Nick chuckles, but it’s a low, reluctant sound. “No beer,” he agrees. “We’ll do video games until we pass out instead.”
Nolan shootsme a wry look as he pulls the door open, pointedly checking the time on his watch. “You know, I didn’t actually mean for you to race over here.”
I lift a shoulder. “Would you have stayed away?” I ask quietly. “If you were me.”
He watches me for a long moment, something unreadable flashing through his eyes. “If I were you, and I had even the slightest chance of being let back into my girl’s life…not even hellhounds could keep me away.” He shifts to the side to let me into the house. “Gracie’s asleep. She crashed as soon as we got back.”
Nolan messaged me as Gracie was being assessed in Ashland last night, so I know the extent of her injuries—some bruising and twenty-seven sutures in the four-inch slash across the middle of her back. It was deep enoughthat the hospital erred on the side of caution, especially considering the blow she took to the head, admitting her overnight for observation.
I barely read the message before I was at the front door—no shoes, no jacket, keys in hand. Nick talked me down, convincing me it was better that I didn’t intrude on Gracie’s space if I wasn’t even sure she wanted me there. I’d grudgingly sat back down, letting him distract me with a video game…but when I kept dying because my focus was on my phone, he gave up and put an old action movie on.
Nolan messaged a sporadic mixture of updates throughout the night, some of them more useless than others—she drank some water,orshe blinked four times—because the guy thinks he’s funny. He stopped messaging around two in the morning, and I drifted off until I got a message at six telling me that Gracie was being discharged and they would be home in a couple of hours.
Nolan shuts the door behind us, stepping into the living room of the house that was supposed to be ours—mine and Gracie’s.
I draw up short at the sight of all the furniture pushed into the middle of the room, the carpet covered with a drop cloth. The walls are half-painted—a soft green covering up the original off-white—and there are paint cans and rollers sitting where the painter last left off.
Nolan looks up to see what’s caught my attention, surveying the messy room. “Gracie didn’t like the white,” he murmurs. “Figured I could at least paint in lieu of paying rent.”
I fucking hate painting, but knowing thathe’sdoing it has a potent regret swelling in my chest. “Right.” My voice is rough, and I clear my throat. “I told my mom not to come for another hour or two.”
“Probably a good idea. The painkillers knocked Gracie on her ass.”
I nod absently, following behind him as he leads the way into the kitchen. “Mom said she was going to cook some easy meals for Gracie to throw in the freezer. She’s probably baking up a storm, too, so you won’t need to go shopping for a while.” Nolan flicks a look at me over his shoulder, his brow furrowed, but I keep going, unable to shut myself up. “She does that when she’s worried. My mom, I mean. She cooks and bakes.”
I sound like a moron.
Nolan grunts. “I wouldn’t know what that’s like.” He heads for the coffee machine, his familiarity with the kitchen sending another spike of pain through me. “How do you like your coffee?”
“Black, please.” I frown. “What do you mean, you wouldn’t know what that’s like?”
He chuckles, the sound rough, like his throat isn’t used to making the noise. “A mother who bakes. I doubt the woman even knows where her measuring cups are.” He shoots me a dry look. “Why would she when she can just hire someone else to do it?”
I take a seat at the kitchen table, mulling over his words as I trace a finger over the swirling knots in the wood. It’s not the same table from her apartment, and I hate that it’s something else she did without me.Did she take Nolan?
I can’t bring myself to ask him, so I say instead, “You and Gracie grew up similarly.”
Nolan tips his head from side to side like he can’t quite pick an answer. He sits down across from me, sliding one of the mugs over. “Yeah, I suppose.” His hazel eyes have hardened, but he doesn’t say anything else.
I drum my fingers against the table. “Gracie doesn’t talk much about it. I know about her parents and what they were like.” I frown, correcting, “What theyarelike.”
“You know, she saw them in January,” Nolan drops casually, and I straighten.
“I called looking for her, and they said they hadn’t seen her.”
“They lied.” He lifts his mug to his lips. “Probably the one time they actually listened to her. Gracie would have been better off if she hadn’t seen them. She was in a bad space, and that didn’t help.” His eyes meet mine across the table, adding quietly, “There’s a reason Gracie walked away from them, and a reason that she came back here, even after…” he trails off, so I finish for him.
“Even after what I did.”
Nolan tips his chin in acknowledgment, and we fall into a comfortable silence. Questions about his relationship with Gracie plague me, but I feel like we’ve reached something of a truce, finding common ground in our mutual connection with her.
A couple of minutes later, his phone rings and he checks the screen, rolling his eyes. “I need to take this.” He connects the call before he’s left the room, his voice drifting back to me, “Hey, Mom…No, I’m not moving in with you and Darcy. We’ve been over this.” I don’t mean to eavesdrop, but his voice is deep enough that it carries easily. “I’m not moving in with Declan, either. Why would I want to? If I wanted to live with a baby, I’d go out andhavea baby.” A low laugh. “If you think I need to be married to achieve that…Look, I’ll be back soon. I’ve found a place, but I don’t want anything to do with your blind dates…You can threaten me all you like, but if I catch even a whiff of you setting me up, I’m moving my ass to England.”
A noise catches my attention, and I look over at the second doorway in the kitchen, the one that leads to the bedrooms. Gracie is standing there, her shoulder againstthe doorframe, and her face lined with exhaustion and pain.
“Braxton?” Her voice is raspier than normal, surprise swimming through her dazed eyes. I give her a small smile, standing up and approaching slowly, giving her plenty of time to tell me to fuck off.
“Hey, Rumpel.” I take her arm gently, relief coursing through me when she doesn’t pull away, and lead her over to the table. I turn a chair around so she’s sitting sideways, keeping pressure off her back, and she looks up at me, lines of tension edging her mouth.
