Page 92 of Every Chance After

The door swings open, ruffling the silk fabric of her robe. Hershort, white robe. Her long hair is soaking wet. Bare legs, bare feet, the v-neck dipping dangerously low on her chest. The hard tips of her breasts peeking under her wet hair and damp fabric. Fucking hell.

I can’t form words.

“Grady, what’s wrong?”

I shut my eyes. “Why are you, um…” I motion to her get-up.

“I was in the shower. What’s wrong?”

“Where’s Marigold?”

She edges by me, brushing against my shoulder with her dampness. “Oh, her car’s still here. She’s with Peter Pike. Oh, my gosh, I wish you could’ve seen it. So…”

She launches into a story about a desk and trains that I honestly can’t listen to because focusing on her means, well,focusing on her. I try locking my attention on her face, but inevitably my eyes drift down—I can’t fucking help it. She’s wet, soft, and so alluring, like a castle, and I want to explore every room, floor by floor, top to bottom. My hand practically twitches to pull the robe strings that barely hold her together.

“… She probably lost track of time. Get it? Train pun.”

She laughs, stirring me from the thoughts I shouldn’t be having. What’s my mantra again? Something about her age or, shit, I can’t remember.

I clear my throat, still diverting my eyes. “She came here for a game night, and you set her up with some dude?”

“No, not some dude. Peter Pike, my landlord. They already knew each other. It was unintentional on my part, but it’s so cute, Grady.”

Before she launches into an excited explanation about the evening’scuteness, I put a shaking hand between us, stopping her. “Why isn’t she answering her phone?”

“Don’t know.” She smirks coyly. “Maybe she’s in the shower, too.”

“Fuck, Marina!” Both hands go to my head like I might rip it off to rid myself of the image.

She chuckles. “Sorry, couldn’t help myself. I’m sure she’s fine. I’ve known Peter forever, and he’s completely trustworthy, and it’s not like Marigold will tolerate any silly nonsense.” She leans against the doorjamb, eyeing me with too much amusement. “I would tell you to relax, but you’revery cutewhen you’re being brotherly.”

“Brotherly.” I take a breath, letting my eyes roll over her again. “That’s not entirely what I’m feeling right now. Promise me something.”

She nibbles her bottom lip, looking pleased at my obvious reaction. “Yes, Grady?”

“Never answer the door like this again.”

She locks eyes, daring me. “I thought it might be Marigold. Maybe my next place will have the benefit of a peephole. What’s the problem, anyway? You’ve ripped my clothes off and been inside me before, so this should be no big deal, right?”

I gape, images of that day crashing into my thoughts. I made a similar jokethatday, a lame effort to put her at ease. It takes on a totally different tone now. Her blood on my hands, on the concrete, her pulse faint under my finger. “That’s… not funny.”

“Oh, Grady, I’m sorry,” she gasps, my stern expression turning her amusement to shame instantaneously. She gathers her robe tighter around her and folds her arms over her chest. “I was just trying to lighten the mood.”

Still, I stand there, gawking and breathless, like she’s punched me in the stomach with the memory. I’m startled by how much it hurts me, how vividly I remember my fears over losing her, her life drifting away from me with every passing second, and how those fears still fucking exist even with her standing whole and healthy right in front of me.Why am I still afraid of losing her?

She reaches out, barely touching my arm. “You look exhausted. Come inside. I’ll throw something on, and we’ll spy on your sister through my back window. It’s got a good view of Pete’s workshop.”

“No.” The word erupts with a snap I don’t intend. My hand runs over my shorn head, frustration rising. “She’s fine. You’re fine. And you’re right. I’m tired.”

I skip any further pleasantries and quick-step to The Beast. She calls for me, but I don’t turn, desperate to escape her, though I have a hard time understanding why. I don’twantto escape her. Maybethat’sthe problem. Hell, I sold my truck yesterday and switched to The Beast permanently just to please her—this isn’t a woman I want to avoid.

But I need to.

Soon, I’m through my cabin door, greeted by the dogs.

Moonlight dances across the darkened living room, glowing against the black veneer of my baby grand piano. My fingers twitch to play, but I don’t anymore. I have a useless piano, just like Marina has unplayed games.

Well, unplayed until tonight. Maybe there’s hope for me, too.

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