Nine
Trinity
T he next morning I stare at the faded lines on the parking garage floor, my mind racing with thoughts of Mom and the tour ahead when I hear footsteps approaching. I glance up to find Greyson leaning casually against my car, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to reveal forearms I remember all too well. In each hand, he’s holding a paper cup, steam curling lazily from their plastic lids.
“Hey,” he says, pushing off the car with a smile that’s all charm and trouble. “Didn’t know what you liked, so I got a latte and an espresso. You can choose.”
My hand gravitates toward the latte, fingers brushing his as I take it. The warmth seeps into my palm, comforting yet unsettling as I recall the heat of his touch. I bring the cup to my lips and find the latte is flawlessly crafted—just the way I like it. My heart skips, but I mentally scold myself. Don’t fall for this guy, Trinity. It’s just coffee.
“Thanks,” I murmur, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. My gaze drifts past him to the parking lot beyond, where a Land Rover stands out like a relic among the sleek, modern vehicles. The SUV has seen better days, its once-khaki paint dulled by time, but there’s something solid and dependable about it.
“Shall we?” he prompts, gesturing toward the Land Rover with a raised eyebrow.
“Is that yours?” I ask, unable to mask my surprise. The exhaust pipe is curiously positioned next to the windshield. It’s an old design, meant for function over form. This isn’t what I expected from a doctor who comes from family money.
Greyson smiles, a hint of pride in his eyes. “Yeah, she’s not the latest model, but this baby can handle anything. Perfect for emergencies, especially if there’s flooding, and she was fantastic in the fires last summer with all the smoke and heat. Can get to any situation, any time.”
I hide a smile behind another sip of my latte. Of course, the man who lives life on the edge would choose utility over luxury. It’s strangely endearing, reminding me that beneath that suave exterior lies a man dedicated to helping others, no matter the situation. That’s what brings us here today .
“Practical,” I concede, taking a final glance at the sturdy vehicle before returning my gaze to Greyson.
He waits.
“Let’s go,” I say, squaring my shoulders for what comes next.
The Land Rover’s engine purrs as we navigate through town. We’re not far from the hospital when Greyson slows, steering the vehicle toward a sight I wasn’t prepared for—a grand Victorian house standing proudly on the waterfront, its yellow facade gleaming with white trim. The lawn is impeccably manicured, stretching out like green carpet.
“Wow,” I murmur, my heart fluttering at the thought of Mom here. She’d spend hours on that porch, sipping tea and gazing at the lapping water’s edge. “This place is gorgeous.”
Greyson doesn’t respond, but I catch him watching me. He parks the Land Rover, and we step out into the fresh air. It’s peaceful, tranquil—the kind of place that promises rest and care.
We enter the reception area, a warm and inviting space filled with antique furniture. Soft, classical music plays in the background.
“Greyson Paradise!” The voice cuts through the quiet ambiance, and I turn to see a tall, beautiful redhead striding toward us with open arms. Frankie Peterson, according to the nametag pinned to her blouse, beams up at Greyson. Her hair is like a flame, vibrant and full of life, and it seems to match her personality perfectly. “How have you been?” she asks him. “Penn always keeps you to himself. And your family? How are Kingston, Beckett, Ryker, and Tarryn?” she asks.
“Everyone’s good,” Greyson replies. His gaze shifts to me. “Frankie, this is Trinity Blaine. And Trinity, this is Frankie Peterson, fiancée to my best friend, Penn, and the executive director of Lakeview Assisted Living. As I told you, we’re here to discuss Lakeview for Trinity’s mother.”
“Of course, of course.” Frankie turns to me with a professional smile. “Welcome to Lakeview, Trinity. Let’s get started with a tour, shall we?”
I nod, feeling overwhelmed. This is happening .
“I’ll be right here when you’re done,” Greyson assures me. He steps back, shoving his hands into his pockets.
I nod again as Frankie leads me down the hall.
“Tell me about your mother,” she prompts.
I take a deep breath. “We lost my dad right after Christmas. They’d just celebrated their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary. She was alone for the first time in her life, but she was managing.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” Frankie sympathizes.
