Her fear of being fragile.
Her need to stand on her own feet again.
Her worry that we’d try to bubble-wrap her.
Beneath all that—hope.
Because she trusted us enough to tell us.
“I miss it,” she admitted. “I miss… feeling capable. Useful. I miss doing something that’s mine.”
I nodded slowly. “You’re allowed to want that.”
“You don’t think it’s too soon?”
“You’re the only one who gets to say whether it’s too soon,” I told her. “Not me. Not Bones. Not Lunchbox. Not Alphabet.”
Grace’s breath wavered. I reached over and hooked my pinky around hers, gentle and sure.
“And if you want to go back,” I said, “then we’ll figure it out. Together.”
Her shoulders relaxed. A little at first, then a lot.
“You’re not mad?” she whispered.
I barked out a laugh. “Mad? Firecracker, I’m proud of you.”
She blinked, startled. “Proud?”
“Hell, yes. Wanting your life back? That’s strength.”
She smiled then—small, aching, honest. The kind of smile that carved itself into a man’s ribs.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
“Anytime,” I murmured, tugging her hand to me and kissing it before I released her pinky. . “As long as you don’t try to befriend any bears at your job.”
“I make no promises.” The lightness in her tone held elements of teasing. “The business can be pretty brutal.”
I groaned again, but my chest felt warm—full.
“I guess I thought that there would be more security concerns…” She chewed on her lower lip. “You think it’s safe enough for me to go back? Eleanor is gone, so I’d need a new agent.” Sadness trickled into her voice again.
Grace wanting her life back didn’t scare me. Gracenotwanting it back—that was the thing that would’ve terrified me. I reached over and let my hand rest against her knee—warm, steady, grounding.
“Therewillbe security concerns,” I said. “Plenty. I’ve already got a list running in my head.”
Her eyes widened a little, but she didn’t retreat. She never did anymore. If anything, she took on a measured expression that reminded me of Bones. I doubted either would appreciate the comparison, but I enjoyed it. Particularly because she was a lot prettier.
“Like what?” she asked.
“For starters?” I ticked one finger off the wheel. “We’ve kept you off the grid for over a year, Firecracker. As far as the public knows, you dropped off the face of the earth. If you walk back into the modeling world tomorrow, every blog, tabloid, andsocial media account is going to light up like a Christmas tree on crack. People are going to ask where you’ve been. Why you disappeared. Why you came back.”
She inhaled, slow and sharp.
“Second,” I continued, “modeling means travel. Shows. Hotels. Public venues. Crowds. Paparazzi. Photographers. People wanting access to you. You can bet your ass that if La Madrina’s people—or anyone tied to the shit we’ve been digging through—are still sniffing around, they’ll see you pop up again.”
She looked down at her hands. “So… not safe.”
