Hannah didn’t believe her. Grace could tell. But she didn’t push.
“Okay,” Hannah said finally, tapping the counter. “Then take an extra Danish. On the house. Consider it a breakup survival tool.”
Grace’s throat felt tight. “You don’t have to?—”
“I insist.” Hannah set it into a box with practiced care. “Heartbreak really burns through calories, so it’s probably a nutritional necessity.”
Grace laughed weakly.
She took the box and turned to leave. The bell jingled once more as she stepped outside, sunlight catching in her hair.
For a few seconds, she let herself imagine that maybe someday someone might shout from rooftops just to stand beside her.
The thing about a small town was that it remembered everything. The ledger never quite balanced in Crystal Lake's accounting.
She didn’t look at the police cruiser passing by on Main Street.
She didn’t have to.
She felt it like a bruise anyway.
Grace letherself into the house with her shoulder, juggling the pastry box and her tote while the door swung shut behind her with a soft click.
The house was quiet. Familiar, comforting quiet. She exhaled, shoulders sagging, and set the Sugar & Spice box on the counter.
She turned toward the living room.
And stopped dead.
Her brother was sitting on her couch like he belonged there.
Boots off, feet in socks propped on her coffee table. Jacket tossed over the armrest. Dark hair longer than she remembered, curling at the nape of his neck. He looked thinner, too—harder around the edges in a way that made something twist low in her chest.
And he was sporting a very noticeable black eye.
“Hey, Gracie,” Eli Hart said cheerfully.
Grace dropped her tote.
It hit the floor with a dull thud, but she barely noticed. She crossed the room in three quick strides and grabbed his face in both hands before he could stand.
“Jesus Christ,” she breathed. “Eli.”
He winced. “Ow. Okay. Still tender.”
Her fingers were already gentle, tilting his head this way and that, inspecting the angry purple bloom under his eye. “What happened?”
He shrugged, one corner of his mouth lifting in a crooked grin she’d known her entire life. “The usual. The wrong crowd. Some bad decisions.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
She dropped her hands, heart pounding, a thousand questions scrambling for the front of her throat. “You’re hurt,” she said weakly.
“Was,” he corrected. “Past tense. I’m fine.”
She stared at him, taking in the rest—scrapes on his knuckles, a split lip, the exhaustion sitting heavy behind his eyes.