“Before her stroke, Mom was vibrant,” I continue, my throat tightening just a bit. “Or at least I think so. I live in Vancouver, so I wasn’t here to see for certain. But we spoke often on the phone, and she traveled with her best friend just a few months ago. She loved reading—was busy with a book club. She painted watercolors that could steal your breath away, and her home always smelled like cookies or fresh bread. It’s…” I swallow hard. “It’s tough seeing her like this.”
Frankie’s eyes soften, a hand reaching out to squeeze mine. “She sounds like a wonderful mother,” she says, and I can only nod, fighting the prickle of tears behind my eyes.
She leads me through gleaming hallways, pointing out various features and amenities. The staff’s smiles and the cozy common areas should comfort me, but the knot in my chest only tightens as we approach the memory care section.
“Here at Lakeview we have twenty-two beds,” she explains as we pass a cozy common room where a few residents are gathered around a puzzle.
It looks nice, and it would just be for the care Mom needs until she can move home. She can see her condo across the lake from here. That might be good motivation.
“This is our memory care unit,” Frankie says when we pause again. “Your mother will be staying in our rehab section, but should her memory deteriorate or she wanders at night, she would be moved to this part of our home,” she continues. “It’s designed especially for safety and comfort.”
I hesitate at the entrance, noticing the security measures in place. “If she’s moved here, she’d be locked in?” I ask. She’s an adult. She doesn’t need to be locked down.
Frankie hurries to reassure me. “It’s not like that,” she says quickly. “See, to exit, one simply has to push this button and then pull the door. It’s easy for us, but for those with severe memory issues, remembering to do both can be challenging.” She pauses, gauging my reaction. “It’s for their safety, Trinity. To prevent wandering and ensure everyone is looked after properly.”
I watch as she demonstrates, pressing the button, the door obeying with a soft click. It looks simple enough, yet the thought that my mother would be beyond these doors, potentially struggling with such a basic task, sends a pang through my chest.
“Okay,” I whisper. I wonder if it’s like this at all assisted-living facilities. Safety first, even if the thought of her being confined in any way would be agonizing.
We enter, and outside each door are collages of photos and mementos with name plates. I could wander and stare at these for hours. What a wonderful gesture.
“We usually have a waiting list, but two of our patients were able to go home recently, and Greyson called in a favor. You’re really lucky to have his support. You two must go way back.”
Frankie and I stop to look out at the stunning gardens. A nearby window is open, and the smell is heady.
“Actually, we met a few months ago at a medical conference, and then I got a call in the middle of the night that Mom had been rushed to the hospital,” I explain. “I came here from Vancouver, and Greyson was her doctor.”
“You’re not dating?”
I shake my head. “Noooo…” Then it dawns on me. “He doesn’t do this for all his patients who needs rehab care?”
“Your mom is the first one he’s ever called me about.”
I feel my eyes go wide. I don’t know how to respond to that.
Frankie leads me down a corridor lined with vibrant paintings, each canvas a burst of color that seems to dance in the soft lighting. We stop by a room where a handful of residents are engrossed in a pottery class. The air smells faintly of earth.
“Your mother could join classes like these,” Frankie says. “Art therapy is wonderful for stimulating the mind.”
I nod, imagining my mother rediscovering her love for watercolors among new friends. It’s a comforting thought.
We end the tour outside, in the lush garden that seems more fitting for a grand estate than an assisted-living facility. Roses bloom in wild abundance, and the gentle sound of a fountain provides a serene soundtrack to the beauty around us. “It’s stunning,” I admit.
“Isn’t it?” Frankie agrees. “A perfect place for reflection and peace.”
The practical side of me resurfaces, and I clear my throat. “How much does all this cost?”
“During rehab, everything is covered by provincial healthcare,” she explains, and relief washes over me. “Should your mother stay beyond the twelve weeks the government pays, we charge half of her monthly pension, and the province takes care of the rest.”
“Thank you,” I say, truly grateful. My worry about finances has been a constant weight, and this news lightens it considerably.
