Where It Ends

| After 3 | Thirty-Six Hours Later

If serving dinner was my primary objective, I guess I went about it all wrong.

Considering the lack of groceries, there is something halfway decent simmering in Grady's slow cooker, something I had to take out of its original box, still taped shut. I managed to get a Texas chili together with what I could scavenge from his pantry and freezer, both near empty.

His "bachelor pad" needs a woman's touch, no doubt about it. It'll take some time, though. Making this place livable, long-term, for the both of us is something we ought to do together, and Grady's schedule won't be particularly accommodating, especially over the next few weeks. This Quinn endeavor sapped us of so much time and money. Even on a budget, it'd cost a pretty penny. That'll fall into my camp to rectify, but, as marketable as my skills may be, finding a job won't be without its challenges, beyond that of just a yes, no, or maybe.

While life is still on hold for us, I'm doing what I can to be useful. After a day of hard labor, the place is probably cleaner than it's ever been. I can hold my own in the kitchen as well, and I find it kind of funny that I've become the girl I've gone out of my way to avoid being. But don't you worry, at least not about me. Domesticity will never be the highlight of my girlfriend resume. I have other points in my favor, and that's certainly true today, when I'm trying extra hard to prove that we made the right choice and that we didn't rush into this.

I did listen to him. That's a start. It wasn't even much of a fight. Don't go anywhere was for the safety and wellbeing of us both.

Cooking, cleaning, doing as told . . . and on top of that, I'm wearing only a threadbare t-shirt and a thong, through no fault of my own. The air-conditioner isn't quite keeping up with the oven and heat of the evening, and there's a mountainous pile of laundry that we haven't yet come up with a plan for. I would have taken care of it, but it would have violated the agreed upon house arrest. So, what I'm wearing is pretty much all I have left that's clean. I could have tapped into his wardrobe, but I'm well aware that I look better in my own.

When Grady walks through the door after a long day of crime-fighting, his initial response is a smile. It quickly shifts into a bit of a gape. Add in a blush, and it's no mystery what he's thinking.

I've seen hints of that look before. The self-doubt was a mighty shroud, though. Now that I've got a good look behind it, it's more telling than words could ever be.

Grady stiffens and pauses to do so, but then his good manners kick in. His eyes dart to what's cooking, and he finds the next step of his stride.

Our greeting is pretty standard, like we've done this a thousand times. It starts with a kiss, which isn't quite chaste, but the dry spell we've been enduring makes it feel like it. We both seem to avoid the fact that I'm pantless, braless, and almost bottomless altogether. My shirt covers everything, but only just, and that's not necessarily true if I'm doing anything other than standing still with my arms down.

Grady dips into the bedroom and doesn't close the door when he unbuttons his uniform shirt. He tosses it into that overwhelming pile and pulls his undershirt out from the confines of his belt, which he unbuckles next. The pants get tossed, too, and gym shorts replace them.

I wasn't ogling or anything, but he wasn't being particularly discreet, and the apartment isn't quite big enough for any secrets. So, while I'm setting the table, I catch a glimpse of those muscles in motion and the hefty package. My body responds, and not in a way that might facilitate digestion and good conversation. My heartrate is too high. My brain function is too low. And despite the recent shower, my moisture balance is suddenly all out of whack. Everything on me is suddenly slick and damp except for my mouth, which is as dry as west Texas in August.