I shake my head, trying to assemble the pieces. “How did I miss it?”
His one shoulder lifts in a soft shrug.
“Why didn't you say anything?”
“You were new to town—to the crew.”
He’s so familiar now. How did I miss him—hidden in plain sight all these weeks? He continues his explanation while my eyes rove over him, trying to pull together the boy in Munich with the man on my porch.
“When I realized you didn’t recognize me,” he says. “I didn’t want to make things complicated.”
“Ace,” I say softly.
He protected me that night, and he’s still protecting me, holding his awareness until I caught up with him. And if I never did, he might have held it forever—for my sake.
He nods. “You haven't changed a bit.”
He raises his hand in a gesture toward his face and says, “I look pretty different. I am different.”
“I've changed,” I say.
If only he knew. So much has changed since that night.
“Not in the most important ways,” he says with obvious affection in his tone.
I smile across the porch at him. And then I remember the photo.
“Wait here!” I say, jumping up out of my chair. Henry jumps up off the porch and stands at my side.
“What?” Greyson asks.
“I have something I want to show you.”
I run in the back door. I’m only slightly aware of Greyson coming in after me and the sound of the door shutting behind him. I bolt into my room, riffling through my things until I come across the picture I found just the other day. Grabbing it, I dash back into the hallway and practically into the wall of Greyson’s presence. I’m out of breath.
Greyson stands there, an amused grin on his face, staring down at me.
I stick the picture out between us. “I came across this when I was unpacking.”
He takes the photo from me and holds it, studying it almost reverently.
“Here,” I say, pointing to the kitchen. “There’s better light in here.”
He walks into the kitchen and I follow behind him. “I didn't know if you even remembered that night,” he says, glancing from the photo to my face.
“I do,” I assure him. “I never forgot.”
In the most natural of movements, Greyson’s hand raises, brushing softly across my cheek. His touch is featherlight and electric. The pads of his fingertips graze my skin, trailing down to my shoulder, simultaneously rough and gentle. My eyelids momentarily flutter. I stare up at him and his hand drops.
He steps back one step, pocketing his hand, holding the photo in the other and staring down at me.
I almost step toward him, tightening the gap he just created. Just then, Mom’s animated voice carries down the hallway. She’s reading Mia’s bedtime story—a poignant reminder of my reality.
I’m not the girl in front of the cathedral.
Greyson’s eyes travel down the hallway and back to me.
“I’d better get going,” he says.
