Page 124 of Good Graces

And then there’s the way his eyes move over me.

They drag slowly down my frame before returning to my face, lingering there with a quiet steadiness.

“You look ...” He trails off, mouth curving like he’s searching for the right word. “Fucking perfect.”

My face heats. “Yeah?”

“More than,” he says softly, eyes still fixed on me.

“You look really sexy all dressed up.”

His smile curves higher at the corner. “Don’t get used to it.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

We’re still standing in the doorway, not moving, just watching each other like there’s a confession waiting on the tip of our tongues. Three words. Eight letters. A truth we haven’t spoken aloud in years.

I reach for my purse, and Warren steps back, waiting while I lock the door. When I turn, he’s still watching me like I’m something precious, something he’s afraid might slip away if he looks away too long.

“You ready?” he asks quietly.

“Let’s go.”

We head down to the parking lot together, footsteps quiet on the stairs. Warren doesn’t say anything as he unlocks the car, just steps ahead to open the passenger door for me.

“Such a gentleman,” I tease, sliding in.

“Only ’cause you’re worth it,” he says, flashing a crooked smile.

He leans in to buckle my seatbelt, his fingers brushing my side. Then, before pulling back, he presses a kiss to the curve of my neck. Soft and lingering. The kind of kiss that says he doesn’t want to rush a single second of this.

The quiet lingers as we pull out of the lot, the world slipping by in shadow and streetlights. As soon as we hit the main road, his hand finds mine. And I trace my thumb along his knuckles, following the faint calluses and lines.

“So, tonight,” I start. “Should I expect to be served a salad course by that weird man who always tried to talk me into playing pickleball?”

Warren huffs a laugh. “You mean Mr. Jennings? Who swore he had a ‘mean forehand and an even meaner backhand’?”

“That’s the one.” I cringe, already imagining it. “God, I can’t wait to rub elbows with all my old caddy clients. Nothing like eating a filet while pretending I didn’t once haul their golf bag uphill in ninety-degree heat.”

“We both know you greased the fuck out of those guys,” he says.

“I had to,” I mutter. “Tips weren’t gonna earn themselves.”

He laughs, but the sound falters too fast. It drops into silence, and something sharp presses at the back of my mind. Something I think we’ve both been trying not to linger on.

“You think Preston Beckett’s gonna be around?”

His jaw flexes. “For your sake, I hope not. But honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised.” His voice darkens. “I wonder if he talked to Daniel after I told him off. I never heard anything.”

I blink, turning to look at him. “What do you mean?”

His fingers tense, thumb tapping idly against the steering wheel. “When I picked up our paychecks, I sort of . . . snapped at him.”

My brow furrows. “Sort of?”

“I heavily implied I was the one who popped the fucker’s tire.”

I let out a sharp breath. “Warren.”

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