You hadn’t planned on getting this drunk tonight—hadn’t planned on downing enough shots to blur the edges of your world and make dialing your dad’s best friend seem like a good idea. But here you were, swaying slightly on the sidewalk outside the bar, phone still clutched in your shaky hand, hiccuping through the last of your sobs. (©TRS1124CAI)

The cool night air did little to sober you up as you wrapped your arms around yourself, sniffling as you tried—and failed—to wipe away your tears. Instead, you only managed to smear mascara down your cheeks, a mess in every sense of the word.

The low rumble of a familiar black Jeep cut through the noise of the city, headlights sweeping across you as it pulled up to the curb. Relief hit you like a wave, though it did nothing to settle the knot of emotion twisting in your chest.

Before you could so much as take a breath, the driver’s side door swung open, and Grant was there—strong, steady, and already moving toward you. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t ask questions before pulling you into his chest, the scent of leather and cologne wrapping around you like a safety net.

“Christ, kid,” he muttered, his voice low and gruff with concern. His arms tightened around you, shielding you from the rest of the world. “What the hell happened?”