Chapter 13
Thirteen
Grace
T here aren’t many things I do that are just for me. Being a mom and a business owner, it’s easy to become something for everybody but yourself. Between sports, birthday parties, play dates, and everything expected of me at the bakery, months could go by in the blink of an eye without doing a single thing for myself.
Getting my nails and toes done every two weeks is one of my favorite forms of self-care. Every other Wednesday, like clockwork, I take a lunch break and walk across the street to Cutesie Nails and spend an hour relaxing while being pampered.
Sitting in the massage chair, with my Kindle neglected in my lap and my feet soaking, I rest my eyes while I wait for my nail tech to come over. I stayed up way too late last night, bingeing a new show on Hulu while I drank entirely too much wine, and I’m paying the price today. Not only am I sleep deprived, but I’m a ball of nerves. Blakely has gymnastics tomorrow, and if the math I’ve done in my head is correct, Conway has his daughter this week, which means I’ll most likely have to see him there.
It’s been a handful of days since we had sex, but we haven’t spoken since. I briefly saw him at drop-off yesterday morning, but we were both in our cars, and I looked away before he could notice me looking at him. To be completely honest, the idea of having to face him after what happened fills me with dread. He shows up, acting like a damn caveman after my date, and instead of telling him to get lost and go inside, like I should have, I sat there and argued with him before letting him fuck me where anybody could’ve seen us. My cheeks flame at the thought.
I’ve spent the last four days racking my brain, trying to understand what came over me, but I come up blank every time. It’s like when I’m in Conway’s vicinity, all sense of logic and clear thinking vanish. It’s maddening, and I wish I could figure out how to make it stop. This…thing between us isn’t going to end well; I can feel it. He’s about as allergic to commitment these days as anybody I know, and I’m not cut out for casual. Roan Chappell had it right when she said, “I try to be the chill girl, but honestly, I’m not.” She is me, I am her.
I’ve replayed that night an embarrassing number of times, cringing at myself harder each time. I called him “Daddy.” What the hell was that? Aside from Ethan, strictly when talking to the kids, I’ve never called a man that. Ever. I didn’t even think that was something I was into, but I fear…it is. At least when it comes to Conway. Gosh , the way he effortlessly held up my body weight as he fucked me was so sexy. And the way he kissed me, as if he was trying to erase the memory of Winston kissing me outside of his car, like the two could even compare, and the rough, animalistic way he owned my pussy, claiming it. Claiming me. I can’t get over it, and that’s inconvenient. I need to get him the hell out of my mind and move on with my life.
That cannot happen again.
Even though I really, really want it to.
Once was already too much. If I let him inside my body again, I’ll for sure catch feelings, and I can’t do that. Doing that would only hurt me in the end.
By the time they’re done with my nails and toes—they’re painted Bubblegum Pink, which is one of my favorite colors of all time—I’m not less relaxed than I was an hour ago when I walked into the salon. Go figure.
Stepping outside after I pay, I let the sun soak into my skin, warming me. The nail salon was a little too chilly today, and since I’m wearing short-sleeves, I spent the entirety of my appointment covered in goosebumps. The sound of a car door closing pulls my attention to my left, and my heart leaps into my throat when I spot Conway stepping onto the sidewalk. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s picking up lunch for his crew since the deli is next to the salon, but my gosh , I don’t want him to see me.
No. That can’t happen.
I’m not ready. I know I have to put on my big girl panties and face him tomorrow at practice, but that’s future Grace’s problem.
Looking both ways, I quickly dart across the street before he has a chance to spot me. I probably look ridiculous, running in a pair of wedges like my pants are on fire, but I don’t care. I step into the bakery, letting out a relieved breath before heading behind the counter to get back to work.
That was close.
* * *
Apparently, I didn’t learn my lesson this morning because I am, once again, parked in front of my television, binging more of this show I can’t seem to get enough of while working on my second large glass of wine. The kids went to bed about an hour ago, something I should’ve also done, yet here I am. I’m a glutton for punishment.
