Page 38 of Good Graces

I tilt my head slightly. My pulse beats against my throat, water lapping quietly around us. He’s all I see, all I feel. A breath wrapped in skin and want.

His thumb traces the curve of my mouth. A featherlight touch, but it sets my skin on fire.

He moves lower, trailing along my jaw, down the slope of my throat. His fingers graze my collarbone, just barely. I feel it everywhere. My breath catches, and before I can stop myself, I tilt my chin up for him to kiss me.

He watches, mouth curving, eyes flickering with something dark and knowing.

Then, low and hushed, like he’s sharing a secret only I get to hear:

“For Occupation—This—

The spreading wide my narrow Hands

To gather Paradise.”

The words land like a spark to dry kindling. My stomach twists, thighs pressing together against the ache curling deep inside me. I want him, need him. I want him, need him. Biblically, spiritually, in a way that feels carved into my bones.

I don’t think I breathe. Don’t think I can.

When he pulls back, I blink, heart dropping.

He pushes away from me and glides backward through the water like none of this just happened. Like he didn’t just touch me with hungry hands, look at me with burning eyes, speak to me with the words my soul knows by heart.

I stare at him, breath uneven, a little stunned.

Rivulets of water slide down his chest, carving paths over firm muscle, his broad shoulders cutting through the glow of the security lights. Dark, nearly black hair falls onto his forehead, still dripping, framing his sharp jaw.

He looks like a fucking dream. A cruel one. A merciless one. And I know, right here, right now, that he’s won whatever game we’ve been playing.

God, I’m wrecked, unraveling, and he’s going to have me.

He already does.

13

WARREN

The Sycamore staffare gathered in the employee break room. We’re pressed shoulder to shoulder, all thirty-something of us, and I’m about to combust with the effort of keeping my expression neutral.

Robbie stands at the front of the group, arms crossed over his chest, looking uncharacteristically serious. Beside him is one of the upper managers, a guy whose name I never bothered to learn, the kind of middle-aged golf dad who runs this place like a kingdom.

He steps forward, clears his throat, and lets his gaze sweep over all of us like he’s sizing up potential suspects. “We’ve got a problem,” he says, voice clipped. “Yesterday, a guest’s car was vandalized in the parking lot. Slashed tire, clean through.”

Silence. No one moves. No one even breathes.

I keep my face blank, arms loose at my sides. Lying doesn’t come easily to me, but I’ve learned to act from the best. To steady my breath when the heat crawls up my neck.

“Whoever did it needs to come forward now,” the manager continues. “If you do, we’ll deal with this internally. But if we have to investigate? If we have to pull security footage and turn this into a police matter?” He lets that sink in. “Then whoever’s responsible will not only be fired but also fined and possibly face jail time.”

Still, no one speaks. The waitstaff glance at each other. The grounds crew leans back like they’re trying to disappear into the wall, waiting for someone to twitch the wrong way, for someone to break.

Zane, standing a few feet away from me, shifts his weight. “How do they know it was an employee?”

The manager’s mouth flattens. “The guest parked in the overflow lot behind the staff building. It’s not officially restricted, but most members don’t even know it exists. Whoever slashed the tire would’ve had to know where the cameras don’t reach. Which means they knew the layout.”

“Is it possible it wasn’t on purpose?” one of the tennis instructors asks, casual, like he’s just tossing the thought out there. “Could’ve been a nail or something.”

“No,” Robbie says flatly. “It was a singular slash. Deliberate. Like from a knife.”

---