Page 43 of Good Graces

Davis exhales, feigning casual. “He’s saying it was you.”

I stop. Slowly, I turn. “Excuse me?”

Davis shrugs, like this is normal conversation. “Yeah. Says you’ve had it out for him. That maybe you’re a little, you know . . . scorned.”

It’s so absurd I almost laugh. But I don’t. I just blink at them, gripping my bag so tight my knuckles ache.

Mancini glances at Davis, then back at me. “So, did you two . . .?”

The implication lands like a slap. They’re asking if I slept with a man twice my age and then got mad when he wouldn’t commit.

I shake my head, disbelief curling in my chest. “Are you seriously asking me that?”

Davis lifts his hands, mock innocence. “Hey, we’re just trying to understand the situation.”

A flicker of heat rushes to my cheeks. Not from the sun, not from exertion. From the sheer, searing humiliation of standing here, on this perfectly trimmed patch of grass, while two grown men casually toss around rumors like they’re harmless.

I keep my voice even, but it takes everything I have. “There is no situation.”

Mancini whistles low under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “So, it’s not true? You and Beckett?”

I blink, stunned all over again. I thought the implication had been offensive enough. I didn’t expect them to double down.

“No,” I snap. “God. No.”

Davis lets out a low chuckle like I’ve just confirmed something, and I feel it again—that sharp, crawling sensation under my skin. Like I’m suddenly too visible. Like everything they’re seeing is being filtered through someone else’s lies.

“Well, he’s telling everyone you freaked out,” Davis adds, shrugging like it’s out of his hands. “Started screaming at him on the green last week. Something about boundaries?”

I go still. My breath falters.

So that’s it. He twisted it. Warped it into something else. Of course he did. Of course the version he’s telling has me emotional, dramatic, irrational. A girl who overreacted to something harmless. A girl who slashed a tire out of spite.

My jaw tightens. “He touched me.”

They both blink, the bravado slipping slightly from their faces. Mancini shifts his stance. Davis actually has the nerve to look uncomfortable.

I should stop. Should let it drop. But I don’t.

“He grabbed me. Without my permission. And when I told him not to, he laughed.”

Silence. Thick and heavy.

Davis clears his throat. “Shit. I mean . . . that’s not what he said.”

“Yeah.” I toss my bag to the ground, eyes hard. “No kidding.”

Mancini and Davis go still. The shift is instant, immediate. I feel the full weight of it, the thickness of the moment pressing in around us, sticking to my skin like sweat. I shouldn’t have said it. I should have kept my mouth shut. Because now, it’s real.

It’s more than just Warren that I’ve admitted it to.

Mancini is the first to truly react. His lips press together, like he doesn’t know what to say, like he doesn’t know how to hold this in his hands.

Davis exhales, low and slow. He looks away, jaw tight.

And then Mancini clears his throat. “You want us to get someone else to finish the round?”

It throws me off. The way he says it. Not dismissive, not accusing, just . . . painfully neutral. Offering me a way out.

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