Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 112249 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 561(@200wpm)___ 449(@250wpm)___ 374(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112249 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 561(@200wpm)___ 449(@250wpm)___ 374(@300wpm)
She stared at the forty-dollar thank you. She didn’t plan to refuse the liquor, but not before she got a few things straight.
“You could have just asked for my number,” she told him. “Forty bucks is a pretty expensive trade for digits. Just saying.”
The split second of surprise that flitted over his face was worth Gracen gaining the nerve to say that to his face.
To his credit, the guy recovered quickly, with the kind of smile that could wax poetic nothings all evening if he was doing it between her thighs. He had just enough facial scruff around his mouth and across his cheeks to make the experience worth it. His laugh, deep and rumbly that shook his six-foot, broad-shouldered frame, only confirmed her dirty thoughts further. Gracen needed to move on.
Before this became a problem.
“Or maybe I figured a chick crying alone in her car didn’t need someone hitting on her at the same time,” he offered as Gracen handed his keys over.
She froze on taking the liquor he still offered, cheeks rushing red with heat.
So, he had seen.
Gracen couldn’t quite meet his eyes after that, but her grip found the four-pack of Rosé without trouble. He didn’t let go right away, making Gracen struggle to get a hold of the box’s handle without touching him. Not that she didn’t want to, but shit, as if she needed to add to her embarrassment.
“Anyway,” Gracen said, desperate to change the conversation, “I suppose I’ll accept it as a thank you.”
“Of course. It’s Malachi, by the way. Malachi Anders,” he said, finally letting go of the box and trading her for his bike keys. “And you don’t need to worry about giving me your number. The girl at the cash told me this was what her friend likes to drink when she’s having the kind of day you might be. Enjoy your evening.”
He stepped back toward his bike, and Gracen couldn’t help herself.
“I’m Gracen.”
He squinted back her way; his tanned skin gleamed under the sun that had started to set and turn the almost cloudless sky a bright pink-orange while he considered her with a different gaze. More pensive; like he was searching for something there.
“Gracen,” Malachi echoed.
“Briggs. Gracen Briggs. I own the Haus down the hill with my friend.”
Why did she share that info?
Giving him a place to find you, Grace?
Her inner voice was a real bitch sometimes. Especially when it used that nickname.
Malachi’s stare widened with recognition. “The salon?”
“Yeah.”
“Huh. Cool.”
That was it.
He offered nothing more before turning back to his bike with the brown paper bag that covered whatever bottle of liquor, he’d purchased for himself in the store. He put the long-necked bottle into the small pouch attached to the back of his seat, and then reached for his helmet.
Gracen’s heart—or was it her silly head? —seemed to still be two steps ahead of the rest of her choices without her input. She’d not given the decision any thought before popping open her dash to grab a stack of cards she kept there just in case. One never knew when they might need a business card, especially when one was in business.
She stuck the card with the signature gold scissors cutting through the name Haus with her name and personal cell phone number underneath.
“But if you still want it,” she told a smirking Malachi looking her way, “here’s my number.”
Chapter 4
Next to the bay windows that faced the boardwalk lining the riverfront across from their house, Gracen’s favorite feature of her shared rental was the rooftop deck overlooking their fenced backyard and the backstreet snaked with towering pine trees. The trees and their bushy branches offered privacy for the row of townhouse apartments behind the pizza shop next door—Checkered & Cheese. The pizzeria was decorated as the name suggested, too, which made it a terrible eyesore to eat inside, but other than the standard Greco’s across the river, it was the best pizza in town.
Thankfully, they offered take-out and delivery.
She found the best way to relax on top of her roof, reclined in a sunchair when the weather permitted. As summer began, even the evenings were comfortable enough to sit out for hours, too high for the gnats to bother her while the town’s energy and low noise buzzed around her. Sometimes, she could hear the boats on the rivers. Or the kids playing at the community park at the end of the back street behind their house.
She wasn’t alone.
Even if it seemed like it.
Gracen didn’t startle when the half door in the stairwell opened to expose Margot who climbed the last few steps with her head ducked until she was beyond the safety of the roof’s overhang. Presenting the white plastic shopping bag bulging with familiar shapes, Margot beamed. No doubt because of her favorite Sunday night treat.