lively group of four a cursory glance, but concentrated on drinking his beer without outright slamming it.

  “Righteous bastards,” Roy muttered. “Especially that mother f—”

  Aware the laughter had died, Grant turned to check out who Roy was talking about and saw a tall, dark-haired guy with tattoos stan
ding at the bar with two women and another man. The one with the tattoos stared in their direction, his forehead creased in a dark frown that reminded him of Roy’s expression moments ago. After a few seconds, he recognized Charlie Russell.

  The pretty blond at his side had her hand on his arm and it became apparent she was restraining him. No easy feat considering the size of Russell’s biceps. Charlie dipped his head toward her, and after the two exchanged a few words and a glance, he started their way.

  “Fuck,” Roy said under his breath, surging to his feet so fast he nearly knocked his chair over. “Let’s get out of here. The Rumpus Room over in Morgan is a hell of a lot better than this place anyway.”

  Fitz joined him, but Grant remained sitting. It’d dawned on him he didn’t have to be polite to a jackass.

  “You coming?” Roy asked.

  Grant shook his head. “I’m going to finish my beer.”

  “Suit yourself. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  He made a noncommittal noise, because hell would freeze over before he knowingly bought a car from a cheater—and he hoped the ex made Roy pay through the nose in the divorce settlement.

  As the two high-tailed it toward the door, Grant heard Charlie call out from behind him.

  “That’s right Adams, scurry away like the rodent you are.”

  Grant chuckled under his breath. Suddenly, he liked Charlie Russell a lot better than he had in high school. Back then, Russell had never bought into Grant’s entitled philosophy that money made him better than everyone else.

  The seat Roy had vacated was flipped around and Charlie sat, bracing his arms across the chair back.

  “You don’t keep very good company, Walker.”

  Not surprised that he’d remembered him, Grant took a drink, meeting Charlie’s gaze over the rim of his glass. “Seems I’m sitting with you right now, Russell.”

  That earned him a dry smile, but no humor shone in the man’s laser gaze.