Page 113 of Worth the Fight

There is no scanner going off sporadically in the night.

“Dylan, love. So great to see you. I hope your trek in the country did you well.”

I rise from my seat when Callum Divish strides into the room, hair pulled back into a ponytail, and trademark tinted lenses hiding the truth in his eyes. “Good to see you again, Callum.” We air-kiss each other’s cheeks, as is his fashion, before sitting. “And it did.”

“Jett’s late. So we’ll start without him.” He shakes his head. “I’d say the country was good to you and, in turn, me. The songs you wrote . . . Dylan, they are spectacular. I’m going to have a bloody hell of a time picking which ones to put on the album. You really outdid yourself.”

“Thank you.” I nod, my pride brimming while my heart knows most of those songs are about Grady. They’re true and heartfelt.

“We’ll get the last few recorded and then meet again with Kai and the team and start deciding which ones we want to use.”

“Sounds great.”

“In the meantime . . .”

* * *

Exhausted is the only way I can describe how I feel.

Everything is draining. From Jett and his bullshit in the studio—the things I now see as complete immaturity—to my lack of sleep. The nights feel like endless bouts of tossing and turning. Grady wasn’t the only one who found solace in our sharing the same bed.

Grady.

My heart twists in my chest as I sit at the computer like I have almost every day since I left. I head to the Sunnyville Gazette and read about what’s happening in the town I’ve left. I open up a blank email, type Grady’s email address, then delete it. Then I begin to type him an email but don’t know what to say. He hasn’t reached out to me since I left. He hasn’t texted or called or sent up a smoke signal. So maybe I made this all up in my head. Maybe I was still so fresh and raw from my breakup with Jett that I saw things in Grady that weren’t there.

Maybe he came into my life just to teach me how to let go.

That’s such crap.

I know it was real. I know how I felt.

How I feel.

So then why haven’t we talked?

The cursor blinks as my email alerts my incoming messages. I tab over and scan through the new ones. My first thought? There are none from Grady.

I open the one from my brother to see the new pictures he had taken of the twins, and I contemplate flying out there when Callum gives this album the A-okay. I need some family time. A connection with someone I know won’t hurt my heart.

My computer pings again, and I hold my breath when I see the sender is Marcy Holden. I can pretend all I want that I forgot about the photo session Grady set up for me, but I didn’t. I just chose not to think about it.

But now I can’t. Now the photos are on the end of this little link.

I click it.

Hold my breath.

When the screen populates with pictures, a nervous laugh escapes from my lips. And then tears spring to my eyes.

These can’t be me. They can’t. I scroll through the pictures. One after another. I see the smile on my face. The sass in my expression. The guarded caution in my eyes.

But I don’t see the dimples in my thighs. I don’t see the fullness to my cheeks I try to contour out. I don’t see how big my arms look when they’re pressed against my sides.

I don’t see any of that. I see a woman trying to accept her sensuality. I see a woman in the chiffon robe with lace camisole underneath, a little uncomfortable in her skin but who is trying to own it. I don’t see how big her feet are in the high heels but rather the definition in her calves and the strength in her legs.

I see fit where I usually see flabby.

I see curves and sexy where I usually turn my head and cringe.