Chapter 23
BEN
Two weeks later
By Monday morning, I’ve convinced myself that if I stay busy enough, I can outrun the constant distraction of thoughts of Grace. It’s a lie, but at least it’s a productive one.
My office still smells like old paint, years of dust, and unopened possibility.
I came here to work, not daydream. I need to get my ass in gear.
Cardboard boxes line the walls. Blueprints cover the desk.
A folding table stands in for real furniture because, apparently, I thought it would be “motivating” to wait until I was profitable before investing in a decent desk.
By noon I’ve met with three decorators, two flooring reps, and a man who tried to sell me lighting fixtures that looked like they belonged in a medieval dungeon.
“I’m going for ‘inviting mountain escape,’ not ‘dungeon chic,’” I grumble.
My surly mood has destroyed any professional filter I might’ve previously engaged.
He nods like he completely understands and hands me another catalog filled with iron chandeliers that look capable of holding a hostage. Fuck’s sake.
The building supply meetings blur together after that.
Discussions about lumber costs, tile samples, blah, blah, blah.
I almost fall asleep at one point until a terrifying conversation about septic upgrades ends with a number so high I briefly consider bagging this whole damn venture and fleeing back to Merrie Olde England.
This is fine. Everything is fine. Chill, man. It’s simply part of the process.
By Tuesday, I’ve set up interviews. I need an admin, a front desk manager, and maintenance. Okay, I need one of every position. But primarily someone who knows what they’re doing. An overachiever who can keep this entire operation from sinking while I learn which end of a blueprint is up.
The first receptionist candidate shows up forty minutes late and introduces herself by saying, “I’m really more of a vibe person than a schedule person.”
Next.
The second one spends the entire interview texting under the table and answers every question with, “That shouldn’t be too hard, I guess.”
That would be a hard pass.
My office manager candidate informs me she can only work between ten and two, refuses to handle payroll, and asks if I’m “emotionally available as a boss.”
I blink at her. Twice. “Professionally?” I manage.
She sighs like I’ve let all of the air out of her tires. Trust me, lady, I know the feeling.
The maintenance manager interview goes better. Right up until he casually mentions that he once “accidentally” drove a riding mower into a koi pond. I don’t even want to know the details.
By Friday, my brain feels like oatmeal. I’ve hired exactly one person. A quiet, no-nonsense woman named Kara who has already reorganized my files, labeled my boxes, and gently suggested I buy a real desk. She might be my favorite person on the planet right now.
I lock the office late, the parking lot empty and the trees shadowed in twilight.
Tiny flashes of memory skate to the forefront, visions of swaying on the dancefloor as the moon danced with the lapping water of the lake below.
My shoulders ache. My eyes burn. And for the first time all week, the noise in my head fades just enough for her to slip back in.
Grace.
Her laugh. The way her eyes lit up when she talked about Elvis. The way she looked at me like I wasn’t just another guy passing through her life. Or at least that’s what I try to tell myself, knowing by her radio silence it’s obviously not true.
I blow out a slow breath. Okay. I still think about her more than I should. But at least now I’m building something while I do. And for the moment…
That has to be enough.
I stop at the convenience store because I can’t begin to make myself cook, and I’m honestly too tired to even attempt to decipher a take-out menu.
Okay, let’s be real. It’s going to be a liquid dinner.
One of the Michelob ULTRA variety. Probably need to grab some beef jerky or peanuts.
Something that resembles protein. I mean, I’m not a total savage.
I’m exhausted, physically and mentally. I ache down to my very bones. And I still have to come up with a plan on what to tell Milton in a few weeks if I haven’t figured out what to do about this dinner. I’m honestly running out of excuses.
I grab a six-pack, some pretzels, a suspicious-looking stick of meat pretending to be beef, and a Wall Street Journal I won’t read. Dinner, I groan.
Sliding everything onto the counter, I reach for my wallet and look up at the uninterested cashier… and that’s when the air leaves my lungs.
She’s staring at me from over his shoulder. There. Behind the register. On the magazine rack. Grace.
What. The. Fuck?
Her eyes… those penetrating, soul-wrecking blue eyes are fixed on me. Even in print, they feel as if they’re calling to me.
