With Good Behavior (20 page)

Sophie shrugged. “Statistically, yes, but clinically it didn’t mean much. The women started the study with such intense depression that even though their scores decreased over six months, they were still quite depressed.”

The announcer’s voice boomed over the sound system, and the first White Sox batter stepped up to the plate. His announcement was met with mostly boos in the Cubs-dominated crowd.

Sophie frowned. “Sorry to take us to such a dark place.”

“I’m the one who asked,” Grant said with a smile. “You tried to warn me.”

She smiled as well as they turned their attention to the game.

Seeking a lighter topic, he asked, “Who made 
you
 a Sox fan?”

“My dad.”

Her soft, terse reply told him he had not succeeded in lightening the mood. “Oh.”

“I think he wanted a son,” she said sadly. “My mom had four miscarriages before me. Anyway, my dad would drag me to Sox games when I was little, but eventually I learned to love the game. Pretty soon I wanted to go more than he did, but then he started his company and got too busy for baseball.”

“Well, I’m never too busy for baseball,” Grant said, stretching out his lanky body comfortably. “Except when I have to work for weeks on end. Thank God for Rog giving us some days off.”

A hot dog vendor meandered down the aisle, already sweating in the hot sun. She was a petite little thing carrying a deep metal tray, and both Grant and Sophie were surprised by her volume when she belted out, “Hot dogs! Five dollars!”

As the ponytailed vendor paused at the row across from them, Sophie leaned into Grant and whispered, “That could be me. When I couldn’t find a job, Jerry told me to sell hot dogs at Cubs games.”

Grant raised his eyebrows in shock and muttered, “The horror.”

Sophie giggled, scoffing, “As if I’d work at Wrigley Field, the enemy’s lair!”

The vendor continued down the aisle and Grant proudly said, “Working on an architectural cruise is far superior to hawking hot dogs. Although I bet you’d get great tips here too.”

Still grinning, Sophie mused, “I wonder if guys ask her if her buns are warm?”

Grant snickered.

“How would you like your sausage, sir?”

His mouth dropped open. “You’re right—you are 
certainly
 no angel. And I 
like 
it, you felon.” His mind desperately whirred. “I wonder if she has some ketchup. 
Put a squirt of that here!
”

Sophie laughed.

The hot dog vendor now headed back up the aisle. Suddenly Grant turned to Sophie in mock surprise. “You fit that 
whole thing
 in your mouth?”

She looked stunned for a moment, then cackled with delight. “Grant Madsen! You are a naughty boy!” She punched him in the arm and was rewarded with a mischievous shrug of his shoulders.

Three hours later, the game was over and Grant and Sophie were hoarse from cheering. Their Sox had narrowly defeated the Cubs, six to five.

As they headed up the aisle, Sophie commented, “It looks like Carlos Quentin is headed for an All-Star berth.”

Grant could not help but smile proudly at Sophie’s baseball knowledge.

“And what about my little All-Star?” he grinned, wrapping his arm around her sexy bare shoulders. “Would she like some dinner?”

“Wow. A new apartment, a baseball hat, a game, and dinner, all in one day? Aren’t you Mr. Big Spender?”

“Well, a womanly touch is priceless,” he countered, squeezing her shoulder. “C’mon. I’ll take you to my favorite restaurant.”

T
heir stomachs growling, Grant and Sophie were grateful to be seated immediately at The Chic Sheik. They’d removed their baseball caps, but Sophie still wondered aloud if they were dressed too casually for a restaurant with the word 
chic
 in its name. Grant assured her they were fine for the early evening hour.

“Have you ever had Mediterranean food before?” he asked, guiding Sophie to the table with a hand on the small of her back.

“I don’t think so.”

“Marat will be your server this evening,” their host announced as he handed them menus. He smiled and left the table.

“Are you up for trying something new, then?” Grant asked.

“Of course, Grant. As long as you give me some suggestions on what to order.”

He nodded. “I can order for you, if you like?”

Sophie considered his offer, her fiercely independent and mistrustful streak battling the swooning part of her that wanted to dive into those bottomless blue eyes, allowing him to take care of her completely. Then a sense of calm overtook her.

“That would be lovely.”

“Are you a vegetarian, or do you have any food allergies?”

Astounded again by his considerate nature, she shook her head.

“Um, I’m not going to order a drink, but would you like one?”

“No tequila shooters?” she grinned, noticing that his face turned slightly green at the mention. “I’m still a little warm from the game. It was pretty hot out there, so a drink doesn’t sound very good to me right now either.”

Grant nodded gratefully, and his smooth velvet voice adeptly gave their orders to Marat when he sidled up to the table.

“Very good, sir.” The Turkish waiter nodded his approval. “I’ll be right out with your tea and appetizer.”

Once they were alone again, Sophie inquired, “How did you come to like this type of cuisine, Grant?”

“I was stationed on an aircraft carrier in the Persian Gulf. Whenever we visited ports, the food was amazing.”

