Mom called him Uncle Grant like that would make my stomach behave.
It didn’t.
Grant Vale was thirty-eight, six-three, and had been staying in the guest room for two weeks while his condo was renovated. My mother’s stepbrother. The man who used to send birthday cards and then showed up in our kitchen with rolled sleeves and a voice that made the word kitten sound like a hand between my legs.
I’m Ivy Cole. Twenty-one. I still lived at home because nursing school ate money and pride. I told myself I wore the tiny shorts to sleep because the house ran hot.
I wore them because he looked.
Mom left Friday for a conference. Kissed my hair. Told Grant to “keep an eye on her.”
He watched me climb the stairs and said, “Goodnight, kitten.”
I should have locked my door.
At midnight I went down
