But Grace knew better.
She knew what this was. Whatshewas.
When he finished with the locks, she waited.
This was it. This was the part where he made the pass. Where his eyes would go dark and his voice would drop and he'd step into her space the way he always did.
And she'd let him.
God help her, she'd let him.
Because having him like this—in secret, in the dark, on his terms—was better than not having him at all. Did that make her weak?
Her body remembered his touch, craved it, and her pride had already been shredded. What did it matter if she lost a little more?
She'd sleep with him. She'd take whatever scraps he offered.
And tomorrow she'd hate herself for it.
But tonight?—
Luke stepped past her.
Not toward her.Pasther.
Grace's breath caught.
He jogged out the front door.
Heat flooded her face. Humiliation, sharp and immediate, burned through her chest.
Oh God.
He wasn't—he hadn't?—
She'd been standing there waiting for him to touch her, ready to give in, and he hadn't evennoticed.
Or worse: he'd noticed and wasn't interested.
Grace wrapped her arms around herself, mortified, trying to rewind the last thirty seconds in her head. Had she looked desperate? Had he seen it on her face—the willingness?
But before she had time to finish that humiliating thought, he was back. And he had a toolbox in his hand.
Grace stared.
He walked to the sink, opened the cabinet beneath it, and dropped to one knee.
The sink. The one that had dripped for months. The one she'd stopped noticing because what was one more broken thing in a house full of them?
"You're fixing my sink?" she asked, her voice barely steady.
A quiet clank of metal as he reached for a wrench. "Yeah."
"Why?"
He looked up at her then. "Because it's leaking, Gracie."
Grace folded her arms tighter across her chest, trying to hold herself together. Her skin still buzzed with the anticipation of a touch that never came. Her body still knew the press of him, the weight, the heat.
