“Gonna give us all lessons?” I ask, flipping the lock behind me.
In the kitchen, Hardison accepts a beer from Connor. “Maybe. But if your plans involve ladders or power tools, there better be breadsticks to go with that pizza.”
“So…gonna tell us all why we’re here?” Connor asks.
I jerk my head for the three men to follow me down the hall, and open the door to Grace’s studio.
Every wall is a different color. Purple, blue, green, and orange around the big picture window looking out over the lake. Paintings in various stages of completion rest on easels, and a bulletin board spans the purple wall with old pencil drawings tacked one over another.
The memory hits hard. Grace perched on a stool, a brush in one hand and a palette in the other. The painting of the weeping willow tree is only half done. She was supposed to finish it after the marathon. But it’s sat there for three years, yet I could never put it away.
“AJ?” Jasper says, his hand on my shoulder.
“This used to be Grace’s sanctuary,” I manage. “But she won’t come in here now. Says it doesn’t feel like hers. So we’re strippin’ it. Everything goes in the garage, but it’s gotta be organized and labeled so she can find it again if she changes her mind.”
A long moment of silence fills the room. Connor nods. Jasper takes a deep pull on his beer, then starts rolling up his sleeves. Hardison shakes his head and mutters, “I knew I should’ve stayed home.” But he shrugs out of his jacket anyway. “We’re gonna need a hell of a lot of primer.”
An hour later, Grace’s studio is more construction zone than zen oasis. Connor keeps swearing at his tablet—and the spreadsheet where he’s recording every item as it goes into a box or a bin or on a shelf in the garage.
A dozen canvases are still stacked in the hallway, and we’ve ripped three drop cloths already. But save for a few streaks of purple left on the west wall, the primer’s mostly done.
Jasper’s up on the ladder, muttering about the cobwebs clinging to the overhead light while Hardison—the only one of us not covered in primer and sweat and pizza grease—dips an angled brush into the can of “Dove White” paint and starts in on the south wall. He’s put away five slices of pizza and two beers, but even so, hasn’t stopped working for more than five minutes at a time.
“Y’know,” he says at last, glancing over at me, “most guys, when left alone for a night, sit on the couch in their boxers and watch bad action movies.”
“Guess I’m not most guys.” I swipe a rag over Grace’s drafting table, the only piece of furniture staying in the room, and hope to all that’s holy in this world I’m not making a mistake doing this.
“There are worse ways to spend an evening,” he says, dragging another perfect streak across the wall. “If I’d walked in here to find the room filled with IKEA boxes, I’d have bolted.”
The ladder rattles as Jasper barks out a laugh. “Fuckin’ A. Don’t give him any ideas or next week, we’ll all be elbow deep in cardboard and Allen wrenches.”
“Shut up and keep workin’,” I mutter, but I can’t help smiling.
Hardison shakes his head and keeps on painting. Jasper fights with yet another cobweb, and Connor hefts the last of the canvases to carry it out to the garage.
I’d forgotten—or maybe I never knew—what it was like to have people who showed up for you. Not colleagues. Not acquaintances. Friends. Real ones.
But I know now. And I sure as shit ain’t gonna forget again.
Chapter Fifty
Grace
“And there’s Mr. Overprotective now,” Parker says. “Want to bet he’s been pacing for at least the past ten minutes?”
I laugh, and my stomach muscles ache from the motion. Clearly I haven’t laughed this much in a very long time. “I’d lay odds he’s been standing there since we left Isabel’s.”
AJ’s at my door before she even puts the car in park, helping me up, then letting Belle out of the back seat.
“Uh…thanks for bringing Grace home,” he says. “I know it’s a long way, but I?—”
“Ain’t no nevermind.” Parker stifles a yawn. “It’s not like I’ve gotta get up early for work in the morning. Don’t forget, we’re talkin’ to Zephyr at noon.”
“Parker?” AJ asks before she can roll up her window. “You sure you’re okay to drive home?”
She lifts a travel mug from her cup holder. “Isabel made me coffee so strong it could double as rocket fuel. I’m good, boss. Oh, and Grace? Next week, you’re pickin’ the movie.”
The idea of another night with friends—and the lingering buzz from two margaritas—has me practically floating all the way into the house.
