Always. Also, how much smut are we talking?
I snort.
Grace
Be prepared. It's a lot.
Kacey
By your standards or mine?
Grace
By the average person’s? Your threshold for a lot is probably astronomically high.
Kacey
It's hot when you use big words.
I laugh again and close out of my text messages, choosing not to respond to her last one. Moving my hand on my computer mouse, I go to shut down, but an unread email stops me.
The subject line readsChecking Inand the sender is James Rock. It takes a brief moment for me to place the name as the publisher I met at Gabe's charity gala. My heart thrums with the reminder of Asher as I open the email.
Hi Grace,
I know it's been a minute, but I hope you remember speaking with me at the Sanctum Cares Gala a few monthsback. I quite enjoyed our conversation. I was surprised when I learned of your accident, and I didn't want to burden you with emails asking how you were doing when I'm sure you were recovering. I hope it's been enough time and that my email finds you well.
I'm curious to know if you've written any more of the book we've discussed? My publishing house has a romance imprint, and I'd love to pass your information along to one of my editors.
Looking forward to hearing from you.
James Rock
Rock Publishing Group
My heart hammers in my ears.
Is this for real?
A real fucking opportunity to publish my book? Maybe Kacey was onto something with all her talk about the universe always providing. I let out a giddy squeal and spin around in my chair.
And then, once I've calmed myself down, I respond to the email, letting James know I would love to chat with one of his editors.
I’m buzzing with excitement when I stand up, my empty mug dangling from my fingers. My shoulder bumps into something solid as I round the counter, and hot liquid splashes against my wrist. I gasp, jerking back, my mug clattering to the floor with a dull thunk.
Brown streaks of coffee stain a crisp white shirt in front of me, the fabric hugging a familiar broad chest. My eyes snap up, and there he is.
Asher Caine.
I blink my eyes, certain that I’m seeing things, placing his face on someone else.
But no, it’s really him, covered in coffee and standing in my favorite coffee shop in Cedar Falls, Michigan.
53
GRACE
“Just like old times,” he murmurs, voice low, a thread of amusement weaving through the roughness. He dabs at the stain on his shirt with a napkin from the counter, unhurried, as if we’ve just met all over again at Haven. The memory stings, sharp and vivid, of whiskey soaking his suit and my world tilting off its axis.