We return to the reception area, and Greyson is leaning against the counter. He straightens when he sees me.
“So? What do you think?” he asks.
“This seems like a great place,” I respond, emotions catching in my throat.
“Good.” He smiles.
Frankie reappears then, a tablet in hand, and suggests I take a seat to fill out the forms. She and Greyson strike up a conversation, and their laughter drifts toward me, light and easy, as a knot tightens in my stomach. I hear wedding talk, and she’s trying to schedule a fitting for Greyson.
Suddenly my overwhelm returns. I’m not ready to make a decision this minute. This place seems nice, but what are my options?
I consider asking questions, but instead, I type my mother’s information into the tablet, trying to focus on the task at hand. Their flirtatious tones tug at me, irking me more than I want to admit. I remind myself Frankie is engaged to Greyson’s friend, but it doesn’t soothe the irritation.
This is moving too fast.
“Will next Saturday work for you?” Frankie asks Greyson .
“Saturday’s perfect,” he confirms. “And thank you again for making a space for Joy Blaine.”
My stylus pauses mid-signature. They’re taking for granted that I’m doing this.
“Trinity?” Frankie prompts.
“Sorry,” I mumble. “Just thinking.” I finish digitally signing the documents and rise to return the tablet to Frankie.
“I’m sorry the intake paperwork is so fierce,” she says.
“She likes paperwork,” Greyson teases.
“No one likes all the monotonous paperwork. It just has to be done.” Frankie rolls her eyes at Greyson before smiling at me. I’m grateful for someone who understands the value.
“Thanks,” I say, gathering the paper copies of the document I’ve just signed. “I appreciate everything. And I, uh, I guess I’ll let you know?”
I look toward the exit, eager to escape the tangle of feelings I’ve been forced to confront today. Greyson catches my eye, a question lurking in his gaze. But I can’t decipher that now, not with the unease of making such a large decision so quickly.
“I’m not sure when she’ll be released,” I say, uncertainty swirling within me.
“Don’t worry. The bed will be ready for Joy whenever she needs it,” Frankie assures me.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
We step back out onto the porch of Lakeview Assisted Living, and Greyson guides me back to his Land Rover. As we settle inside, the scent of leather mixed with his cologne floods the air around me, a distraction I don’t need right now.
“Nice place,” he comments, starting the engine.
“Yep,” is all I manage, looking out the window. Does he think this is a done deal? He just took over, practically made the decision for me. How does he not see that?
“Where to?” he asks.
“Home.”
Greyson takes us back toward the condo building as the minutes tick by. He hasn’t said much since we left Lakeview, but his silence isn’t comforting. It’s like a pressure building, waiting to crack wide open. And I don’t know how much longer I can keep my mouth shut.
He glances at me as he drives, his hands relaxed on the steering wheel. “So,” he says finally, his voice careful. “What did you think?”
“What did I think?” I echo. I turn in my seat to face him, my arms crossed tightly. “I think I walked into that place completely unprepared. I think I stood there nodding while you had everything figured out for me. I think I didn’t get a say in where my mother is going to live. Everyone seems to think the decision has been made.”
His jaw tightens, but he keeps his eyes on the road. “That’s not true. I wasn’t trying to cut you out. I was trying to help.”
“Help?” I say, my voice rising. “You call this help? You made all the arrangements, Greyson. You got her bumped to the top of the list. You walked me through like all I had to do was sign the damn paperwork. You didn’t even ask me if this is what I wanted or if this was the right fit for my mom.”
His hands grip the wheel a little tighter, his knuckles paling. “You said you didn’t know where to start. I was trying to make things easier for you.”
“Easier for me? Or easier for you?”
He glances at me, his eyes dark with frustration. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you swoop in and take over because you think you always know what’s best. This isn’t about you, Greyson. This is about my mom.”
“I know that,” he snaps, his voice sharp now. “But she needs care, Trinity. Lakeview is the best option. I wanted to make sure you didn’t waste time on places that couldn’t give her what she needs.”
