Knee Deep in Sugar Read online

  "I'm not sure you should be allowed to cook without adult supervision," she tells me as she goes back to her chair on the other side of the counter.

  "Don't worry," I shoot her a wink, "I know the guy that owns this place."

  Making sure there's not any grease on the stove top before I turn the burner back on under the new skillet, I carry the coffee pot over to her before I prepare to make the pancakes.

  "Refill?" I offer.

  "You talked me into it." She smiles up at me as she holds her coffee mug out for me to top up for her.

  "Where'd you learn to put out grease fires?" I ask casually as my first attempt at a pancake makes an irregular oval in the non-stick pan.

  "I worked in a diner for awhile," she says.

  " 'Awhile?' "

  That light laughter fills the kitchen again and I wonder how to make sure it never stops.

  "Yeah-- turns out I'm not a very good cook. I got really good at putting out kitchen fires..." she pauses and I see her sipping her coffee in the reflection of the over-the-range microwave's door. "They fired me before I burned the place to the ground."

  It's my turn to laugh.

  "So is that how you ended up here? Unemployed drifter?"

  "No."

  The laughter is gone from her voice and it seems to take the light out of the room with it.

  "The diner was my first job out of high school," she says sullenly, "I decorate cakes...well, I used to anyway."

  There are now 4 acceptably round and golden brown pancakes in a stack on the plate to my right so I carry them over to her and point out the butter and syrup I left on the table in case she didn't notice them earlier.

  "What do you do now?" I ask as I finish cooking up the rest of the pancakes for myself.

  "Make stuff, sell it, buy gas, drive."

  Her voice is flat, lacking the levity it had for all too short a time. When I turn around with my own plate of cakes, I notice the distant way she contemplates her breakfast between bites.

  It really has gotten darker in the suite.

  When I'm out of the kitchen, I can see the dark clouds that have moved into the valley and my eye catches a distant bolt of lightning over the hills.

  "It doesn't look like you're going to be driving anywhere anytime soon," I tell her with a nod toward the windows as I take a seat beside her at the counter, "that storm isn't just passing through."

  Cassidy

  Thunder shakes the windows as I stare out at the storm.

  I tense at the noise but surprisingly, I don't jump.

  Ever since I left home, pretty much any loud or sudden noise makes me jump. So it feels weird when I realize I'm just sitting here at the counter with Grant next to me, watching a storm and eating pancakes.

  Again I note that Grant is beside me. Close enough that I can feel his presence-- and the calming effect he has on me.

  The thunder is followed by a violent gust of wind that shakes the building like it's trying to get inside.

  "I guess it's a good thing I'm not stuck in the car," I say, totally awed by the strength of the wind outside, "If the car gets buried in snow, I'd have suffocated."

  That's a sobering realization.

  Grant turns his head and cranes his neck to see around me. I'm painfully aware that he's put his hand on the back of my chair for balance.

  "I don't think we're gonna get much snow out of this storm." His voice is low and thoughtful with a touch of ominous in his forecast.

  "It's still too cold out there for snow."

  His body relaxes and he settles back into the chair beside me, but his hand is still on the back of my chair, his knuckles resting every so slightly against my back.

  "I'm glad you're not out in your car too," he tells me soberly. "And not just because it would have been a liability nightmare once we dug your body out of that little SUV."

  "Wow, way to lighten things up there." I try to make it a joke, but it doesn't work very well.

  Grant is eerily still beside me and I can feel his eyes on me and the tension like he's contemplating saying something else.

  Another lightning flash and then more thunder.

  This time I do jump.

  "Don't worry, those windows have made it through the worst that South Dakota can throw at us," he assures me as he gathers plates and heads for the sink, "But stay out of the hot tub till the storm passes."

  "I can do the dishes," I say, jumping up to take over before he gets too far into the project. "It's only fair since you cooked," then I add, "and bought the food."

  He doesn't exactly yield the space in front of the sink to me, more like moves over a smidgen to make room for me.

  That means I'm standing next to him again. This time really close.

  "I didn't exactly buy it," he laughs, "I kinda helped myself to what the restaurant had in stock.

  "But you own the hotel," I point out as I fill one side of the sink with soapy water and start washing the syrupy plates, "so technically, didn't you still buy everything?"

  He hip checks me lightly, bumping his elbow against mine.

  "Well, the resort is technically owned by a corporation that consists of myself and several members of my family, plus a few other private investors," he explains as he adds the pots and pans to the sink-- including the one that's covered in salt, "so I don't personally pay for the supplies-- I just don't get in trouble for misappropriating them."

  He makes me laugh.

  The storm begins to rage properly outside and I hear the high-pitched clink of frozen rain being pelted at the big windows.

  Inside, I'm warm and safe though. Not just inside the suite, but inside myself.

  And I'm having fun.

  I flick water from my fingertips at Grant when he drops the salt-encrusted skillet into the sink and splashes me lightly.

  "Now is that any way to treat the guy that just saved you from certain death? And made you pancakes?"

  "I am grateful for that, thank you."

  I'm still smiling, but I mean it.

