Page 91 of Drop the Mitts

André raised a brow. “At least I eat it. Still pretending you’re gluten-free?”

Elodie rolled her eyes. Polk pointed between the two of them. “You’re related, eh?”

“She’s adopted,” André deadpanned, earning a sharp kick under the table.

Elodie gaped at him. “Seriously?”

“What, too soon?” André grinned, and Country threw a roll at his head.

Grace sat half-smiling beside André. For a second he wondered if she was pissed by his joke, but she didn’t seem tense—just tired. Deep-in-her-bones tired. He wanted to touch her, slide his knee against hers, remind her they’d made it through the hard part.

Something held him back. The room buzzed with warmth and clatter. Even Amey cracked a smile when Jenna handed her a mountain of garlic bread. Polk made an obscene joke about meatballs that got a gasp from Elodie and a groan from everyone else. He looked a little too pleased with himself.

It was a good night. Against all odds, it was a damn good night. Yet something tugged at him, a thread attached to his centre. He glanced around the table—Jenna curled into Country’s side, Brady still staring at Hope in her swing with eyes full of shattered awe, Elodie making fun of Polk’s farmer tan.

André had spent years avoiding the heavy stuff. Making the joke. Walking it off. Keeping his gloves up until no one could get close enough to land a real hit.

But Country’s words ran through his head like ticker tape. He hadn’t said he’d fight until he got what he wanted. It hadn’t been about him at all.

He just said he’d fight. That’s it. Because Hope was worth it. And André, shoveling food he could barely taste, started to wonder if he’d ever fought for anything like that in his entire life.

No deals. No conditions. No crowd. Just dropping the gloves and going all in.

Grace caught his eye just then, and André stood so fast his chair screeched across the tile, rattling against the wainscot behind him. The scrape of it silenced the table. Even Polk paused mid-forkful.

The air in his chest felt thick, hot—like trying to breathe in a steam room. Everything was suddenly too warm, the smell of garlic and red wine too rich on his tongue. His pulse hammered in his throat as the edge of the table dug into his hip.

André’s voice came out rough. “Can you come out to the porch?”

Grace blinked up at him from her seat across the table, her brow pulling slightly. “Now?”

He nodded once and set his napkin beside his plate. “Now.”

Chapter

Thirty-Two

Grace

The deck was soakedin gold from the porch light. It glinted off the railing and blanched the bare branches overhead. The Chinook swept in earlier that afternoon, softening the edges of winter. Now the air was strangely warm for March.

Grace still shivered as she stepped out and pulled the door closed behind her. She’d barely made it two steps before André turned.

He looked wrecked. His dark hair was messy, his jaw locked like it might snap. His black thermal shirt clung to his shoulders, sleeves shoved up his forearms, veins taut beneath his skin.

“I can’t do this,” he said.

Grace blinked. “Okay. Do what?”

“This in-between.” He stepped closer, voice low and rough. “I’m walking around like a guy who got clipped mid-shift and doesn’t know which way is up.” Her breath caught. “You don’t owe me anything. Not sex. Not staying in Calgary. But I needto know if I’m the only one who felt like last weekend meant something.”

The wind shifted. Warm and gentle, sliding across the porch and lifting a lock of her hair. She didn’t move. Of course he wasn’t the only one. Every moment of the weekend was branded into her. She was different because of it—changed.

André was like a whisk thrust into her perfectly graduated life, mixing everything up until it was unrecognizable.

“You told me you needed to let go,” he continued. “I get that. I get needing an out. But what I feel with you . . . ” He broke off, dragged a hand through his hair. “That wasn’t an escape, not for me. That was a damn lifeline.”

Grace’s throat tightened. “André?—”

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