My gaze lands on my workspace and I wince. The office desk chair, where I do most of my work, is of the folding beach chair variety. You’d never know a millionaire lives here. Yet it’s essential I save my funds for the important things. Like purchasing and renovating that hotel, if Milton ever comes around.
Opening the cabinet door, I find the three plates I have here, all mismatched. They were literally a grab and go from the thrift storedown the street. Pouring a cup of lukewarm coffee, my eyes land on the microwave on top of a box labeled “Important Papers.” It’s fine. Totally fine. Nothing to see here. I’m a professional adult man. Not like I’m entertaining guests or anything.
If only.
Trust me, there’s only one guest I want here. And something tells me she wouldn’t mind at all.
No matter how tightly I try to focus my attention, my thoughts keep drifting back to Grace. To that firecracker of a young woman, who helped me without hesitation when she had no obligation to do so. The fact that she also happens to be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen is just the obnoxious icing on an already dangerous cake.
Devon has reminded me more than once:Don’t let your heart screw up your empire, mate.
Yeah, real easy for Slick Willy to say. He’s allergic to emotional attachments. Clearly, I’m not. I want a family one day. Someone to come home to. Someone to share wins and failures and dreams with.
But timing matters. I already learned what happens when I follow my heart across an ocean just to watch everything implode.
So for now, I build. I remain focused on the task at hand. I continue to plan, one oddball interview at a time. I renovate to the likes no one has ever imagined before.
And I pretend not to wonder if Grace is thinking about me too.
18
GRACE
The machines humsoftly around my mother’s hospital bed, a steady rhythm that feels louder than it should. Every beep is a reminder that time is moving forward whether either of us is ready for it or not.
Mom turns her head slightly, her oxygen cannula hissing as she breathes in. Her eyes soften when she finds mine. “You look tired, Graceland,” she says gently. “You’ve been working too much. You need to rest.”
I smile and nod, because that’s easier than telling her the truth. That I no longer have a job to return to. Because my royal witch of a boss fired me over the phone this morning with all the warmth of a snake in winter.
I’d called to explain, my voice trembling, heart in my throat after seeing how weak my mother looked as they loaded her onto the ambulance stretcher. I told Tiffani that I hated I needed to miss work, but that the ambulance was here to take Mom back to the hospital. That I might need a day or two, only to make sure she was out of the woods. That I was so sorry, but managing the best I could.
There was the briefest of pauses on the line before her tone had sharpened, sounding almost triumphant. “Well, Grace, we need people who are committed to making our business a priority. Not continued excuses.” I could practically hear the sneer curling her lips. She didn’t even pretend to be sorry. It was like she’d just won some twisted little contest. As if being crowned resting-bitch-face and reigning mean girl of the county wasn’t enough, she had to level up into top shrill, abusive shrew.
I’d hung up, sat in my car, and cried so hard I nearly threw up. I knew I needed to get my emotions under control before my mother saw me again. So I called Tuesday.
“Oh, I want to drive up there and teach that girl some manners,”she’d snapped. “That vicious kind of attitude will rot your insides.” She huffed. “Eventually all that meanness shows up on your face. You mark my words, acting like that is how you end up alone with twelve cats and a porch no one ever visits.”
Even through my sniffles, I’d choked out a laugh.
In true Tuesday fashion, she’d followed it up with, “She reminds me of this chick who lives here with mean girl energy. Always complaining about this town and everyone in it. I’m just saying, if Sycamore Mountain is so awful, why does she move back here every time she gets dumped?”
I’m well aware the analogy has little to do with Tiffani beyond the fact they’re apparently both negative Nellies, but I knew what she was trying to do. Cheer me up the only way she knew how from so far away.
Having returned to her bedside, I squeeze Mom’s hand, careful of the IV, and tuck her blanket higher around her chest.
Once she’s home, I’ll focus on her. On us. Even if that means watching old Elvis movie reruns every day until I can quote them in my sleep.Okay, so I can already do that.If nothing else, I can always zone out and replay that one glorious night with Ben.
That one improbable, magical night that wasn’t supposed to mean anything. A favor for a favor that got a little out of hand. Besides. I’m staying clear of men. Especially smoking-hot, charismatic, construction-working playboy types. Been there, done that. Hard pass.
Besides he’s too old for me.
Eventually, I step outside to return Tuesday’s call. She’d messaged checking in on Mom and I hadn’t wanted to leave her side until she was resting, and her vitals were stable. Hopefully, a few days of intravenous steroids and heavy-duty breathing treatments, and she’ll be back home.
I try not to feel guilt over the fact that there are medications her pulmonologist has recommended we haven’t begun. But they simply aren’t in the budget. Don’t they have samples or anything to hold us over?
The late afternoon sun warms my skin as I lean against the brick wall and scan the parking lot. A figure lingers near the edge of it, half in shadow. For a second, my heart stutters.
Is that… Brad?
