CHAPTER 1
Gracie
“Have they called you?”
I look up as Braxton comes into the kitchen, his eyes concerned. They lock on me as I stand with my back against the counter, phone in hand.
“No.” I give him a small smile, but his frown deepens. “It’s not surprising. My parents have never been holiday people.”
“You’re their kid.” Braxton’s voice is dripping with disapproval, the emotion darkening his moss-green eyes. He’s never really understood my parents—or my relationship with them—but that’s not surprising considering how close his own family is.
Children were never part of my parents’ plan, but that all changed when they got a positive pregnancy test. Some people might have been happy with the news, but my parents were already invested in their lives without the burden of a child.
They were wealthy in all respects of the word, and that trickled down to me. I never wanted for anything, and yet, it felt like they deprived me of the one thing I did want—love.
But the moment I bucked against their expectations formylife, they withdrew any kind of financial support, making sure I knew just how conditional our relationship was. So, I picked a random town on a map and moved six hours away. I only really speak to them on special occasions. More often than not, I get left on read, and the fact that this weekend is Thanksgiving means next to nothing to them.
Braxton’s experience was so different. We might as well have come from different planets. His parents have lived in the same house their whole lives, their roots so firmly embedded in this town that they’ll never be able to dig them out. Braxton never left Sterling Creek after high school, going straight into the fire department and following in his father’s footsteps. His younger sister, Analise, is in college out of state, but has said she’s coming back as soon as she graduates.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say.
Braxton shakes his head, his dark brown hair flopping over his forehead. He shoves it away impatiently as he crosses the kitchen and steps into my space, a foot on either side of mine.
“It matters,” he says softly, sliding a hand around the back of my neck. “You deserve more than that.”
Inhaling his woodsy cologne, I loop my arms around his neck. “I get it through us.” His brows knit, and I add, “You don’t think I’m dating you foryou, right?” My lips curve into a cheeky grin. “I’m just here for your family.”
Braxton scowls, digging his fingers playfully into my ribs. I shriek with laughter, arms flailing as I try to wriggle away from him. He’s relentless until I beg for mercy, and he swoops down to press a hard kiss to my mouth. “You can have my family any time,” he says against my lips. “As long as I get to keep you, too.”
My heart flutters wildly as I try to catch my breath,staring up at this man, still unable to believe he’s mine. It only feels like yesterday that I first met him when, in reality, it was well over a year and a half ago that he walked into Blossom Boutique. He had stopped short as our eyes locked across the shop, the tips of his ears flaring a deep red. He opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, he whirled around and marched right back out of the shop.
Bridget—my friend and coworker—and I stared after him until the door swung shut before sharing a bemused look. A minute later, Braxton walked back in, beelining for the counter where I was trimming some roses.
He took a deep breath and then gave me a winning smile, two dimples flashing at me. “Hi, my name’s Braxton. Can I take you out for coffee?”
I chuckled. “Did you want to know my name first?”
He shrugged, going for unaffected, but the deepening red in his ears gave him away. “Sure, but my question won’t change.”
I tapped a finger against my chin. “What if my name is Rumpelstiltskin? Or something worse?”
Green eyes twinkled back at me. “Then I would say your parents aren’t allowed to name any children we have.”
“That’s fair,” I concede, “if a bit forward. It’s too bad I don’t have a habit of going out with people I just met. That’s how you get axed into pieces and locked in a suitcase.”
Braxton blinked. “Why would the suitcase be locked if you’re already chopped into pieces?”
Across the room, Bridget snorted. “That’s his takeaway?”
I shot her a look, silently telling her to shut up, then focused back on Braxton. “Seems like you’ve put a lot of thought into this. That means there’s about”—I pursed mylips like I was deep in thought—“an 86.5 percent chance that you’re a serial killer.”
His mouth twitched. “And that’s a deal breaker?” he asked. “No coffee?”
“I only go out with people who have less than a 46.8 percent chance,” I say with mock disappointment.
Braxton laughs loudly, his eyes creasing endearingly at the corners. Another flash of those dimples has nerves skittering down my spine, settling wildly in my stomach.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he promised. “And the next day, and the next. Until I prove I don’t want to chop you up.”
