Page 34 of Giving Grace

Because the solution he’s presenting like it’s the only one I have has a name.

Grace.

“Yes, you can,” he tells me before I puss out and say it out loud because he knows what he’s suggesting in on my list of cant’s. “And even if you can’t, you don’t have much of a choice.”

“Fuck.” I can feel my chest getting tight and I lift a hand to rub it over my sternum, trying to loosen it up. Because Grace isn’t so much of a can’t as she is a shouldn’t. I shouldn’t be around her. Shouldn’t bother her. She made it clear that she wasn’t interested in taking on my two tons of fucked-up bullshit five months ago and I’ve done everything I can to respect her decision. To give her room to breathe.

To be fair to her.

“I haven’t talked to her in months, Con.” I shake my head, trying to force myself to think clearly, remember all the reasons that why what he’s suggesting is a bad fucking idea. Because the truth is, even though I know I shouldn’t bother Grace, I want to. “I can’t just show up on her doorstep and ask—what about Tess? Maybe she can—”

“Tess has a list of bridesmaid shit to do as long as her arm—she’s not available, and yes, you can,” he says it again like he’s cauterizing another wound, hitting me quick and hard with the truth. “And before you ask, I have shit to do too—I’ve got to go tell Jack to fuck off and then I have background checks to run on the new batch of resident applications—and that’s before the six legal aid appointments I have scheduled for today.” Tossing his towel over his shoulder Con gives me a shrug. “It’s real simple, Ry—either deal with your father or deal with Grace. If I were you, I’d take option B because she’s going to the same place you are and she leaves in twenty minutes.”

Twenty-one

Grace

Fridays are usually my day.

The one day of the week that I get to have a little breathing room. With Patrick gone into work and Cari either holed up in her studio or sleeping off an all-night painting session, Friday is the day I get to drop Molly off at school and then come back home and be alone. Hear myself think for ninety glorious minutes. Get ready for my 10AM class without a four-year-old underfoot. Leave on time so I don’t have to worry about hitting traffic or that I’ll be late because Molly tried to fill the side pocket of her school backpack with chocolate milk because she gets thirsty and the juice box I pack in her lunchbox is gross.

Hell, sometimes I even have enough time to hit my favorite coffee cart on campus for a latte and vanilla bean scones before class starts.

There will be no lattes or scones in my immediate future.

Not today.

“Molly Grace Faraday,” I yell at the top of my lungs so my voice will carry from the laundry room and down the hall to her room. “I am leaving this house in sixty-seconds, and if you’re not ready to leave I’m going to—”

My threat is cut off by a quick, hard knock on the door that’s less than a foot away from my face. Thinking it must be Tess or Declan or maybe even Conner, because it has to be one of them if whoever it is got all the way up here without being buzzed in from the street, I lean over and yank the door open without looking through the peephole. “I’m serious, Molly,” I keep shouting. I let the door go and a hand reaches out to catch it. A very masculine, very large hand—so, not Tess. “Sixty-seconds and I’m—” Because whoever it is hasn’t crossed the threshold or at the very least said hey, I cast a fast, impatient glance over my shoulder and do my best to keep the frustration that’s coursing through me out of my tone. “We’re running late, so whatever you’re here for, I won’t be much—”

It’s Ryan.

Holy shit.

He looks good. That’s my first thought. In dark wash jeans, a light-weight, cashmere sweater under a black pea coat and boots, he looks so fucking good, I want to cry.

Better than good.

With his dark, wind tousled hair and close-clipped beard, he looks like he just stepped off the pages of an LL Bean catalog. His hair is longer than I remember. Long enough to run my fingers through. Long enough to grip and pull while he—

A warm flush settles in my belly, stirring up a flurry of butterflies, before it sinks, thick and heavy like warm honey, to settle itself in the juncture of my thighs.

“Ryan.” It sounds stupid coming out of my mouth, like I don’t actually believe what I’m seeing. Like it’s some sort of a trick.

“Hey, Grace.” He gives me a quick, nervous smile that tells me that whatever his reason for being here is, he doesn’t want to be.

Which tells me everything I need to know, really. That even after five months of self-imposed exile, Ryan still doesn’t want to want me. And what do you know, I really am stupid because knowing that has done absolutely nothing to dampen the furnace blast of lust I feel when I hear him say my name.

Because five months post-Ryan, I still haven’t learned a damn thing.

Not when it comes to him.

Closing ranks, I cross my arms over my chest and take a step away from the door. “Are you here on a wedding assignment?” It’s Patrick and Cari’s wedding weekend. The two of them left early this morning for Declan’s house on the Cape to pre-honeymoon before the big day, leaving the last minute details to the rest of us. Last I heard, Con and Henley were taking care of the center and Declan was running between jobsites of the construction company he and Patrick co-own while Tess was bouncing from crisis to crisis, putting out wedding fires, wherever they happened to sprout up.

Even I’m not immune—after class, I have a list of last-minute maid-of-honor duties to attend to.

Like pick my parents up from the airport.

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