Chapter 8
Eight
Grace
S wiftly walking through the doors of Taylor’s Grill, I scan the busy restaurant as I approach the empty hostess stand. I check the time once more on my phone, noting I’m only twenty minutes late, but I can already hear the attitude I’ll get from Conway about it. We’re finalizing the details for the fundraiser that’s approaching quicker than I expected. Our final plan is due to the principal by the end of the week, and after we dropped the ball and didn’t discuss it last week at his house like we were supposed to, we agreed to meet here today since I had a light day.
Or so I thought.
First, I get to the bakery this morning, only to find one of my ovens broke. I have no clue what happened or how to fix it, but being down to only one severely messed with my morning. Then, as if that wasn’t stressful enough, my weekly delivery driver—who is always on time, might I add—was hours late today, and when he finally showed up thirty minutes before I needed to leave and unloaded everything, he was feeling extra chatty. So, honestly, it’s really not even my fault that I was late this time.
“Hey, Grace,” the hostess greets as she approaches the stand. “Table for one?”
“Hey! No, I’m meeting Conway here for a meeting. I was running late, per usual.” I breathe out a laugh. “So, I’m sure he’s already here.”
The hostess winces as she drops her gaze to the notepad in front of her for a moment before looking back up at me. “Conway was here,” she says. “But he left about ten minutes ago.”
What? “He did?”
“Yeah, I’m so sorry.”
“Not your fault, babe.” I smile at her as my heart rate picks up speed and my jaw tics. “Thank you for letting me know. Have a good one!”
“You too,” she calls after me as I blow through the door, phone already to my ear, calling this jackass.
It rings and rings and rings, eventually connecting to his voicemail, but fuck that. I’m calling back. If he’s going to blow off our meeting like this, he’s sure as hell going to answer the damn phone. Unlocking my car, I climb in, turning on the ignition just as the line connects.
Before I have a chance to say anything, his deep, gravelly voice fills the speaker. “I’m busy. What?”
“You’re busy ?” My hand wraps around the steering wheel, gripping it tight enough that my knuckles blanch. “We were supposed to meet, Conway. So, tell me why I get here, and I’m told you left? And after only ten minutes! We have to get this plan to the principal. What the hell?”
Conway heaves a sigh, the sound grating my nerves. “Yeah, you’re right. We had plans to meet at one.” His tone is so condescending, I want to scream. “Look at a clock right now. What time is it?”
“Oh, go to hell,” I scoff.
“What. Time. Is. It. Grace?” he repeats, slower this time.
“My god,” I grumble, glancing at the time on my dash. “It’s one twenty-eight, you asshole!”
“Good. So, why are you calling to bitch at me when you’re the one who was late again ?”
“Sorry that I was late, but it really wasn’t my fault. One of the ovens at work broke and the?—”
“None of that is my problem,” he cuts me off. “There are plenty of adults who can manage their time better and be where they say they’re going to be on time.”
“Don’t talk to me like I’m a child, Conway.”
“Then don’t behave like one,” he tosses back flippantly. “My ten-year-old has better time management skills than you do.”
Is he for real? Who talks to somebody like this?
I bite my tongue so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t bleed. Grinding my molars, I breathe out a harsh breath through my nose. “We need to get this stuff finalized today, Conway,” I say as calmly as I can manage. “It’s due to the principal by end of week, and I’m too busy the rest of the week.”
“Understood. If you want to meet today, you can come to me.”
“What?” I hiss. “Where?”
“I’ll send you the address.”
“You want me to come to a job site?”
“Yes, I do, Grace.” The finality with which he says my name sends me back to that night in his truck when I kissed him. There’s just as much authority in the deep, gruff voice now as there was then. It’s equal parts annoying and hot. Make it make sense, universe. “You can’t seem to respect my time, yet you say you can’t meet any other day this week. Do you want to get this shit done or not?”
It takes every ounce of self-control I have to not tell him to fuck off. “Fine,” I grit out. “Send me the address.”
Once I have it entered into my car’s GPS, I back out of my parking spot and begin the fifteen-minute commute.
I don’t know what it is about Conway that brings out this stubborn, insufferable side of me. I hate it and wish I could figure out a way to make it stop. It’s not who I am at all, yet whenever I’m in his vicinity, I feel this gnawing need to, I don’t know…prove myself or something? What I’m proving, though, I haven’t a clue. It’s like some part of my brain chemistry was altered that night he rejected me. And I don’t even think it’s necessarily because of Conway or that he didn’t kiss me back. I think it was everything that happened that week that led to that moment, and since that was my breaking point, it’s the moment I latched onto the most. Hence my knee-jerk reaction to be a bitch to him every time I see him.
Georgia says it’s because I have abandonment issues. First, the guy I lost my virginity to cheated on me. Betrayed me deeply and shattered all the plans I thought we had. Then when I finally meet someone and do get married, we end up getting a divorce because he’s actually into guys. Another person I truly thought I would grow old with.