“Oh, right. So how long were you in the Navy?”

“I was in ROTC for four years in college, and then on active duty, um, for six years.” He chewed his bottom lip. “Until I was twenty-eight.”

“What did you like about the military?”

Grant paused. “Initially I wanted to be in the Navy because of my Uncle Joe. I idolized him and wanted to be just like him.” With a pang of guilt he considered his admiration for Captain Lockhart as well, but kept those thoughts private. “Luckily, once I was in, I loved it—the order, the precision, the bonding with my fellow sailors, but most of all, I liked fighting for the good guys. I believed in what we were doing, fighting the good fight.”

He looked up to find her mahogany eyes riveted on him. Sounding embarrassed, he continued, “And I was moving up the ranks. I guess I do well at following orders or something—my superiors liked me.” 
But not anymore,
 Grant thought. He had screwed up their trust in him big time.

Watching him avert his eyes, seemingly barricaded in a prison of remorse, Sophie ventured, “You really miss being in the Navy?”

He looked down. “Yeah.”

Realizing what she was doing, Sophie quickly apologized. “I’m sorry. Here I am interrogating you about your past again.” She shook her finger at herself. “Bad psychologist!”

“Our pact never to discuss the past is kind of hard to follow, huh?”

She smiled. “When I told my psychologist, Hunter, about our pact, he thought it was the dumbest idea ever.”

“He’s probably right,” Grant said, chuckling. “We were foolish to think we could be with each other while hiding our pasts. The truth is the Navy is a part of me, and I can’t pretend otherwise.” 
Just like my Mafia family is a part of me
.

Sophie grimaced, considering how her shameful ethical breach with Logan was interwoven into 
her 
very being, though she had no desire to unravel that truth just now.

“Here we are!” Marat swooped in, placing a plate of hummus and vegetables between them, along with a basket of warm pita. “And chai iced tea,” he offered, setting down sweating glasses of the dark liquid. “The perfect refreshment for such a hot day.” Glancing at their discarded Sox hats, he inquired, “You took in the baseball game today, yes?”

When they nodded, Marat gave them a disapproving stare. “But you cheered for the wrong team, no?”

“We cheered for the 
winning
 team,” Grant corrected playfully.

“Ah, the Sox got lucky today,” said Marat. “The Cubs will persevere tomorrow, I’m sure.”

“Are we going to have to sit in another section?” Grant bantered back. “I’m a little worried about a bitter Cubs fan poisoning our food.”

Marat laughed. “Lucky for you I do not believe in sour grapes. Or sour grape leaves, for that matter.” He gestured to the appetizer. “Please enjoy.”

As Marat departed, Sophie glanced uncertainly back and forth from the appetizer to her fork.

“No utensils required,” Grant said as he scooped hummus onto a cucumber and presented it to her.

“I’ve had hummus before, you know,” she said. “Just not this flavor. What is it?”

“Roasted red pepper,” he answered, popping a loaded pita into his mouth. “It’s good, though nothing compares to Riem’s garlic hummus.”

“Who’s Riem?” Sophie asked.

Grant looked suddenly uncomfortable as Sophie studied him quizzically. “Riem is a Jordanian woman,” he finally said, causing Sophie to wonder if she was about to hear sordid details of his relationship history.

“She was Simkins’ girl.”

“Simkins? He’s your Navy buddy, right?”

He nodded. “My bunkmate.” He exhaled loudly, frustrated that he’d opened his big mouth. Eating Middle Eastern food for the first time in more than two years had unleashed a flood of memories, and now Sophie was staring at him expectantly.

“Simkins, Riem, the Mideast … um, well, they take me back to a happier time, a time before I lost it all when I got arrested, before I ruined my life.”

“Oh,” she replied, not knowing what else to say. “If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s okay. I mean, we don’t know each other very well, and it does take time to build trust.”

He reached across the table and gently clasped her hand with his long fingers. “But I do trust you, Sophie.”

Sophie smiled warmly. “It might help to talk about it. As much as I fought Jerry about seeing a psychologist, I have to admit I’m starting to feel a little better.”

Breaking off a piece of pita and dragging it across the red hummus, Grant took a deep breath before placing it in his mouth. Chewing, he realized they were breaking bread together, a sign of trust in Middle Eastern culture. There was no better time to share himself.

“I—I was trying to steal some money from a club when I got caught. I didn’t want to do it, but I had to.” His cheeks flushed with shame.

“Why did you have to do it?”

He sighed. “I thought I was protecting somebody. But there had to be a better way. I shouldn’t have agreed to do what I did. I ended up betraying—”

“All finished?” Marat interrupted, gesturing to the almost empty plate of hummus.

Grant seemed far away, ensconced in the past, so Sophie answered, “Yes, thank you.”

“Excellent.” He disappeared with the plate and basket from the table, only to swoop back moments later with their entrees. “Let’s see, we have Chicken Shwarma Salad for the lady,” he announced, setting down a crisp green mélange. “And the Mujudara Plate for the gentleman. Is there anything else I can get for you right now?”