“But how do I know that’s the right place?” I fire back. “How do I know what’s best for her if I haven’t even seen anywhere else? You didn’t give me a choice. You made the decision for me.”
He pulls the car onto the shoulder, the tires crunching against gravel as he shifts into park. He turns to face me fully, his expression hard but not unkind. “I wasn’t making a decision for you,” he says evenly. “I was giving you an option. One I thought would be the best for her and for you.”
“And what if it’s not?” I ask, my voice trembling. “What if I don’t feel ready to make this decision? What if I’m not ready to accept that she might never come home?”
His expression softens, but the tension doesn’t leave his shoulders. “You think I don’t get that?” he asks. “I know this isn’t easy, Trinity. You don’t live here, and rather than you having to spend a week walking in and out of a dozen different assisted-living locations, I saw a way to get you a spot at one of the few places I’d send my own parents. I was trying to take some of the weight off your shoulders.”
“And instead, you made me feel like I don’t have a say,” I whisper. “Like this isn’t my decision to make.”
For a moment, neither of us speaks. I look away, my gaze fixed on the horizon, where the sun reveals all the various colors of green that paint the hills around town. “I know you’re trying to help,” I say finally, my voice quieter now. “But you don’t get to decide what’s right for me. Or for her.”
He exhales slowly, his hands loosening on the wheel. “You’re right,” he says after a long pause. “I should’ve talked to you first. I just… I didn’t want to see you struggling anymore.”
I glance at him, his shoulders slightly hunched, his eyes softer than before. For the first time, I see it, the fear behind his actions, the way he’s trying so hard to fix things because he doesn’t know how else to help.
“I’m not asking you to fix this, Greyson,” I say, my voice steady now. “I need you to let me figure it out in my own way. Even if that means making mistakes.”
He nods slowly, his gaze meeting mine. “Okay,” he says quietly. “I’ll back off. But if you need me…I’m here.”
His sincerity makes my chest ache, and for a moment, I can’t speak. I nod, turning again to the window as he pulls back onto the road. The tension lingers, but something else settles between us too, something softer, quieter.
A few minutes later, we’re back at the condo building. Once he parks, we exit and walk to the elevator, still in silence. It quickly dings its arrival, and the doors slide open with a smooth whisper. I reach for my fob, but before it can graze the sensor, Greyson spins me to face him, his hands framing my cheeks. His kiss is sudden and ferocious, claiming me, demanding every ounce of attention I have. The soft moan that escapes me is drowned by the intensity of his lips moving against mine, igniting a wildfire that races through my veins.
As quickly as it began, the kiss ends, leaving me breathless and burning. “No. Stop.” I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “I hate you.”
“You didn’t kiss me like you hate me.”
I need to get out of this tiny space.
“Do you even know why you hate me?”
“Yes! You insulted my work in front of thousands of people. You don’t respect what I do.”
“I—I what?” He studies me a moment and I can almost see the pieces clicking into place. “I didn’t insult your work. I insulted the work the province requires. The government. Not you. You’re doing your job. And by the way, I got a lot of grief from my own admin team for not admitting how instrumental they were in changing the paperwork so it would still meet provincial requirements.”
“I’m still mad at you.” There’s no anger in my voice.
“Then I’ll keep kissing you until that’s gone.”
He leans in to kiss me, and I give myself freely to him.
The elevator doors glide open at his condo, and without breaking eye contact, he pulls me into his home by the hand, leading me with an urgency that matches the pounding of my heart.
“Strip,” he commands.
For a moment, I hesitate, caught between defiance and desire. Then the memory of our night together in Victoria floods back—the heat, the connection, the escape it provided. Maybe this isn’t just about following orders. Maybe this is what I need too. I hesitate, a storm of emotions inside me. This isn’t just lust. It never has been. With Greyson, it’s more complicated, more dangerous.
But the way he’s looking at me now makes me want to forget all the reasons I shouldn’t. I unbutton my blouse, each movement deliberate, until the fabric slips from my shoulders and falls to the floor. Greyson’s sharp intake of breath tells me he feels it too, This is more than just desire. This is surrender.