Inappropriate by Vi Keeland
Chapter 33
Grant
I was in the kitchen cooking when she woke up.
Ireland had fallen asleep with wet hair, and it had dried with the side she’d slept on pressed flat to her face and the other side all curly and wild. It was a mess, yet to me she’d never looked more beautiful. I was so relieved she was okay.
I turned down the flame on the stove and wiped my hands on a dishtowel. “That was a good nap.”
She walked over and peeked at what was cooking on the stove. “What are you making? It smells so good.”
I lifted the lid off a pan. “Chicken piccata.”
“It looks delicious, too. I didn’t even realize I had the ingredients to make that.”
I chuckled. “You didn’t. I snuck out while you were snoring and picked up chicken, olive oil, and some spices. The only spices I could find in your cabinets were cinnamon and red pepper.”
“Yeah. Mia was the cook of the house. They were all hers. She wanted to leave them here, but I snuck them into a box when she wasn’t paying attention. Figured they’d go to waste here.”
I pulled her into my arms and brought her against my chest. “How do you feel?”
“I’m still tired. But better. How long was I asleep?”
I looked at my watch. “About six hours. It’s almost four thirty.”
“Oh. Wow.”
“Are you hungry?”
“Yeah. Actually, I am.”
I smiled. “Good. I’ll finish up, and we can eat an early dinner.”
Ireland went to wash up and came back out looking around the room. “Did you see my phone? I think it broke during the accident. I tried to fiddle with it in the emergency room and it wouldn’t turn on, but I’m hoping maybe it will come back to life when I charge it.”
I pointed with a fork to a bag on the counter. “I slipped it out of your bag while you were sleeping and picked you up a new one. It’s in the box up there. They said they loaded everything from your old one, but you might want to check that because the sales clerk at Best Buy looked about fifteen, and the whole data transfer only took about five minutes.”
“Oh, you didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to.”
Ireland was quiet throughout dinner. She still seemed off to me, but I’d never been in a serious accident before and figured it was probably normal to be shaken up a bit. After we ate, she called Mia to tell her what happened, and I could hear her freaking out through the phone.
Later, Ireland was still quiet.
“Are you sure you’re feeling okay?” I asked.
She looked away and nodded. “Want to watch a movie?”
I smirked. “Disney? Sure.”
Ireland forced a smile. “Not tonight.” She sat down on the couch and started to scroll through Netflix, then Hulu, and finally HBO on Demand. Sighing, she extended the remote to me. “You pick something.”
Second to porn, I preferred action movies. But I didn’t think car chases and shit blowing up was the best thing to put on right now. “Do you like Will Smith?”
“Yeah.”
“When in doubt, Will Smith.” I pointed the remote to the TV and went back to Netflix. After a search by actor name, I said, “Pick one.”
She shrugged. “Any is fine.”
I didn’t want to keep on bugging her, but she really seemed off—almost depressed. The Pursuit of Happyness was the first movie on the list, so I picked that, even though I’d already watched it. I lifted Ireland’s feet onto my lap and guided her to lie back so I could give her a foot rub.
The movie was about a down-and-out dad who winds up homeless with his son while he takes a non-paying job in an attempt to make something of himself and better their future. It was a drama, based on a true story, and parts of it were sad. But at one point, I looked over and found tears streaming down Ireland’s face. She hadn’t even made a sound. I grabbed the remote and put the movie on hold.
“Hey.” I scooped her up from the couch and cradled her in my arms. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”
She nodded but kept looking down at her lap.
I gave her some time, but she never made eye contact or started to talk, so I put two fingers under her chin and guided her face up to look at me. What I saw caused an ache in my chest. Her eyes were filled with pain, her face completely distraught.
“Talk to me. What’s going on? Are you in pain? Are you having flashbacks to the accident?”
She started to cry even harder. “I…I don’t want to lose you.”
I brushed hair from her face and slid my hands down to cup her cheeks. “Lose me? You’re not going to lose me. Why would you think that?”
Ireland reached up and covered my hands at her cheeks with hers. “Grant…I’m…”
“What?”
She shook her head and closed her eyes. “I’m…pregnant, Grant.”
***
One minute I’m in her apartment, watching her sleep and thinking I should tell her I love her when she wakes up, and then the next I’m out the door like the fucking coward I am.
I didn’t yell or argue. Maybe I was in a state of shock…I don’t know. But I also couldn’t console her or tell her everything was going to be okay. Because it wasn’t. It wasn’t fucking okay.
I waited until after Ireland calmed down, and then told her I needed to go. She wanted to know where I was going, but I had no idea. The truth was, I just needed to be anywhere but there.
I motioned to the bartender by holding up my empty glass and rattling around the ice that hadn’t had time to melt.
“Another one already?”
I took out my billfold and peeled off three hundred-dollar bills. “The hundred should cover all my drinks. Other two are for you if my glass is never empty.”
The bartender, who I’d started calling Joe—yet I wasn’t sure if he had told me that was his name or I’d made it up in my head—refilled my glass. “You got it.”
I sat at the bar and drank three more vodka tonics. I’d never been a big drinker, so four had me starting to see double—which was exactly the state I was going for. The dingy bar I’d wandered into a few blocks from Ireland’s place had emptied out, except for an old guy parked at the other end of the bar. The bartender came over and took my glass, which was still about a quarter of the way full. He dumped out the ice and poured me a fresh one. Setting it in front of me, he leaned an elbow on the bar.
“For that kind of a tip, I also provide an ear to listen to the story about whatever went down that brought you here today.”
I lifted the newly filled glass and some of it sloshed on the bar. “Maybe I’m just an alcoholic.”
Joe smirked. “Nah. Your tolerance is shit.”
“Maybe I’m just broke and down on my luck.”
“Nah. Broke guys don’t carry around a wad of hundreds and look like you do.”
“And what exactly do I look like?”
Joe shrugged. “Want the truth?”
“Sure.”
He looked over the bar and sized me up. “Clean pants, nice shoes, polo with that fancy whale embroidered on it, and a money clip. You look like a rich asshole who probably grew up with a silver spoon in his hand.”
I burst into laughter that wasn’t the funny kind. Silver spoon. That was exactly what Ireland had said in that very first email that started it all.
I drank more of my drink. “Maybe you’re both right.”
The bartender’s brows drew together. Though he didn’t give a shit enough to ask what the hell I was talking about. “So, not broke, not an alcoholic, that leaves the obvious—the reason half the guys come in here to get plastered. Trouble at home. Am I right?”
I grumbled. “Something like that.”
“The trouble with trouble is that it starts out disguised as fun.”
I’d never heard it put that way, but there was a lot of truth in that statement. “You’re a wise man, Joe.”
The bartender smiled. “Name’s Ben. But for two hundred bucks, you can call me Shirley. I don’t give a shit. I’m divorced twice, and my advice probably isn’t worth shit. But here it is anyway. If she makes you smile before you have coffee in the morning and you don’t have to knock back a few drinks to get in the mood when she’s around, she’s a keeper. Get some flowers from the twenty-four-hour bodega down the block, and go home and apologize. Doesn’t matter who was right or wrong.”
If only it were that simple. “You’re right, Joe.”
The bartender straightened up. “So you’re heading home?”
“No. Your advice isn’t worth shit.”
