Page 8 of Giving Grace

Even though all of that is true, I still have to swallow hard against the hot lump of resentment wadded up in my throat so I can speak. Make some sort of excuse for my sorry self because I’m not as innocent as I want to make myself out to be. I’d done things. Said things that hurt Grace and the fact that she’s refused to give me a chance to apologize is eating a hole right through the middle of me. “She’s—“

“I’m right here.”

All four of us look up to watch Grace step out of the hallway and comes toward us, breakfast tray in hand.

“Where’ve you been?” Cari asks, shooting another quick glance in my direction. “I’ve been calling you all morning and—” I got worried. Cari stops herself before she says it but I know that’s what she was about to say because now she won’t look at me. “I thought maybe we could go grab some lunch, you, me and Moll. Catch up.”

“I just ate.” Grace says while we all watch her deposit her tray on the counter. “Ryan and Molly made me breakfast in bed.”

She showered. Dressed in worn jeans and an old Ohio State sweatshirt. Bare feet. Hair pulled up in a sloppy bun, loose damp tendrils curling against her neck.

Completely. Fucking. Fuckable.

As soon as I think it, I feel panic slice through me, bright and hot.

Because I suddenly remember that my dick has a mind of its own. That after six months of nothing it finally decided to rear its ugly head—literally—and having Grace this close is dangerous.

Very fucking dangerous.

“Breakfast?” Cari’s face does that Faraday thing again. “It’s almost two o’clock in the afternoon.”

“Ryan let me sleep in,” she says with a shrug while she offloads her breakfast dishes from the tray and into the sink. “And shower.” She laughs a little like it’s a joke only she would understand.

“Breakfast was Ryan’s idea, but I lied to mom and said it was my idea because she was mad at him and I—” Molly slaps a marker-stained hand over her mouth, blue eyes wide, panic-stricken and aimed right at me. “Sorry,” she mumbles around the press of her hand against her mouth.

“S’okay,” I mumble back, tempering my tone with a quick wink aimed in her direction before looking at Patrick. “Thanks for letting me crash here but I think it’s time I—”

“Nooo.” Molly lets out a wail of protest, jack-knifing herself off Cari’s hip. As soon as her feet hit the floor she darts around the counter and into the kitchen. Before anyone can stop her, Molly is scrambling and clawing her way up my good leg like a deranged squirrel. “I said I was sorry,” she says as soon as she’s settled on my hip. “Please don’t be mad at me. I didn’t mean to—”

“Stop,” I tell her, and to everyone’s surprise, her little mouth snaps closed. Taking a deep breath, I let it out slowly because everyone is watching and I hate it because now they all know my fucking business. I can practically hear the gears in Cap’n hear turning, trying to figure out what happened while he was gone. How big of a fuck-up it was to leave Cari’s little sister alone with the big, scary headcase. I’d bet the one nut I have left that he calls Con as soon as I leave like the gossipy cow he is.

Then he’ll know.

He might not know everything, but he’ll know enough.

That I kissed her.

Want to do more than kiss her.

Enough to know that two days alone with me was horrible fucking idea.

Instead of putting Molly down and telling them all to get fucked, I focus on telling her the truth. “I’m not mad and you didn’t do anything wrong.”

She narrows her gaze like she doesn’t believe me. “Then why are you leaving?”

“Because I have stuff to do.” That’s a lie, I don’t have fuck-all to do and everyone here knows it.

“Okay.” She nods her head like she understands while pulling on the neckline of my T-shirt. “So do your stuff and come home.”

“Moll…” I can feel them, all of them, still staring at me—distrustful glares and puzzled gazes burning into the side of my face. “I don’t live here.”

That little chin of hers juts out in its telltale stubborn angle. “You don’t live anywhere. You got kicked out of your hospital, remember?”

“Shi…” I mutter under breath and she arches an eyebrow at me. “Shingles. I said shingles.” I crack a smile when she giggles but the sound is short-lived. In the space of a second, she’s back to scowling at me like I’m a yellow-bellied traitor. “Moll, I can’t stay here…” A helpless look cast around the kitchen tells me we still have an audience but it shows no signs of help. “My place is ready. I told you that. I told you that my staying here was—”

“You can sleep in my bed,” she tells me, negotiating like a seasoned union rep. “I’ll sleep with my mom and I don’t even care if you throw up on my pony sheets.” Her mouth turns down at its corners, letting me know just how much that concession cost her. “Just don’t leave.”

“Tomorrow is Sunday,” I tell her, struck by a very rare bolt of inspiration and not with a little relief because she almost had me. Almost had me agreeing to bedding down in Cap’n coat closet, just to make her happy.

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