Page 29 of Sizzling Desire

“And you’re stunning,” I say without thinking, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

Her eyes widen, and for a moment, she looks at me like she’s seeing me for the first time. The silence stretches between us, thick and heavy, and I swear I see her resolve crack, just a little.

Then she shakes her head, her lips curving into a wry smile. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you?”

“Not when it comes to you,” I admit, my voice low and rough.

Her breath catches, and for a second, I think she might say something real, something that changes everything. But instead, she turns and keeps walking, leaving me standing there like a fool.

I let out a low chuckle, shaking my head as I catch up to her. “You know, Gracie, one of these days, you’re going to admit you like having me around.”

She glances at me out of the corner of her eye, her expression unreadable. “Don’t hold your breath, Kane.”

But there’s a softness to her tone, a flicker of something unspoken in her eyes, and for the first time, I feel like I might actually be getting somewhere.

Even if it kills me.

The marina glows with the soft light of the setting sun, the water reflecting shades of pink and gold. Boats sway gently in their slips, the sound of their hulls tapping against the docks blending with the occasional cry of a seagull. It’s the kind of tranquil scene that should calm a man down, but instead, it just reminds me how much I’m screwing everything up.

Grace is walking beside me, her steps slow and deliberate, her arms crossed loosely over her chest. The breeze teases at the edges of her dress, and her hair, wild and dark, looks softer in this light. She looks like she belongs here—unruffled and untouchable—but the set of her jaw tells me she’s still wary, still ready to throw up her walls at the first sign of trouble. Trouble being me.

It’s been like this the whole walk—this unspoken thing between us, the kind of tension that clings to the air, sharp and electric. The banter we usually fall into has given way to a heavy silence, and I can’t figure out if it’s because I’m too keyed up to poke at her, or because I’m afraid of what might happen if I do.

We stop at the end of the dock, the water rippling lazily below us. I lean against one of the wooden posts, pretending to be at ease, but my fingers grip the rough wood tighter than they need to.

“Alright, Kane,” she says, finally breaking the silence. Her voice is even, but there’s an edge to it, like she’s bracing for me to pull something. “You’ve been unusually quiet tonight. What’s going on?”

I let out a dry laugh, shaking my head. “Maybe I’m just enjoying the view.”

Her eyes narrow, her gaze cutting straight through my weak attempt at deflection. “Bullshit. Spit it out.”

And that’s Grace. No patience for games, no tolerance for my crap. For some reason, that makes it easier to let the words slip out.

“I’m tired,” I admit, my voice quieter than I intended. “Not the kind of tired you fix with a good night’s sleep, either.”

Her posture shifts, her arms dropping to her sides as she takes a step closer. “What do you mean?”

I hesitate, my jaw tightening. I’m not used to this—to admitting when I’m not okay. But there’s something about theway she’s looking at me, her sharp edges softening, that makes me want to try.

“Work,” I start, my eyes on the water instead of her. “The fires. The victims. It’s... a lot, and it feels like no matter what we do, we’re always one step behind.”

She doesn’t say anything, but I feel her watching me, the weight of her attention grounding me in a way I didn’t expect.

“And then there’s...” I trail off, running a hand through my hair. “Everything else. The wedding, trying to be a good, best man, dealing with Hudson’s endless optimism about love and marriage. It’s like everyone around me has their shit together, and I’m just... here. Barely keeping my head above water.”

Her voice, when she finally speaks, is softer than I’ve ever heard it. “You think you’re the only one who feels like that?”

I glance at her, surprised by the vulnerability in her tone. She’s not looking at me now; her gaze is fixed on the horizon, her expression unreadable.

“I feel like that all the time,” she admits, her voice barely above a whisper. “Like I’m stuck in this cycle of pretending everything’s fine when it’s not. Like... maybe it’s never going to be fine.”

“Grace...” I don’t know what to say, how to respond to the raw honesty in her voice.

She lets out a shaky breath, her arms wrapping around herself. “Do you ever feel like... like maybe some people just aren’t meant to find it? Love, I mean. The real kind. The kind that lasts.”

The words hit me harder than they should, the weight of them settling in my chest. I want to argue, to tell her she’s wrong, but the look in her eyes stops me cold. It’s not just sadness—it’s fear. Fear of being alone, of never finding the thing she’s spent her whole life pretending she doesn’t need.

“I don’t believe that” I say finally, my voice firm. “Not for you.”

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