Finishing the rest of my wine, I get up off the couch and meander into the kitchen for a refill I definitely shouldn’t be having. A regular of mine picked up a large order of cookies and cupcakes this afternoon for an open house she’s hosting, and she brought me a bottle of Rosé as a thank you. So naturally, I have to drink it tonight. It would be rude not to.
Back at the couch, I notice a new notification lighting up my screen. I assume it’s either Georgia or Charley in the group chat we started this week to plan Gemma’s engagement party, since Everett popped the question over the weekend in the most romantic, adorable, swoony way. Swiping it open, I press play on my show. When I glance down at my phone, my heart stutters when I realize it isn’t Georgia or Charley at all.
In fact, it’s the last person I expected to send me a text.
Conway: Hope you didn’t hurt yourself this afternoon.
What the hell?
I take a sip from my glass, then set it down between my legs as I thumb out a response.
Me: Pardon?
The message shows read immediately. Who the hell keeps their read receipts on these days? I chew on the skin around my thumb nail as I watch the bubble appear as he types out a response. Why would he be texting me out of the blue, and at—my eyes lift to the time in the top left corner of my screen—almost ten o’clock at night?
My heart leaps into my throat when the phone vibrates in my hand with his response.
Conway: When you were crossing the street in front of your bakery. You didn’t think I missed that, did you?
Letting my head drop back onto the couch, I groan. Of course, he saw me. Why wouldn’t he?
Me: Hmm, weird. I didn’t see you.
Conway: Sure, you didn’t, Sin.
Me: Hate to break it to you, but I’m a busy woman who doesn’t have the time to scope out everybody on the street.
Conway: Riiight.
He sends a follow-up text that’s just a yellow thumbs-up emoji.
Me: My gosh, give your emoji skin color. You look like a boomer.
I snort, imagining the scowl on his face when he reads that text. I can’t help but wonder what he’s doing right now as he texts me. Is he sitting in the living room like I am? Or is he in bed? If it’s the latter, is he in pajamas or does he sleep naked? Swallowing another sip of wine, I try to ignore the way my body heats at the idea of him not wearing anything as he texts me.
Another message comes through, and this time it’s the fist emoji with skin color this time.
Conway: Better?
Me: Is that a representation of you jacking off?
Pressing send, I drop the phone like a hot potato on the couch, slapping a hand over my mouth. Why on earth would you say that, Grace? This is probably a sign I should lay off the wine.
Too bad I’m not going to. Especially when my phone buzzes, and I read his response.
Conway: Or yours. Don’t think I’ve forgotten about the incredible sight of your dainty fingers wrapped around me before I fucked you.
Heat spreads low in my belly, remembering how… well-endowed Conway is. A trait he definitely didn’t pass down to his son. Oh, fuck. I’m going to hell.
Right about now, I wish I would’ve told my sisters and Charley about what’s happened between Conway and I, so they can help reel me in, but like a chicken shit dumbass, I haven’t told them. Not a single one of them. At first, I said it was because I didn’t want to take away from Gemma’s engagement, but as I’m sitting on this couch, staring down at my phone, the beginnings of wine tipsy making my head all floaty, I can admit it’s because I’m not ready to hear them make a big deal about it, and tell me “I told you so.”
It happened one time. That’s it.
Okay, technically twice, if I’m counting the night of the auction.
But still…there’s nothing to tell because it’s not going anywhere. It was a mistake that won’t be happening again.
Although, somebody should tell my vagina that since it’s apparently going rogue and calling the shots.
Me: Ha! You wish.
Conway: What are you wearing?
Is he serious?
Me: Did you really ask me that?
Conway: Yes. Answer the question, Sin.
Things would be a lot easier if my pathetic pussy didn’t throb every time he called me that.
Me: A turtleneck and a floor-length skirt. And granny panties.
