Page 48 of Saving Grace

“Yes, Dad.” She smiles, but it fades, and she pushes off the door and walks toward the fields. The afternoon heat is mild, and I haul ass out of the truck and head inside with her bag and phone. Skin warming under the sunshine, sweat sheens over my forearms, neck, and face. Inside, the cool air of a closed-up house with an air conditioner that’s been running for hours greets me.

Bliss.

I set Grace’s things on the kitchen counter and grab a glass from the drying rack, filling it in the sink. The cool liquid sinks all the way to my stomach, cooling me down as it goes. Vibrating from under the handbag makes me still. I flip the bag off to find Grace’s phone ringing.

The name flashes on the screen.

Joel.

What the fuck?

Why the hell is he still calling her?

I swipe up the phone and answer it, pressing the speaker icon. Nothing comes through the line. Faint puffs of breath buffet against the speaker. I slam a finger onto the red icon and hang up. I oughta block his number.

Not my place.

Not my phone.

Not my girl.

Fuck me.

Instead, I slide it into the bag and take it to her bedroom, depositing it onto her bed. Five minutes later, I’m taking out my anger over a man who doesn’t deserve the air he breathes on the home gym. The heavy weight clunks with a vicious snap on every rep. I push the bar up again, biceps screaming at me to stop.

Arms akin to jelly, I make a start on my legs. The muscles in my thighs bulge and flex as I lift the bar with my ankles, toes pointing up. Sweat covers every inch of me. It trickles down my back and through the valleys in my chest, and my palms are too slick to grip much of anything. Focus homed on the poster on the wall by the door, I jerk back to reality when Grace appears in the doorway.

“Anything interesting happen while I was walking?”

“Nope.”

I swing the bar up as my thighs start to burn. The weight slams back to its cradle with the next down movement.

“What did the machine ever do to you, Mack?” She raises an eyebrow and folds her arms over her chest.

I grunt and swing the bar up again. This time my legs fail, and it pushes my ankles down with weighted force. Fuck.

“How was your physio?”

“Didn’t do it.”

“Mackinlay Rawlins,” she scolds, walking to my side, arms still crossed over those perfect fucking tits. I force my eyes anywhere else. The floor. The wall. The rolled-up towels.

“You wanna talk about it?” she asks, wry words slipping through curved lips.

“Nope.”

Her hand grips my jaw, turning my head to face her. “Well, I do.”

“Nothin’ to talk about, Grace.”

“Is that what you think? That nothing exists here?” She gestures between the two of us.

Of course I don’t.

But she’s too young.

I’m too fucked up.

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