  "Well you did say you needed a sugar daddy," he tells me.

  He's joking, of course. Teasing me about my comments yesterday when I was facing a night in a car that wouldn't start and didn't have a clue how I was going to fix it...any of it.

  It's not his joke that changes my mood to match the gray skies outside.

  "I have to do some actual work for a few hours," Grant's saying as he dries his hands, his back turned to me, "If you need anything, just call the front desk and have them page me.

  "If you want anything from the store or the cafe, just charge it to your room like any other guest," he tells me as he heads for the door.

  He stops before stepping out into the hallway.

  "I'll be back to check in with you later," as he looks at me from the doorway his smile leaves his eyes, "You still owe me a story," he reminds me.

  I give him a brave grin.

  Like I want to tell him how I ended up here.

  Like I'm looking forward to going through it all again.

  Like I can't wait to see him later.

  The look on his face tells me he knows he's asking for a lot from me.

  "I'll bring dinner up," he tells me gently, "so neither of us set the hotel on fire."

  He winks and then he closes the door behind him on his way out to do hotel owner stuff.

  I stand helplessly in the kitchen still and consider the story that Grant wants me to tell and just how much of it I'm willing to share.

  One thing is true, at least, I can't wait to see him later.

  And not just because he's bringing dinner.

  Grant

  Despite the storm that's still trying to send the resort to Oz, our power hasn't done more than flicker a couple of times all day.

  A few guests have decided to stay with us for another night while they wait out the storm, either they aren't willing to drive in the weather or their flights got canceled. Either way, I'm happy to have them.

&
nbsp; Cassidy hasn't called the desk for anything.

  I've asked enough times that now Jarrod just shakes his head whenever he sees me heading that way.

  After making sure all our guests and my staff are taken care of, I put in a special order at the cafe for dinner for me and Cassidy.

  As I ride up to the 12th floor in the elevator with the food, I think about how nice it is to be able to take care of Cassidy like this. Being able to let her stay in the suite, bring her a hot, healthy meal...and wine.

  When I get to her door, it's propped open just slightly, so I know it's not locked.

  "Knock knock," I call into the suite before letting myself in, "I have dinner, but we need to put it in the oven for a bit to let it finish cooking...what's wrong?"

  After setting the foil packages in the kitchen and turning on the oven to the prescribed temperature, I cut myself off when I see Cassidy curled up on one end of the big sofa, engrossed in her cell phone like she didn't even notice me come in.

  When she still doesn't look up at me after asking a second time, I head toward her.

  "Hey," I say gently as I reach the end of the sofa opposite of where she's sitting.

  I try not to startle her, but she jumps anyway.

  "What's up?" I nod toward the phone in her hand but I'm more concerned about the deep worry lines creasing her pretty face.

  Her eyes flicker up to mine for barely a second before settling back on the device in her hand.

  Shaking her head to dismiss my question, she sets it aside. Screen down, I notice.

  "Nothing," she answers, "I just don't have enough signal in here to send an email."

  Cassidy unfolds her legs out from under her and puts her feet on the floor like she's going to get up.

  Before she does that, I sit down beside her.

  "The resort WiFi is still working fine," I point out, "why don't you just log in and use that?"

  Her head shakes quickly. The worry lines deepen.

  In a quick movement, she's off the sofa and headed for the foil packages I left on the counter in the kitchen.

  "So what's for dinner?" she asks, obviously evading the subject at hand.

  "Chicken fried steak," I answer, temporarily letting her off the hook, "mashed potatoes, green beans..."

  I rearrange the packages as I list their contents, separating the cold from the hot.

  "Gravy, salad, aaand," I reach into the bag for the last container, "cobbler," I hold up the last container triumphantly.

  "But we need to heat the gravy up," I tell her, pointing toward the under counter cabinet for a pan, "and the steaks and potatoes need about 20 minutes in the oven to reheat, and then we have to bake the cobbler ourselves."

  Cassidy brings me a sauce pan for the gravy and a baking sheet to set the foil containers with the steaks and potatoes on.

  I slide them into the oven while she pours gravy into the pan and puts it on the back burner on low.

  "If you needed the password, all you had to do was call down to the front desk," I explain, seeing her back on her phone, "you can call the front desk for anything you need, any time."

  Cassidy sets her phone down on the counter, looking like I've caught her doing something wrong.

  "It's fine," she tells me in a small voice that sounds less defensive than evasive, "I just wanted to send an email to my mom. The signal for this network isn't very strong here is all."

  She pokes at the green beans that I have on one of the burners with a fork.

  Out of the corner of my eye I notice the way her lips are drawn into a pouty little frown as she moves the beans around in the pan for no real reason.

  I'm curious about why she doesn't want to use the hotel internet, but it's the sudden desire to kiss her that catches me off guard.

  It's the way her bottom lip juts out from her chin with a cute little wrinkle forming underneath it, combined with the dimple near the corner of her mouth that makes me wonder how long it's been since she was kissed properly and think that she's over due for the next one.

  Of course, I can't just turn to her, back her against the counter, and press my mouth to hers.