My chest cracks in two. An internal torment akin to an iceberg calving in the middle of the ocean, where only I can feel or hear it. My voice squeaks out, broken and distant. “Can I have one of those?”
The clerk reaches up. “This one?”
“Yes.”
He drops it onto the counter. The sound is soft. The impact is not.
She’s lying on her back, on the cover of this skin mag.
Her long blonde hair spilled across white sheets.
She’s not smiling. I honestly can’t decipher what emotion is present in their depths.
Eyes that were always so expressive sitting across from me.
They’re her usual mesmerizing blue, the camera catching the golden flecks dancing in her irises.
Grace’s arms are stretched over her head like she’s offering herself to the world.
To everyone but me.
And printed across her body at the bottom of the magazine in bold black letters:
WELCOME TO GRACELAND
My head is spinning. I feel like I’m going to be sick. This is how I find her again? On glossy paper. How many strangers’ hands are groping these very pages right now?
Groping her?
This woman I’ve admittedly fallen so hard for I can’t see straight, being sold at a convenience store for less than the cost of my beer. The money shot is inside. It has to be. They don’t put innocence on covers of magazines that are kept behind the counter.
I swallow hard. My throat burns. My chest feels too small to hold what’s crushing into it.
Why would she do this? Have I been that wrong about her?
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not judging her. Or any girl who decides this is the type of modeling she’s into. I go to a damn gentlemen’s club for fucks sake. I’m not that big of a hypocrite.
Yet, nothing about this woman screamed Playboy Bunny. Hell, she kept covered the night we shared that bed together. Grace didn’t feel comfortable having sex. There’s nothing about the woman I’ve come to know that says exhibitionist.
My mind reels through our twenty questions conversation that night in the hotel room. Had there been any indication this was her career choice? She’d said she wanted to be a nurse. And referred to wanting stability.
Did she need the money that badly? Or was this an ego boost? Does she think this is all she’s worth? Fuck, I would’ve given her anything she—
“Sir?” the clerk’s voice barely reaches me.
“Sorry,” I murmur, unable to look at him. “Can you… can you add the rest of those?” I gesture weakly at the stack.
“All of them?”
“Yes, all of them,” my tone is curt. “And any others you have in the back.”
He starts piling them onto the counter. Every soft slap feels like another blow to my heart. My emotions are nearly spiraling out of control. A viscous tornado of anger and disappointment, worry and protectiveness all swirling together.
She’s being sold piece by piece, and I’m standing here letting it happen.
I throw down cash, far too much I’m sure, but walk out before I completely lose it. My beer, the so-called dinner… still left on the counter as I lug the stack of magazines to my truck.
Outside, the night air hits me like a wall.
I open my trunk and dump the stack inside like it might burn me if I touch it too long.
My hands are shaking with rage now. My chest hurts.
My eyes sting. Sliding into my car, I lean forward, resting my forehead against the steering wheel, breathing like I’ve just been hit.
I know I have no right to have an opinion.
It’s her life. But from the moment she cried into my chest on the side of the road, I’ve felt overly protective of her.
Then she sweetly went along with my ruse with Milton, purely to help me.
She’d hypnotized me every bit as much with her simplistic goodness as she had her physical attributes.
The image of her holding those water goblets in front of her before sticking her tongue out at me flashes in my mind.
I just can’t believe it. This isn’t the girl I came to know.
This had to be why she was in Vegas on business.
I should’ve checked on her while I was there.
Gotten Max to do more digging. I should’ve fucking stayed.
I should have fought harder. But it’s probably best I didn’t know what was happening, because I would’ve made a fool out of myself trying to swoop in to save the day if she really wanted to take those damn pictures.
But did she?
Maybe the knowledge of what’s happened is making me unhinged.
Yet my gut tells me this wasn’t what she wanted.
It’s more than simply not wanting to believe it.
That little frown on her face when I asked again if she was going to tell me why she was in Vegas.
How grateful she seemed that I’d offered her my number.
That odd sense of foreboding I felt when she waved at me over her shoulder before walking away.
Why the hell didn’t you call?
I let out a guttural scream, hoping I can release these emotions before I look up this photographer and kill him with my bare hands. I don’t even recognize the sound that comes out of my throat. I should’ve been there.