I have spent two months pretending these men do not exist.
Two months of taking the long way around the kitchen. Two months of eating in my room with the door cracked just enough that I can hear if someone is coming. Two months of keeping my eyes on the floor whenever Grant’s voice carries down the hall, low and certain, the kind of voice that makes my stomach drop and my thighs press together before my brain can catch up.
Grant Hale. Forty-something. My mother’s new husband. My stepfather.
He looks like he was carved out of something harder than the rest of us. Broad shoulders that strain every shirt he owns. Forearms that flex when he pours coffee. A jaw that could cut glass and a mouth that rarely smiles unless he’s looking at my mother. He is the last man I should be thinking about
