Page 114 of Worth the Fight

I see the beauty where I’ve always seen ugliness.

When I finish the first scan of the photos, of the four outfit changes, of the gamut of expressions she captured—flirty to feisty to shy to demure—I start all over again, trying to comprehend that these are really me. That I am her.

She must have airbrushed them.

That’s my conclusion when I go through them with a more scrutinized eye and try to pick them apart. Sure, there are little things I hate, but the big things I have hang-ups about are not there.

She must have airbrushed them.

I repeat the thought as I flip back to the text of Marcy’s email, the words and instructions I overlooked because I was too anxious to see what the pictures looked like.

Her words strike me to the core.

I hope you like them. I think they turned out beautifully. And before you refute how gorgeous you are with some smoke-and-mirrors nonsense, know that I didn’t airbrush a single one of them.

The tears that were threatening moments before escape in a single tear that slides down my cheek. I flip back to the pictures.

This is the woman Grady saw. The one he was determined to get to believe her worth. Her beauty.

This is the woman he let walk away without telling her to stay.

It’s a bittersweet feeling, and one I can’t seem to shake.

I pick up my phone, needing to say something—anything to him. My fingers shake as I dial. A soft sob escapes my lips as his voice comes over the connection.

“You’ve reached Grady. I’m probably at the station and that’s why I’m not picking up. Leave me a message and I’ll return the call when I get off shift.”

Beep.

“Hi. It’s Dylan. I just wanted to say I understand now. How you felt when you looked at your picture in the calendar. Thank you for that. I hope you’re doing well.” I love you. I miss you. Do you miss me? Stay safe. “Bye.”

I end the call and allow the tears to fall. Hearing his voice was almost worse than not hearing it at all.

Almost.

Because hearing it reminds me what we shared was real.

It was.

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

GRADY

“What was Marcy here for?”

It takes everything I have to look up from what’s in my hand and over to Bowie—but I do for just a second. “She wanted to drop something by for me.”

“Don’t tell me she’s giving you preferential treatment now after the calendar? What? You get a modeling contract?” He rolls his eyes, and I laugh at how ludicrous he sounds.

“Not hardly.” I’m distracted so I’m not fast enough when Bowie snatches the photo from my hand. “Give it back, Bow,” I warn with venom snapping in my tone.

“Whoa!” He holds his free hand up as his eyes grow big before handing it back to me and whistling. “And you let that go . . . why exactly?”

I don’t answer him. I can’t. Because my eyes are back on the photo Marcy gave me.

It’s Dylan. Her smile is wide. Eyes alive. Expression sincere. There is a hint of some kind of silky thing from her shoulders down that my dick is begging to know what it looks like, but it’s her face that holds my mind. And my heart.

The picture is equivalent to mine in the calendar.