“Thanks, man.” I hold my fist out to him, and he stares at it for several seconds before rolling his eyes and bumping his knuckles against mine. I’m not okay with Nolan, and I don’t think I ever will be, but I won’t begrudge Graciehaving someone in her corner who genuinely has her back.
The conversation I overheard replays in my head, easing the tense line of my shoulders.
Doesn’t mean I’m not fucking glad he’s leaving, though.
Mom and Dad stay for an hour before we see exhaustion hitting Gracie, her shoulders sagging as she slumps against the table.
I help her into bed, setting her up on her side with a pillow tucked up against her lower back to stop her from rolling in her sleep. I set a bottle of water on her bedside table, and then pause, debating what to do next.
Before I can even ask, Gracie peels her eyelids open, guileless eyes looking up at me. “Will you stay?” she asks quietly. “I don’t want to be alone.”
I stare back at her, my eyes stinging, but I blink that shit away, giving her a smile. “Can’t imagine being anywhere else.”
CHAPTER 32
Gracie
Braxton overheard that the detective was coming over the next morning to take my statement, and he didn’t comment. He didn’t ask if I wanted him here or if he could come. Instead, he just showed up an hour beforehand. and after seeing Nolan painting, picked up a roller and put himself to work.
I sit in the kitchen, nursing a cup of coffee and biting back my amusement as I pretend I can’t hear their awkward shit-talking over who’s doing a better job.
When the detective arrives, introducing himself as Scott Jerome, Braxton takes the seat next to me, pressing his knee against mine. Nolan remains in the living room, the muffled sounds of his music trailing through the house as he keeps working.
I try to recount what happened in emotionless detail for Jerome, but each word feels like it’s dragging me through the attack all over again.
The detective is empathetic and patient, even as I trip over words I’ve known my entire life. A cold sweat prickles my skin, my vision going fuzzy around me, but Braxtonleans in close, his familiar smell filling my nose—clean cotton and something woodsy.
“Breathe, Gracie,” he orders gently. I hadn’t even realized my chest was on fire, desperate for oxygen. Braxton presses one hand to my knee and the other firmly against the nape of my neck. “It’s okay, Rumpel. You’re safe. Breathe with me, yeah? No, don’t look away. Deep breath—like this. Good girl. That’s it. Hold it for me, and then…exhale.” He repeats it several times until my breathing evens into a more regular rhythm, the blurriness fading from my eyes.
Across the table, the detective watches us, sympathy darkening his eyes. “I’ve got everything I need for today, but if you remember anything else, Gracie, no matter how small…just give me a call.” Jerome pulls a card out, sliding it across the table.
I don’t move, feeling like the slightest breeze might shatter me into pieces, so Braxton reaches out and takes the card with a quiet, “Thank you.”
Detective Jerome sees himself out, murmuring a goodbye to Nolan as he moves through the living room to the front door. Neither Braxton nor I make a move to stand, but he turns in his chair to face me, clasping both of my icy hands in his. “You okay, Rumpel?”
I flutter my lashes, stubbornly refusing to let the gathering tears fall as I lock eyes with his hazel ones. “Why would he go after a florist?” My voice is rough, cracking, and I swallow, my throat too dry. “We don’t…There wasn’t any money. But he wasn’t surprised I was there?—”
Braxton’s expression is furious, but his voice is steady as he guesses, “He was watching the shop. That’s how he knew you didn’t leave.” One hand is still wrapped around the back of my neck, and he tightens his fingers as if he’s trying to ground me with his touch. “I don’t know why he did it, but you heard what the detective said. The guywasn’t wearing gloves, and they have some prints.” He pauses, his mouth curling just slightly. “And some blood from when you nailed him with the pot.” His expression is impressed, and I give him a wobbly smile.
“How did you know that breathing thing?” I ask, desperate to change the subject. I barely slept last night, my back aching viciously and my head refusing to release me from the panic of knowing that whoever did this to me is still out there somewhere. The police are positive the attack was random, but that’s not the comfort they seem to think it should be.
Braxton’s cheeks warm, his eyes dropping self-consciously. “I told you I’ve been in counseling,” he murmurs. “I learned a few strategies to cope with panic attacks.”
“Panic attacks…” I repeat, voice rising in question.
His hand slides from my neck as he straightens, putting more distance between us. “The accident that happened just before Thanksgiving,” he starts slowly, his voice quiet enough that I have to learn forward to catch every word. “It was bad, Gracie.”
“How bad?” I whisper.
He looks away, blowing out a heavy breath. “I don’t know?—”
“Please tell me, Braxton.” It’s a quiet plea. I can’t bear the thought of him shutting me out again. Not after everything, and not when he’s just been here for me.
“I don’t want you to think I’m using this as an excuse for what happened or what I did,” Braxton says. “It was part of it, yes. There were several factors that went into me not making the choices I usually would make, but I wasn’t…” His brow creases with frustration, like nothing is coming out right. “I knew what I was doing with Paisley,” he blurts out, grimacing apologetically when I scowl at him.
“You knew you were practically drenched in her perfume when you climbed into my bed?” I ask dryly, already knowing the answer, but he violently shakes his head with a curse.
“No.No.Fuck, I didn’t…” He rakes a hand through his hair, leaving it standing on end. His shoulders are tense, and he’s vibrating with enough tension to rattle the chair against the floor.