  Knowing she's not mine to have only makes me want her more.

  "You can use the business center downstairs if you need a computer."

  I'm trying to offer her options. I want to solve her problems, whatever they are, but honestly? I'm digging, hoping she'll open up on her own and let me in.

  Her pout deepens and I don't know if it's that full bottom lip or the deep but tiny dimple in her cheek that seems to be connected to my dick, but I swear the more she pouts the harder I get.

  Once again, I'm grateful for the apron.

  Cassidy

  Green beans.

  They aren't my favorite and I'm usually kinda picky about my vegetables, but these look good. Fresh and crisp.

  It probably helps that Grant tossed them in a skillet with some bacon bits instead of throwing them in a pot of water like I grew up on.

  Or maybe it's been long enough since I had fresh vegetables that my body is crazing them.

  Either way, I keep sneaking one or two from the skillet as I use the fork to move them around in the pan like I know what I'm doing.

  "So are you going to tell me why you don't want to use the hotel WiFi or do I have to make up my own story?"

  Grant's voice is laced with humor and his non-judgmental tone really helps me relax.

  It's time I started opening up.

  "I just need to make sure no one can track me here," I admit as I pop another green bean in my mouth.

  He stirs the gravy on the back burner with a wooden spoon and doesn't say anything.

  The kitchen is eerily quiet suddenly and the wind from the storm outside rattles the windows hard enough to make me worry.

  "Are you in some sort of legal trouble?" Grant asks finally, setting the spoon aside and turning to lean against the counter, "Because if law enforcement is looking for you--"

  "No. It's not that," I interrupt him.

  Setting the fork aside, I move to the other side of the kitchen and lean against the counter opposite of him.

  "Last night you were wondering if law enforcement could track you through the hotel's guest registry," he reminds me, turning off the burner under the beans before settling back to stare at me intensely, "I'm not saying I'm going to turn you in, but I need to know if the sheriff is going to be looking for you."

  "Um," how do I explain this? "I'm not in any legal trouble," I promise. "It's someone else."

  "Someone else is in legal trouble?"

  The timer goes off for the steaks and Grant silently turns back to the stove while I grab some plates.

  "OK," he tells me finally, as he hands me two plates full of food and motions toward the dining room table, "Let's sit down and enjoy dinner while you tell me your story."

  I nod in agreement and wait at the table while I watch him open the bottle of wine and bring it over with a couple of glasses.

  A thunder clap shakes the roof, making me jump as the lights flicker in the suite.

  "You OK?" Grant asks, holding back from handing me my glass of wine till he's sure I won't drop it, "I take it you're not used to storms?"

  "We get storms," I say, taking a drink of wine that's decidedly unladylike, but should help with my nerves.

  "Mostly in the summer though," I add, "this is different."

  Grant smiles at me. It's calm and reassuring.

  Maybe it's the wine.

  Maybe it's being 5 states away from my problems.

  Maybe it's Grant.

  He makes me feel so safe.

  Which is probably why, for the first time since I left my apartment a few weeks ago, I'm starting to feel like it's OK to let my guard down.

  "OK, Cass," he says softly, "tell me what's going on. I can't help if I don't know what you need."

  I feel like I can trust Grant.

  So I tell him my story.

  Slowly and calmly, betwee
n bites of delicious, home style comfort food that I would have refused a few weeks ago on the grounds that it's too fattening, and sips of red wine that may or may not be appropriate to serve with chicken fried steak and mashed potatoes.

  I don't really know, I was always more of a vodka and cranberry girl.

  Grant stares at me. Eventually he sets his fork down and just listens.

  I watch his dark brows knit together in concern and then I see his jaw clench, but he doesn't interrupt.

  "So I've just been trying to keep moving." I wrap up the story while I push mashed potatoes around on my plate and watch the tines of the fork leaving parallel furrows that fill with dark brown gravy.

  "How the hell did you end up this far north?" Grant wants to know, "Why didn't you go someplace warm at least?"

  I laugh weakly, "That was my plan, I was headed to Florida to stay with my parents but about a day into the drive, he sent me this creepy as fuck text message telling me to say hi to my folks for him. I just had this creepy feeling that made me go in a different direction but I kept getting creepy text messages from him letting me know he knew where I was.

  "I didn't know how he always knew and then he sent me an email telling me he had a friend in law enforcement 'keeping an eye on' me for him."

  The storm outside pelts hail at the windows amid a cluster of lightning flashes that's like a strobe light going on in the suite.

  Grant refills my wine glass and gathers the dishes.

  "Well it sounds like you were in shock," he tells me as he loads the dishwasher, "You were probably trying to go somewhere he won't think of looking for you."

  The wine makes the storm less nerve wracking, another good meal and a roof over my head with heat and running water has me feeling less like I'm in survival mode, but it's Grant that has me feeling...something else.

  Something I haven't felt in a long time.

  Maybe ever.

  "Anyway," I pick up where we began, "his sister in law is a detective for our county. Someone told me she was probably using my phone number to ping my cell, so I changed my number but he still emailed me and always knew where I was so I ended up getting a burner phone with a different carrier."