Conway: Mmm, I love it when you talk dirty to me.
A sane person would turn their phone off and go to bed. They wouldn’t engage because flirting with Conway is a bad idea. But clearly, I’m neither of those things. Glutton for punishment, remember?
Me: And what are you wearing?
Conway: Nothing.
I knew it! My gosh, having him confirm that is way hotter than simply wondering.
Me: Prove it.
Goddamnit, Grace!
The message shows read immediately, but he doesn’t respond right away. My heart attempts to beat right through my ribs as I stare at the screen, finishing the rest of my wine. I shouldn’t have said that. A man like Conway wouldn’t be into sending nudes, right?
Wrong.
My jaw drops open as a new message comes through. A picture of Conway, clearly taken in his bed. His face isn’t visible, but the wide expanse of his chest covered in a dark smattering of hair that leads a path down his abdomen and straight to his impressive dick makes my mouth water. Not the best angle, but it doesn’t even matter. It’s glorious . The night we had sex, I didn’t get a good look at it because it was dark and we moved too quickly, but it looks even better than I imagined. It’s hard and red, lying flat against his stomach, and there’s thick, blue veins running along the shaft that make my mouth water with the desire to trace them with my tongue.
Conway: Your turn. ;) Let me see those perky tits of yours.
I shouldn’t.
Like, I really shouldn’t…right? I called his bluff, and he proved me wrong. That’s all this was. Or, is. Even through wine fog, I know sending Conway any sort of picture, clothed or not, is a bad, bad idea.
Yet it would seem my thumbs are operating under the order of my slutty, no-shame pussy and not the logical part of my brain because I’m typing out two words—that are not “no way” or “fuck off”—before I even know what’s happening.
Me: Say please.
My lip curls into a smirk as I add the angel emoji before pressing send. So much for self-control. It’s a really… really nice dick. I’d like to see anybody else manage to not fold under the sight of it.
Conway: Please is only reserved for after you drain my balls so well that I beg for more. Don’t make me ask again, Sin.
Holy fuck. The mouth on this man. I clench my thighs together, trying to alleviate some of the ache as I switch on the camera app and lift my pajama shirt up. Pushing my breasts together with my arms until I’m happy with the way they look, I snap a few pictures before finding my favorite and sending it to him. The bottom half of my face is visible, and my lips are blowing a kiss. Not to toot my own horn, but it’s a damn good picture. My boobs look incredible and, in fact, perky, and the dark shade of my hard nipples is a nice contrast to my barely tan skin.
Conway: Want to know a fantasy of mine?
Me: Obviously. *upside down smile emoji*
Conway: Bending your bratty ass over and spanking you until you beg me to fuck you. I’d flip you over, and sink my cock into your hungry cunt, fucking you until you can’t think straight while I suck on those delicious fucking nipples.
A shiver ripples through my body as my thighs clench. My pussy’s so wet, I can feel the moisture cover my panties.
This is a bad idea.
Put a stop to it, Grace. It’s not worth the hurt that will come.
It’s a bad idea. A horrible one.
Too bad the “hungry cunt” Conway speaks of doesn’t give a single shit about how bad of an idea it is.
Me: So, get over here and prove it. Come spank me, Daddy.
Hitting send, I think I’m going to be sick. Tossing the phone onto the coffee table, I jump off the couch and grab my wineglass, bringing it in the kitchen. After I rinse it and put it in the dishwasher, I pad over to my phone again, my stomach in knots as I check to see if he’s responded.
He hasn’t.
But he did read it.
Oh, fuck. Why would I send that? It’s late, and a work night. He’s not going to come over. He was clearly already in bed, ready to go to sleep, I’m sure.
Five minutes pass agonizingly slowly, and I’m convinced he’s not coming. Leave it to Conway to be an absolute douchebag and leave me on read after I say something like that. But just as I turn off the TV and flip off the lights, ready to head to bed, I hear it.
The soft sound of knuckles rapping on the front door.