Free Grounded by Neta Jackson Page A

door—though he was now bundled up in a winter jacket, sweatshirt hood over his head—was slushing through the snow across her tiny front lawn, arms wrapped around the black-and-white cat.
    She blew out a relieved breath as he came closer. “Oh, thank you! Tavis, isn’t it? Here …” She held out her arms for the cat as the boy reached her stoop. “I’ll get him inside and be right back. Did your mom ask you about shoveling my walk?” She was pushing her voice beyond its raspy whisper in order to be heard.
    â€œYeah.” The boy pointed back the way he’d come. “I dropped the shovel back there when I saw the cat runnin’ loose. I’ll go get it.”
    Grace hustled back inside, shut Oreo in the guest bedroom, grabbed her parka, and headed outside again as she pulled it on. Tavis had already retrieved his shovel and was staring at Roger, who had come back up the steps and was stamping snow off his leather shoes on the mat just outside the front door.
    â€œYa still want me to shovel? Or is your husband gonna do it?” the boy said.
    Grace stifled a laugh, which she was afraid would come out slightly hysterical. “Yes, I still want you to do it. He’s just … a visitor.” Ignoring Roger, she told Tavis she’d like him to shovel the sidewalk along the street, then up her short walk up to the door, plus the walkway from the back door to the garage. “You can forget the side for now.”
    â€œOkay. Ten bucks, right?” The boy snickered. “Tabitha is gonna be so pissed.”
    Grace winced at his language, but couldn’t help grinning. “Your sister … how old is she?”
    â€œThirteen. Same as me. We’re twins.” He rolled his eyes. “Double trouble, my dad says.” He squinted up at her. “Mama said you got laryngitis, so I’m not s’posed to make you talk much. But I gotta tell ya …” His eyes strayed to the sidewalks. “This ain’t gonna be so easy.”
    â€œI know. Do what you can. There’s a bag of rock salt in the garage. I think the side door is open.”
    A masculine throat-clearing made Grace turn around. Roger, eyes still hidden behind his sunglasses, cocked a thumb toward her open front door. “Can we, uh, go in?”
    â€œWait a moment.” The chasing-the-cat episode had given Grace time to recover from her surprise at finding Roger at her doorstep. Squeezing past him, she turned in the open doorway and said, “Let’s start over.” She stepped back, closed the door in his face, took a slow, deep breath, and then reopened it. “Roger. What are you doing here?”
    Roger shook his head and looked away for a moment. She imagined he’d just rolled his eyes. “Let’s not play games, Grace. I’m
here
because you won’t answer my phone calls. But we really need to talk. That’s why I—”
    â€œI’m not supposed to talk. I’ve got laryngitis.” She let her voice croak all it wanted—which didn’t take much after all the talking she’d done in the last thirty minutes.
    â€œGrace. It’s cold. Please let me come in.”
    Grace stood there one more nanosecond, then stepped aside so Roger could come in. Closing the door, she shed her parka and boots and stowed them in the coat closet. She could at least try to be civil. She didn’t want to burn any bridges with Roger, in case this whole breakup was just a case of getting cold feet.
    She turned. Roger had taken off his topcoat and laid it neatly over the back of a chair. The sunglasses had also disappeared, unveiling his blue-gray eyes. She steadied her gaze. “Would you like some coffee?”
    â€œThat’d be great.”
    â€œI’ll be right back,” she said, giving him a clear signal he wasn’t supposed to follow her into the kitchen. She wanted to keep this formal. Civil but formal. Fortunately she