A text comes in a little later. It’s from Harlow, asking if I plan to come into the club again soon. She’s been actively trying to get me in there, and I can’t tell if it’s because she’s honestly trying to find me another Dom or if she’s trying to get Grant and me back together again.
It’s something I might consider, at some point. But I can’t walk into that place anytime soon without thinking of Grant. Even now, just hearing from Harlow, I am swamped with emotion.
How long does it take to get over a thing that didn’t last more than—what?—three weeks?
It’s been two months since I last saw him, and I don’t feel any lighter. All I feel is this ache.
I actually tried to play with a Dom that Harlow recommended way back in the beginning. It was fine. Like, fine. I very clearly laid out my limits and told the guy that I wasn’t interested in anything sexual. He was okay with that.
I hated it.
In the end, I think that kink, for me,isinherently sexual. Sadly, I also think it’s inextricably linked with Grant. Which sucks.
Maybe that’ll change. Right? Yeah. Sure. Definitely. I learned how to say no, didn’t I? Every person who’s come up today has gotten ano,and that includes some really pushy individuals. I can learn. I can change.
I have 100 percent kept my nose out of my family’s business these past few weeks. That’s a learned behavior. I’m not saying it’s easy to sit here and be strong when Otty’s homesick and begging me to come down to Charleston for a sleepover. I’ll probably give in to that offer, eventually. But for now… sayingnois kind of my superpower.
I type out a quick message to Harlow, thanking her for thinking of me and letting her know I don’t feel ready to spend time in the club, but I’d love to have lunch with her at some point if she’s up for it. It feels good to hit Send.
I shut my eyes, breathe deeply, and listen to the distant strains of a local bluegrass band and the hum of happy chatter. I suckin the smell of smoke and caramel apples. If there’s a bittersweet twinge, I don’t mind. That’s life, I guess.
Something new enters the mix. Cinnamon. Cloves. My pulse picks up like it knows something I don’t.
I open my eyes. Blink.
Grant is standing at my stall, a smile creasing his gorgeous eyes. Is he thinner? He looks sort of chiseled out around the cheekbones in a way he didn’t a few weeks ago.
“Hi there,” I say, sounding like a premade recording of Happy Rae. Sales rep Rae.
“Hi, Rae.” His mouth relaxes, but the smile’s still there in his eyes while they take me in, slowly, top to bottom. When his gaze returns to mine, there’s that deep, warm flicker, but not as intense as I remember it. The burn not quite as bright.
Has he mellowed? Have I? Oh my god, am I hallucinating?
“What’s up?” I chirp, way too upbeat for this reunion. Whatever this is. Why is he here? Grant’s not a Harvest Fest kind of guy.
Maybe he’s not here alone. He’s with a woman. Of course. What else could drag him to an event that is so clearly not his thing?
“You been busy?” he asks, then laughs, shaking his head. “Never mind. I, um, I know you’ve been busy. I, uh… get news. Pretty much hourly from Harlow and Dorothy. I know you helped Sam get her job back at Sugar.”
“She’d have done it on her own.”
“Right. Well, your builds are unbelievable too. I follow your socials and… The Ice Queen one for that kid at the children’s hospital? Blown away. You’re an artist, Rae. Anyway… has Sam told you she texts me pictures?”
“What?”
“Yeah. She’s a real pain in my ass.” He pulls out his phone and scrolls through photos. “I’ve got the diner. Sushi. Indian food.” He holds it up. “This one is you baking cookies in your tiny little kitchen.”
He drops the hand holding the phone and looks at me, a little… dumbstruck, maybe. “Sorry. I, um… This isn’t how I wanted to do this.”
“Oh, yeah?” My nerves spark. “What is it you’re doing?”
CHAPTER SEVENTY
Grant
I’M SCREWING THIS UP.Big-time.
Rae’s staring at me, wide-eyed, like I’m a stalker, which… hell. I kind of am, right? Why’d I even mention the Sam photos, which I in no way asked for? Of course, that hasn’t stopped me from staring at them. For hours.