I don’t agree with her, though. It’s not abandonment issues, it’s this soul-deep ache that never seems to go away over the fact that I’m never somebody’s final pick. Never somebody’s moon and stars and universe. Instead, I’m everybody’s just for now. Growing up, I dreamed of being the princess who fell in love and lived happily ever after. I dreamed of having the loving, doting husband, the kids, the house, the whole damn life. And while I have the kids and the house, and I’m so absolutely blessed for both, I don’t know why it’s so damn hard for me to find the last piece. I don’t know what’s so wrong with me that I can never be the one who gets picked, who a man couldn’t even fathom living without.
Thinking back to dinner at Conway’s house last week, I’m filled with confusion. And embarrassment. Conway was flirting with me the entire evening; there’s no way I misread that. I mean, hell, he couldn’t keep his eyes off me the entire time I was mixing up the cupcakes—he wasn’t even trying to hide it—he licked batter off my finger out of nowhere, then he ate right out of my hand, quite literally, after dinner.
God, I fucking licked his mouth .
Who does that? Why would I do that?
And if that’s not bad enough, once the kids came in and almost caught us, he couldn’t get out of the kitchen and away from me fast enough. So, was he even flirting at all? Or did I only see what I wanted to see? And if it’s the latter…why the hell did I want to see him flirting with me? By the time I park in front of the half-built house where Conway told me to meet him, I have no clue how I managed to find this place. I sure as hell don’t remember hearing a single direction spoken to me from my GPS, yet I’m sure it did.
Suddenly, I’m hyperaware of the way I look as I climb out of the car and take in the half a dozen men walking around. I’m wearing a cute black sunflower sundress, but all the make-up I put on this morning before work is long gone from the cry I begrudgingly had in my office after I discovered the oven wasn’t working. My hair, which was styled when the day started, is now thrown up in a bun that probably looks like it houses little creatures.
And then I see him.
My mouth dries as I spot Conway standing in front of a guy who must be one of his employees. They’re both wearing neon yellow hardhats, and Conway has a metal clipboard tucked under his arm as he explains something to the guy. Dark sunglasses shade his eyes, but based on the way he’s aggressively talking with his hands and the horrified look on the guy’s face, I’d say he’s not too happy with him.
Guess he’s not happy with his whole damn day, if the way he spoke to me is any indication.
Taking advantage of the fact that he’s occupied and hasn’t spotted me yet, I let myself check him out. I’ve never seen him at work, never seen him in his element like this, and I truly hate to say it’s doing something for me. The hardhat, the black t-shirt practically painted on his body, the mouthwatering way his ass looks in his jeans. Hell, even the sawdust or dirt or whatever the heck it is that’s all over him is sexy.
Something about a blue-collar man just hits different. They’re sweaty and dirty, and that, unfortunately, gives me all kinds of kitty butterflies.
“’Bout time you showed up,” Conway calls out, causing me to realize that I was too busy drooling over him that I didn’t even notice he looked my way.
Gosh, get a grip, Grace. This rollercoaster of emotions is giving me whiplash, especially when I replay what he just said to me, and feel annoyance flood my system all over again.
“It took me fifteen minutes to get here,” I mutter as he approaches me. “What the hell do you mean?”
“Well.” Glancing down at his watch like a tool, he says, “Seeing as it’s almost two, and we were supposed to meet at one for what was meant to be a quick, easy meeting, but I ended up waiting for you yet again, I’m sure you’re not really all that confused, are you, Sin?”
That freaking nickname again.
“Stop calling me that,” I growl. “And I already apologized for being late, so I don’t think you need to keep going.”
“Actually, you didn’t apologize.” I don’t need to see his eyes to know he’s wearing that same smug look. “You said it wasn’t your fault, then proceeded to feed me excuses.”
“You know what?” Reaching into my bag, I retrieve the papers I had stuffed in there and shove them into his chest. “I don’t need this. I’ve had a terrible day, and you’ve done nothing but make it worse. First, by yelling at me over the phone, then again when you made me drive all the way out here. Screw you, Conrad. Sooo sorry I was late. You said I fed you excuses, but what’s your fucking excuse for being such a raging asshole? You can deliver the papers to the principal. I’m out of here. See you at the auction in two weeks.”
Blinking against the tears welling in my eyes, I spin around and start back toward my car, but before I can get very far, Conway hooks an arm around my waist, yanking me back until I’m flush with his chest. Here he goes, freaking touching me again. My breath gets caught in my throat, every inch of my skin tingling when I feel the scratch from his beard graze my shoulder as he growls into my ear, “Don’t fucking be late to the auction, Sin. I mean it.”
Then he lets me go and leaves me standing here, completely dumbfounded, and more than slightly turned on.
Goddamnit. I cannot stand him.