He pulls me against him even tighter and takes a deep, shuddering breath. Then another. It takes me too long to realize he’s fighting back tears.
I curl my fingers in his soft t-shirt, and they catch on a chain around his neck. “AJ?”
For a long moment, he doesn’t move. But eventually, his arms loosen, and he takes a step back.
Slowly, almost reverently, he pulls a silver chain out from under the dark blue tee, his hand fisted around whatever’s hanging from it.
“This… I found it a couple of days after you were taken. I couldn’t put it back where it belonged, but I couldn’t let it go either.”
He unfurls his fingers, and I freeze. The silver band with a delicate filigree is a smaller version of the one on his ring finger.
My wedding ring.
“Two hearts…to one?” The tears fall hard and fast. Our vows. I remember a piece of our vows.
“Yes, darlin’. Yes.” His voice wavers, and he pulls the chain over his head, opens the clasp, and lets the ring fall into his palm.
I lift my left hand, fingers shaking. He cradles my palm and slides the ring back where it belongs.
“You’re home, Grace. You’re really home.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
AJ
The coffeemaker hisses, filling the kitchen with the rich, dark scent I depend on to get me going in the mornings.
After I put the ring back on Grace’s finger last night, I watched her sleep for an hour, memorizing everything about her. All the things I’d forgotten and all the things that have changed.
Her lips still form a perfect bow. But the scar across her cheek pulls tight against the pillow. Her fingers are still calloused, but after rediscovering her favorite body lotion, her skin has started to glow again.
The electric kettle beeps, and I pull the tin of Cafe Vienna from the cabinet. It’s still early, but the chief ain’t a patient man. If I don’t call him soon, he’ll either break down my door, have me arrested, or go to the press. Hell, he might do all three out of spite.
Emi made a few calls last night. If any of the three major news outlets in the city get any info on Grace, she’ll know before the story airs. We hope.
Grace shuffles into the kitchen wearing one of my sweatshirts over her pajamas. The sleeves are so long, only the tips of her fingers peek out from the cuffs. Her brows are pinched together, a faint crease between them.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Did you sleep okay?”
She rubs the back of her neck with a frown. “I think so. I’m just a little…fuzzy. It’s early. I’ll be fine after some coffee.”
The faint tightness in her shoulders, the way she blinks a beat longer than normal, the rasp to her voice… Is it stress? Or do I need to worry?
I study her for a moment, until she stares pointedly at her empty mug. “You gonna make that for me, handsome? Or leave me to face the day uncaffeinated.”
Her grin dispels any lingering concern, and I reach for the kettle. Cinnamon and chocolate fill the space between us as the hot water hits the instant coffee powder. I give the mixture a slow stir, then set the spoon in the sink.
Without a word, she wraps her hands around the mug and takes a sip. Her eyelids flutter. I’m about to turn away—unsure how much longer I can go without our little ritual—when she pauses with the cup halfway to her lips.
Her head tilts, and after a beat, she sets the mug in front of me.
The simple gesture hits me so hard, I can’t breathe.
I take the cup, my hands trembling enough I’m scared I’ll drop it. The first sip is enough to undo me.
Grace’s brow furrows. “You don’t like sweet coffee. I don’t understand why I did that. It just felt…like I was supposed to.”
“You were,” I manage. “It…it was a thing.” From her frown, she’s not satisfied with my answer, so I fake a grimace, like I used to. “Still tastes like flavored water.”
