25. Grady
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Grady
I pound on Marina’s door, unable to hide my irritation that it’s after midnight, Marigold’s still here, and neither bothers answering their phone. Meanwhile, my phone’s been pinging for nearly an hour. When the texts started, I’d just finished suturing a pissed-off thoroughbred’s eight-inch gash at Adkin’s horse farm. The long drive back to Seagrove felt ten times longer, with my phone continuously lighting up from Mom, Dad, and Gil, all worried about Marigold. She’s twenty-two; she doesn’t have a curfew, and they know she’s with Marina. But she’s also skittish about nighttime driving and never stays out later than nine. So, perhaps their concerns are valid.
I pound again.
The door swings open, ruffling the silk fabric of her robe. Her short , white robe. Her long hair is soaking wet. Bare legs, bare feet, the v-neck dipping dangerously low on her chest. The hard tips of her breasts peeking under her wet hair and damp fabric. Fucking hell.
I can’t form words.
“Grady, what’s wrong?”
I shut my eyes. “Why are you, um…” I motion to her get-up.
“I was in the shower. What’s wrong?”
“Where’s Marigold?”
She edges by me, brushing against my shoulder with her dampness. “Oh, her car’s still here. She’s with Peter Pike. Oh, my gosh, I wish you could’ve seen it. So…”
She launches into a story about a desk and trains that I honestly can’t listen to because focusing on her means, well, focusing on her . I try locking my attention on her face, but inevitably my eyes drift down—I can’t fucking help it. She’s wet, soft, and so alluring, like a castle, and I want to explore every room, floor by floor, top to bottom. My hand practically twitches to pull the robe strings that barely hold her together.
“… She probably lost track of time. Get it? Train pun.”
She laughs, stirring me from the thoughts I shouldn’t be having. What’s my mantra again? Something about her age or, shit, I can’t remember.
I clear my throat, still diverting my eyes. “She came here for a game night, and you set her up with some dude?”
“No, not some dude. Peter Pike, my landlord. They already knew each other. It was unintentional on my part, but it’s so cute, Grady.”
Before she launches into an excited explanation about the evening’s cuteness , I put a shaking hand between us, stopping her. “Why isn’t she answering her phone?”
“Don’t know.” She smirks coyly. “Maybe she’s in the shower, too.”
“Fuck, Marina!” Both hands go to my head like I might rip it off to rid myself of the image.
She chuckles. “Sorry, couldn’t help myself. I’m sure she’s fine. I’ve known Peter forever, and he’s completely trustworthy, and it’s not like Marigold will tolerate any silly nonsense.” She leans against the doorjamb, eyeing me with too much amusement. “I would tell you to relax, but you’re very cute when you’re being brotherly.”
“Brotherly.” I take a breath, letting my eyes roll over her again. “That’s not entirely what I’m feeling right now. Promise me something.”
She nibbles her bottom lip, looking pleased at my obvious reaction. “Yes, Grady?”
“Never answer the door like this again.”
She locks eyes, daring me. “I thought it might be Marigold. Maybe my next place will have the benefit of a peephole. What’s the problem, anyway? You’ve ripped my clothes off and been inside me before, so this should be no big deal, right?”
I gape, images of that day crashing into my thoughts. I made a similar joke that day, a lame effort to put her at ease. It takes on a totally different tone now. Her blood on my hands, on the concrete, her pulse faint under my finger. “That’s… not funny.”
“Oh, Grady, I’m sorry,” she gasps, my stern expression turning her amusement to shame instantaneously. She gathers her robe tighter around her and folds her arms over her chest. “I was just trying to lighten the mood.”
Still, I stand there, gawking and breathless, like she’s punched me in the stomach with the memory. I’m startled by how much it hurts me, how vividly I remember my fears over losing her, her life drifting away from me with every passing second, and how those fears still fucking exist even with her standing whole and healthy right in front of me. Why am I still afraid of losing her?
She reaches out, barely touching my arm. “You look exhausted. Come inside. I’ll throw something on, and we’ll spy on your sister through my back window. It’s got a good view of Pete’s workshop.”
“No.” The word erupts with a snap I don’t intend. My hand runs over my shorn head, frustration rising. “She’s fine. You’re fine. And you’re right. I’m tired.”
I skip any further pleasantries and quick-step to The Beast. She calls for me, but I don’t turn, desperate to escape her, though I have a hard time understanding why. I don’t want to escape her. Maybe that’s the problem. Hell, I sold my truck yesterday and switched to The Beast permanently just to please her—this isn’t a woman I want to avoid.
But I need to.
Soon, I’m through my cabin door, greeted by the dogs.
Moonlight dances across the darkened living room, glowing against the black veneer of my baby grand piano. My fingers twitch to play, but I don’t anymore. I have a useless piano, just like Marina has unplayed games.
Well, unplayed until tonight. Maybe there’s hope for me, too.
The bench creaks when I sit down. The keys practically glow under the moonlight. The dogs bark and settle around the piano like they’re getting comfortable for a performance—strange, considering they’ve never heard me play it. Blackbeard nudges my side, either begging for attention or encouraging me.
I imagine playing, and thinking of Marina’s CD collection in her bedroom, I decide on Norah Jones. The slow, sultry notes alight in my thoughts alongside the words. Come away with me in the night… Come away with me, and we’ll kiss … My fingers dance over the correct keys but don’t fall.
I haven’t played since my last good day with Emma.
“Why do you keep the piano then?” Marigold once asked.
“It’s a part of me that I can’t let go,” I answered vaguely. It’s the truth, but more than that, I don’t want to forget.
In the shower, I wash myself clean of horses, barns, and the night’s frustrations, but not Marina. Her red hair, darkened from dampness, her cold skin, the robe clinging to her wet body, I think to purge my thoughts of her, right here and now. It’s devastating how much I want her. It’d be easy, letting my imagination take the reins with her fresh in my mind and finding release in the safety of this closed private space.
But I can’t do that either. It feels wrong, disrespectful even. I want all of her or nothing, not even imagined pieces she doesn’t know I’m taking.
Too much has been taken from her already.
I lie awake in bed, restless, staring at the ceiling, where tree branches shimmy in the moonlight beyond my window.
Marina is okay. She’s done with Ashe and the Sullivan monarchy. She’s nearly healed. She’s got a new job that she’s somehow excited about. Her transportation issue has been solved, judging by the truck with character parked outside her place. She’s even found a new friend in Marigold. She doesn’t need me.
And I don’t want to need her.
I reinstate my life code and decide to limit my involvement to only what’s necessary for the deal with Wade—a good decision that will spare us both. She’s too young, too gorgeous, too goddamn sweet for me. She deserves more than the man who wrecked her life.