Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 138642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 693(@200wpm)___ 555(@250wpm)___ 462(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 693(@200wpm)___ 555(@250wpm)___ 462(@300wpm)
Thanks, Dad, I start to snap.
All these years without so much as a note by pigeon, and he still thinks he’s the boss of me.
But I remind myself again that I’m a grown woman now.
Not that little girl.
Definitely not Butterfly.
And I need to leave that bratty ego in the past, along with everything else. At least he’s just helping this time instead of doing a controlled demolition on my heart.
“Thank you, Grant.” I force a smile.
There’s something so strange about the way he’s looking at me.
I guess some things never change.
I never could tell what he’s really thinking, what he’s about to say, if he bothers to say anything at all.
When I was younger and hadn’t had the hopeless romantic knocked out of me yet, his silence always seemed so mysterious, this cryptic harshness begging for a gentle touch.
Now, it’s just frustrating.
Not knowing what to say while he stays silent.
But my heart climbs up my throat as he steps closer.
The space between us vanishes.
It’s like there’s an invisible red thread stretching from me to him, and instead of growing more slack as he draws near, it just pulls tighter, winding me up in knots.
He stops in front of me, looking down at me with shadows for eyes glowing beneath the brim of his hat.
Right before he shrugs his powerful shoulders, slides out of his jacket, and—thrusts it at me?
What?
I blink at the jacket dumbly.
What’s happening doesn’t register until it does.
Oh.
Oh, crap.
He... he noticed I was shivering and underdressed.
That, too, is totally Grant.
The mute giant who won’t say a word when he’s not snarling at someone, but when something needs doing, he notices, all right.
Like jerry-rigging my car.
Like keeping me warm.
I take the jacket hesitantly with my heart coming undone.
For a frenzied second, my fingers brush his.
It’s a bitter sort of wonderful, the sizzle of his skin against mine. I wish he wasn’t wired into my blood like he’s a missing part of me, awakening dormant feelings I thought I’d stamped out forever.
Of course, there’s no reaction from him.
None.
But now I’m shivering with more than the cold as I slide his jacket around my shoulders and slip my arms into the oversized sleeves. I draw it close until I’m enveloped in his lingering body heat and that dizzying woodsmoke scent.
This jacket is so large I could nearly wrap it around me twice, the sleeves falling far past my hands and the hem dropping almost to my knees.
It’s like being wrapped up in him.
But it’s also not the same.
You don’t want that anymore, remember?
Do I?
Those are old memories trying to live in the now.
A broken, girlish crush that doesn’t belong to me anymore. But his scent lingers from the collar of the jacket.
My chest goes tight.
So tight.
And it’s nothing like the explosion of hurt that hits me as Grant says, with absolutely no warning, “I still miss him, too, Ophelia.”
Holy shit, holy shit.
I can’t breathe.
Just like that, he knocks the air out of me.
This harsh reminder that while he lost a friend, all those years ago, I lost a brother, and we’ll never get Ethan back.
It’s my turn to lose my voice. My lips part, but nothing comes out.
I stare at Grant, frozen to the spot.
His expression never changes, but I’m—dammit, I won’t cry.
Not in front of him when it hasn’t been five minutes.
I cried my tears dry years ago and put everything to rest, so I still have a smidge of pride.
Pride he lets me keep.
Because as soon as he moves around, I no longer have to look into those hazel eyes and wonder if that giant rock feels anything at all.
Those words, however heartfelt, don’t match that closed-off expression.
I just want to see it once.
I want to see some feeling on his face, to show me that Ethan ever meant anything to him at all.
No, that I ever meant anything.
But he’s already walking past and I can’t see anything at all.
He’s leaving, so I don’t expect the warm, heavy hand that falls on my shoulder, burning me even through the dense layers of his jacket. This calming weight settles all the awful, squirming things zinging around inside me, pressing them down, down, down until they stop making me shake.
“Stopped in on your ma this morning,” Grant says. “She’s looking good. Can’t wait to see you again.”
“You went to see her?” I swallow, somehow finding my voice past the stunned shock.
“Just being neighborly.”
That gentle hand falls away.
I turn too quickly, heart in my throat, and watch as he walks back to his patrol car. His broad shoulders sway with the rhythm of his steps.
It’s so strange to think that after all these years, Grant’s been here with my mother.
Not me.
But I’m the one who ran away, aren’t I?
Yet, I’m so close to breaking into wretched sobs right now—this time with relief because I know for sure that coroner’s van wasn’t taking Mom away.