“This looks wonderful,” Grant responded, attempting to smile. “The chef must be a Sox fan. Thank you, Marat.”

“No, the chef knows what he’s doing. He’s a Cubs fan, of course.” With an impish wink, the waiter left them alone again in his largely empty section.

Sophie took a bite of the chargrilled chicken drenched in a lemony olive-oil dressing. “Yum. Grant, this is delicious.”

He smiled. “Would you like to try some of mine?”

“If it’s half as good as this salad, I’d love to.”

He shoveled some lentils, onions, and grilled beef onto his fork and slowly raised it to her mouth.

“Interesting,” she murmured. “I like it, but I like my salad even better.”

“Yeah, this lentil dish may be an acquired taste,” he replied. “The Doha version of this dish was incredible. It’s hard to replicate in America.”

They ate a few bites before Sophie asked, “You were saying something about betrayal?”

Grant swallowed and nodded, drowning in the fury he felt toward his brother. That betrayal was too raw to discuss. If he let even a smidgen of that rage seep out, he didn’t know what would happen. Instead, he focused on another betrayal: the one he had caused himself.

“I betrayed the only father I’ve ever had. I betrayed Uncle Joe … He didn’t understand why I pulled the robbery, and I couldn’t tell him.”

Grant looked nervously toward Sophie. Her fork paused midair, and she returned his gaze, waiting for him to resume the story.

“Why, Grant? Why?”

He met his uncle’s pleading blue eyes through the visitation glass at the courthouse, his heart thumping in his chest. Logan had told him to keep quiet or Joe would pay, but he didn’t know if he could continue the silence. He was hurting Joe deeply.

“I’m sorry, sir” was all he could repeat.

Joe continued to question to no avail. Finally, resigned, he slumped in his chair, rumpling his khaki uniform. “You know what they do when you get a felony conviction, don’t you?”

Grant glanced down at his yellow jumpsuit, a different kind of uniform than he was used to. Softly he replied, “A discharge from the Navy.”

“More tea?” Marat asked.

Grant glanced confusedly at the waiter and his pitcher of iced tea. He then looked at Sophie, whose warm brown eyes were filling with tears. She averted her gaze.

“Uh, maybe later?” Grant told the waiter.

Noticing their distress, Marat nodded. “Of course, sir.”

As the waiter left, Grant gently asked, “Are you all right?”

She sniffed and nodded. “So then they discharged you?”

Grant sighed, smiling grimly. “Yeah. I’m not fit to serve anymore, I guess. I sure have messed up my life.”

Sophie could not stop herself from weeping and used her napkin to dab at her eyes.

Grant clasped her hand in his. “Why are you crying?”

“It’s just awful,” she choked out. “I know how much you loved the Navy. I just have to watch you on Rog’s ship to know how much you loved it.”

A lump formed in Grant’s throat as she continued.

“I bet you were a great sailor.” She didn’t know if she was crying for his losses or for hers.

Grant quickly withdrew his hand, angrily jamming it in his lap. He looked away and squared his jaw with resolve, determined not to cry. He had never allowed himself to cry about the damn discharge, and he wasn’t about to start now.

They sat in silence. Watching Grant valiantly fight off tears reminded Sophie of something—another time, another situation—but she couldn’t place it. She tried to pull herself together.

“Let’s pay the check and get the hell out of here. I’ve lost my appetite,” Grant said.

Unfortunately, Marat was suddenly nowhere to be found. Grant miserably returned his gaze to Sophie. “Well, now I’ve made you cry. Great, just great. This is probably the worst date you’ve ever been on.”

She’d never felt as close to a man as she did right now. “No—”

“And I definitely do 
not
 feel better after talking about the past. In fact, I feel worse. Is this what therapy is supposed to be like?”

She shrugged crossly. “What the hell do I know? They took away my psychologist license, remember? Thanks for reminding me about that, by the way.”

They glared at each other, but within moments softened into smiles.

“If you think you’ve got the corner on the market on messing up your life, well, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet, Madsen. I am the queen of self-destruction.”

Grant stifled a laugh. “Yeah, you were popped for guns and cash, yo. You’re a real gangsta badass.”

Sophie began giggling. Her laugh was infectious, and Grant found himself chuckling too. Ah, life. If you don’t laugh, you cry. And sometimes, if you’re with the right person, you laugh 
while
 you cry.

Marat finally showed up, tentatively handing Grant the bill and temporarily halting their laughter.

“You have impeccable timing, Marat, just like a batter for the Cubs.”

The waiter just gave Grant a curious stare. “I thank you for visiting us tonight. Enjoy your evening.”

While Grant was mentally calculating the tip, Sophie lovingly feasted her eyes on her man, parolee McSailor. He’d said he didn’t feel any better after describing his crime, but perhaps he would soon. The more she learned about him, the more Sophie trusted Grant. Their burgeoning emotional intimacy only increased her physical desire for him, and she definitely knew a way to make him feel better.