Page 40 of Saving Grace

She’s never once felt sorry for me or treated me like an invalid. She gives it as good as I give it to her. Maybe it was her anger with what happened to her bouncing off my own. Whatever it was—is—we are in this mess together. If a man ever needed a reason to dig his way out of a hole, this would be it.

She would be it. I’ll be fucked if I’m going to be unable to protect her if she ever needs it.

The giggles and small noises she makes wander into my mind. I grip my cock. Slamming my eyes shut, I see her take my hand, that gorgeous body as she walks away. I imagine she pads from the kitchen and sinks onto my lap, wearing one of my old T-shirts. I take her face in my hands. Her light meets my dark. Her soft to my hardness. Vanilla and peaches all around me. I come hard and slump against the tile. My legs tremble. My heart flings against my ribs.

She needs a friend now, not another man to shatter her to pieces.

This stays between me and the shower.

Pants and little moans travel from the yoga room to where I lay in bed. Morning wood at full mast, those little noises are nothelping my case. I roll over, hoping that will douse the fire the woman in this house sparked weeks ago. With the conversation on the sofa last night, all raw and close, I’m tumbling head over fucking heels into her more and more.

Technically I’m her boss, so there’s that.

She needs space and time. Not another raging asshole with an agenda.

I sit up and run a hand through my hair. I’m not using the crutch today. Three rounds of physio like I’m supposed to do from now on. I should have started out that way. But sometimes you need something bigger than your own well-being to pull you forward.

“Morning.” Grace walks past in her activewear that highlights her shape, water bottle in hand. Her neck glistens with sweat. Breasts pushed up in a sports bra that sees two perfect-as-fuck mounds pushed up over the top. Her hair is tied up in her usual messy bun, damp around the edges from her yoga session.

“Morning,” I reply, but it’s almost a rasp.

Her face tweaks, but she flattens it. “Want some coffee?”

“Sure, but—” I push from the bed.

“You okay?” Her brows drop, and she steps forward, stilling when she realizes she’s in my bedroom.

“I’m good. I was just gonna say I’ll make breakfast.”

“Wonderful! I’m going to grab a shower, then.”

She takes off toward her room, hips swaying. The door doesn’t close this time. I hear the shower start up. Shaking my head to dislodge the thought of Grace showering, I wander to the kitchen and start the coffee grinder. The beans whiz, smashing around until they’re nothing more than powder. I fill the top of the coffee maker with the grounds and pull out the receptacle and fill it with water. With the coffee brewing away, I start onsome eggs and toast. I glance outside. Dark clouds hang to the west, far enough away not to affect the day yet.

Vanilla and peaches have me fenced into the kitchen as Grace walks in. She’s in shorts and a navy T-shirt that makes her blue eyes pop. She winds her damp hair up into a messy bun. I crack three eggs into the pan. What I wouldn’t do to run my hands through those gorgeous long brown locks. Run a thumb over her bottom lip, press kisses to her jawline, cheekbones, nose, and forehead.

Heat stings my hand. “Shit!” I snap my hand away from the burner.

“What’s got you all distracted today, Mackinlay?”

She sits at the table and scrolls through her phone. I return my focus to the eggs and flip them over. The toaster pops, and I find two plates and toss the toast onto them before slathering butter over each slice. When the eggs are done, I place two on my plate and one on Grace’s. Carefully, I tote the plates to the table and rest hers in front of her.

“Thanks, Mack,” she says brightly, looking up at me.

“I’m starving,” I say, dropping into the seat. Fuck, forgot cutlery. I rise to stand.

Her hand covers mine. “It’s okay, I got it. Think the coffee’s ready, too.”

Pouring two mugs of coffee, she adds cream to both and sugar to hers. Cutlery appears at my side, and I take it from her hands. She swings back into the kitchen. Two steaming mugs of coffee are in her hands when she stands by my side a second later. I shovel a mouthful of eggs in.

Anything to distract me from her peaches-and-vanilla scent. Which is impossible when she leans over and places the coffee by my plate. Her hair falls from its precarious makeshift bun, spilling over her shoulders. Her shampoo, spice and somethingsweet, floods over me. I grunt, gripping the cutlery, determined to focus on the food.

“What are you going to do today?” Her voice cuts through my veil of concentration.

Swallowing, I glance over to her. “Exercise. Maybe visit Trigger.”

“You gonna ride him?” Her hands hover over her plate, cutlery gripped in her fine fingers.

I want to. Whether or not my body will let me is another thing.

---