Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 121296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 606(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 606(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
I tighten my arm around her. “Enjoy each step… be open to where the adventure can lead.”
“I’m leaving,” she whispers. “I only have a day left.”
“You have some vacation days?”
She twists to look at me, her hand curling tighter in my shirt. “I have a week.”
“So take it. Stay. Rest. Find some peace in your busy life. Write the article, or something different. There’s nothing but space all around. Find some inside you.”
She doesn’t answer right away, and that’s okay. The weight of her body is soft and grounding against mine.
I’ve never been a man of words, but tonight, I hope the ones I found for Grace are enough.
22
GRACE
I skip dinner and blame it on a headache, ignoring Nash’s questioning look and the heavy weight of everyone else’s eyes that seem loaded with hope and expectation. It’s a lie, but no one questions it. I grab a sandwich from the kitchen and sneak upstairs like a teenager with a curfew.
When the door to my room clicks softly shut, relief floods me. I sink onto the bed, unwrapping the sandwich and digging in without tasting a single bite. My mind won’t stop. Nash’s words loop over and over: “We could make this the home you’ve been looking for.”
God.
I glance at my still half-packed suitcase in the corner. Tomorrow I’m supposed to leave. My return flight is booked. Back to deadlines, noise, and the safe predictability of my controlled chaos.
And yet, the thought of leaving twists hard in my chest so sharply and unexpectedly that I swallow a lump of unchewed sandwich, almost choking. Already? I stare at the clothes folded inside that bag, at the sensible shoes and blazer I brought for the interviews before I met the men downstairs, and found I wanted to blend into their world, not stand stiffly on the outside. The ache blooms heavier.
There’s a soft knock at my door, then it bursts open before I can answer. Junie’s barefoot, holding onto the door handle on tippy toes. The twins barge in behind her, Matty trailing like a sleepy puppy. Eli leans against the frame, watching, arms behind her back like she’s too cool for this but doesn’t want to be left out.
“Story?” Junie begs, scampering across the room to drag a blanket off the bed.
I sigh, but I’m smiling. Even though I’m shaken, I never stood a chance against this deluge of cuteness. Corbin appears in the doorway with Rory, his expression apologetic. “Let Miss Grace rest her head.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “One, though.”
Like magic, Eli produces a book, and the next ten minutes pass in a blur of tangled limbs and whispered giggles as I read Where the Wild Things Are in my best dramatic voice. By the time Rory’s eyelids flutter closed, my cheeks hurt from smiling, and my heart feels raw and full at the same time. I kiss each of them, flushing when I lean in close to Corbin to reach Rory’s chubby cheek. Levi appears in the doorway to take his son, his expression apologetic, though who to, I can’t be sure. As they all trot away, the sharp twist in my chest returns. When I step out of that front door tomorrow, I’m never going to see any of them again.
When I’m finally alone, I open my laptop and pull up my inbox. Dozens of messages wait for me: edits, meeting requests, crisis emails. I dive in like I always do, my fingers flying across the keys, solving problems, delegating, and managing. The hit of importance, and of being needed, used to give me a rush, but tonight, it feels exhausting, petty, and annoying. Why can’t these people figure out their own shit?
I close my eyes. Nash’s voice again. “You could slow down here.”
Could I? The seven days of vacation I mentioned were earmarked for a trip to Jamaica. An escape into luxury, probably by myself. It had sounded like a great idea to the me I was before I arrived here and lost my ever-loving mind. Now, it sounds empty, lonely, and sad.
Before I can talk myself out of the craziness infiltrating my brain, I pick up my phone and dial Joshua Longhorn’s private number.
He answers on the third ring, sounding distracted as he drawls my name. “Grace?”
“I’m extending the ranch piece,” I say. “I want to stay longer.”
There’s a pause. A soft sigh. “Fine. Don’t let it go off the rails.”
I hang up and type a quick email to my assistant: change my flights, extend the rental car, cancel the staff meeting.
The second I hit send, a weight lifts off my chest. My shoulders drop. My breath comes easier.
I’ve bought myself enough time.
Enough for what, though?
I shower, hoping the water will wash some sense into my head or some stupidity down the drain, but as I emerge and dress in my nightwear, loneliness crashes over me. Distant laughter filters up from downstairs, and the disconnection I feel is magnified. I glance at my reflection in the darkened window, at my damp hair and flushed cheeks.