Page 44 of Giving Grace

“You’re welcome.” He takes a cautious step forward, face tipped toward his shoes. “Look, about what I said earlier. On the phone—”

“Ryyyaan!” Molly’s screech bounces off the walls and down the hall, accompanied by the fast slap of her ballet flats against the hardwood floor under her feet as she runs toward us at breakneck speed. “Where have you been?” she admonishes him while she scrambles up his leg like a spider monkey. They just saw each other yesterday but as far as she’s concerned, yesterday was practically years ago. By the way Ryan’s face breaks out in a grin when he hears her coming, I can tell the feeling is mutual. “I’ve been waiting for you all day.”

“It’s 10AM,” he says with a laugh, when she finally settled herself on his hip. “I don’t think that qualifies as all day.”

“Well, it felt like forever,” she says, tugging on the neckline of his shirt with a pouty little frown. “Did you know that there’s an ocean outside?” Her pout slips away and her eyes go wide. “Like a real ocean, with sand and waves and everything.”

“I did know that,” he tells her with a smirk that’s rapidly becoming familiar. “Did you go see it?”

“No.” Her lip pokes out and she sighs. “I want to go look for seashells but Gran says I can’t go down there because I’ll mess up my dress,” she says, pointing an accusing finger at the white dress she’s wearing. “I’m the flower girl, remember?”

“I remember.” He sets her down on her feet and re-claims his cane from the spot where he leaned it against the wall when he heard her coming for him. “And I’m a groomsmen,” he tells her. “Which means I’m supposed to escort Henley down the aisle in about….” He turns his wrist to look at his watch. “20 minutes.”

“Can we go look for seashells after?” To sweeten the deal, she draws an X with her finger on her chest, just above her heart. “If Gran catches us, I’ll tell her it was my idea and that your brain is still messed up and that I nippalated you.”

“Manipulated me,” he corrects her with a laugh before giving me questioning look. “Okay with you?”

Trying not to be jealous of my four-year-old daughter, I give him a nod and he gives me a quick smile before aiming it in Molly’s direction. “Alright, Miss Molly, you’ve got yourself a date.”

Twenty-eight

Ryan

Patrick and Cari’s wedding is officially a hit.

The ceremony was short and sweet, Con acting as both best man and officiant, made sure of that. There’s a Michelin-starred chef manning the grill and enough cold beer on tap to float a fleet of boats.

And Grace is here, floating around in a cloud of sexy, aqua blue silk and loose, golden blonde hair, smiling and laughing her way around the backyard reception like she’s having the time of her life.

She’s dancing with Patrick right now while Cari dances with his father, who is as close to identical to his brother as Patrick is to Conner. Before that, she organized the cake cutting and made sure 21 pilots, Cari’s favorite band, stayed at the top of the extensive playlist Con put together for the occasion.

Even though it’s edging toward sundown, the party’s still in full swing, Patrick and Cari are showing signs of planning their escape—I imagine they’ll be gone in the next hour or so, leaving the rest of us to trickle out behind them while they head back to Boston for a night in the honeymoon suite at the Hawthorne before catching a direct flight to London in the morning. They’ll be gone a month and I know Patrick is praying that things at the center don’t go to shit while he’s gone.

To be honest, it’s a distinct possibility.

I catch a flash of white flit past the corner of my eye and I turn my head to watch Molly dart across the backyard, swinging her flower girl basket, now full of seashells from our trip down to the beach, behind her with Noah the ring bearer, stripped out of his tie and jacket, not far behind. When I look back, I feel the back of my neck go hot and tight while I watch the guy who runs security at Gilroy’s cut in on Patrick and Grace’s dance with a shit-eating grin. Seconds later, Patrick’s taking a step back and security guy has his arms around her, maneuvering her around the dancefloor while she throws her head back and laughs at something he says to her.

“Not sure if anyone told you this, but there’s only room for one broody asshole in this family and it’s me. I’m the broody asshole.”

I tear my gaze away from Grace, tilting my head back a bit to let it settle on Declan. He’s standing a few feet away from where I’m sitting, pint in hand while he surveys the party, same as I am.

I want to tell him to mind his own fucking business. Instead I make a low, one-note sound in the back of my throat while I watch Security Guy twirl Grace around the dance floor. “What’s his name?”

“Went.” There’s no mistaking the note of disdain in Declan’s tone when he says it and I look up to see if he’s wearing an expression to match. He is.

That’s when I remember. “That’s right—Tess used to date him.”

“Yup.” He lifts his glass to take a drink. “Wentworth Fiorella—richer than god. Famous chef father. Celebutante mother. Annoyingly successful in his own right—if the women that swarm Gilroy’s every night are any judge, he’s hot as hell. What he is, is a walking, talking monkey wrench.” Declan’s top lip curls up slightly. “And I gotta tell you, Ry,” he says, throwing me an over the shoulder smirk. “I’m really glad he’s not my problem anymore.”

His insinuation is pretty clear and watching while Fiorella glides across the dance floor with Grace pressed against him, I can’t help but agree with him. Because obviously, Fiorella has become my problem.

When I don’t answer him or ask him what the fuck he’s getting at, Dec keeps talking. “Can I ask you something?”

“Why not?” I grumble into my glass while I tip it to my mouth. It’s just water. Can’t afford to drink. My reaction time has slowed enough as it is since the explosion, I don’t need booze onboard making worse. Not when I have an hour-long drive home ahead of me.

“What the fuck you waiting for?” The question snags my attention away from Grace long enough to watch while Declan eases his enormous frame into the Adirondack-style chair on the lawn next to me. “I mean, you’re obviously into her so—”

“I’m sorry Con, I didn’t see you sit down,” I say, my irritation growing exponentially at his nosiness, even though I gave him permission to ask his stupid question in the first place.

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