12. Grace
Chapter 12
Grace
I will not think about Kane.
I won’t think about the way his voice dipped low last night, rough and warm like whiskey, sliding down my spine in a way I hated to admit felt good. I won’t think about the way he stood too close, smelled too damn good, or looked at me like I was the only thing in the damn room that mattered.
No.
Instead, I throw myself into work. Numbers. Spreadsheets. Financial reports. All things that should keep my mind too busy to wander. But then my stomach lurches, and I barely make it to the trash can before I’m dry heaving, again.
God, I hate mornings.
I squeeze my eyes shut, breathing through the nausea, trying to pretend this isn’t happening. That I can go about my day like I’m not secretly growing a tiny human inside me. That my world isn’t tilting in a way I can’t control. That I don’t feel like a liar every time I look at Kane and don’t tell him the truth.
I press the back of my hand to my mouth, steadying myself. After a few deep breaths, the worst of it passes, and I force myself upright, glaring at my reflection in the glass of my office window. My cheeks are pale, my dark hair is a mess, and there are faint circles under my eyes.
Attractive.
I groan and swipe a tissue across my mouth, forcing myself to pull it together. I have work to do. I do not have time to fall apart.
Not over this.
And definitely not over Kane fucking Mitchell.
The second I sit back down, my phone buzzes. I grab it, already bracing myself for whatever fresh hell is about to land in my lap.
It’s him.
Kane: Morning, Gracie. Did you dream about me?
I grip the phone so tight I might break it. I should ignore him. Delete the message. Pretend it never happened. But no. That would be the smart thing to do. And apparently, I’ve been making some really bad decisions where Kane is concerned.
Me: You wish.
His response is instant.
Kane: I do. You in the office?
I narrow my eyes at the screen, already suspicious.
Me: Why?
Kane: Because I need to see you.
Nope. Absolutely not. Seeing Kane is dangerous. Seeing Kane makes me feel things I don’t want to feel. And if he keeps looking at me like he did last night—like he actually sees me, like he knows every single secret I’m trying to keep buried—I might crack.
And that? That cannot happen.
Me: Busy. Maybe later.
I toss my phone onto my desk like it just insulted my entire bloodline and shove my focus back to work.
Numbers. Spreadsheets. Stability.
Not Kane.
Not the fact that he wants to see me.
And definitely not the truth sitting like a lead weight in my chest.
I do not have time for this.
For him .
For the way his voice lingers in my head, all deep and teasing, as if he’s still right here whispering in my ear. I don’t have time for the way my stomach keeps twisting—whether from morning sickness or the thought of Kane, I honestly can’t tell anymore.
So, I focus. I do what I’m good at—shutting out the noise, pushing through.
After throwing up what little dignity I have left, I power through an hour of financial reports, invoices, and client emails. I even make an appointment with my doctor, something I’ve been avoiding because it means admitting, really admitting , that this is happening. That my life is about to shift into something unrecognizable.
By the time I click out of my spreadsheet, I feel almost in control. Almost like myself again. Until an unexpected knock on my office door breaks the illusion.
“Come in,” I call, already reaching for the next file on my desk.
The door swings open, and in walks Yolanda, the receptionist, clutching a massive bouquet of flowers.
I blink.
“Delivery for you,” she chirps, setting the arrangement down with a little too much enthusiasm.
A dozen deep red roses, wrapped in elegant black and gold tissue paper, fill the air with their thick, heady scent. They’re beautiful. Dramatic. The kind of flowers that demand attention.
I stare at them, confused.
I don’t get flowers. Ever.
Clients send wine or thank-you emails, maybe a gift basket during the holidays. But this? This is personal. This is intentional .
The receptionist smiles. “Lucky girl.”
I barely register her leaving before my fingers find the little envelope tucked between the stems. My heart does this ridiculous, completely unnecessary little stutter as I slide the card out and unfold it.
Then I see the handwriting.
Gracie,
Thanks for last night. I appreciate the help with the party planning. Hope this brightens your morning.
—Kan e
I drop the card like it’s on fire .
Because of course he did this.
Of course , Kane Mitchell—the human thorn in my side, the man who drives me out of my damn mind—thought sending me flowers was a clever idea.
What is his game?
What the hell is he trying to do to me?
I don’t do romantic gestures. I don’t do soft moments wrapped in petals and unspoken intentions. And Kane? He’s not a flowers kind of guy. He’s a rough edges, sharp grins, cocky smirks kind of guy.
But this?
This is something else.
This is him getting in my head in a way I do not have time for.
My phone buzzes, and like some cruel twist of fate, his name lights up my screen.
Kane: Did you get them?
I grit my teeth, torn between wanting to throw my phone and wanting to throw myself out the damn window.
Me: What the hell, Kane?
Kane: You don’t like roses?
Me: I don’t like surprises.
Kane: Bullshit. You love that I’m unpredictable.
My fingers tighten around my phone, but I don’t have a comeback. Not an honest one, anyway.
Because the truth?
I do love it.
And that is exactly the problem .
As Kate walks into my office, she looks like I’m a puzzle she’s dying to put together—one she already knows the answer to but is just waiting for me to admit it.
I don’t give her the satisfaction.
I stare at my computer screen, determined to look busy, but the numbers blur together. Not because I’m tired, though I am. Not because my stomach is in knots, though it definitely is.
But because Kane freaking Mitchell sent me flowers, and now I can’t focus on anything except what it means .
“You’re being weird,” Kate announces, flopping into the chair across from my desk as she drops some wedding paperwork on my desk. “Like, really weird and not just in your usual ‘I hate small talk, don’t make eye contact with me’ way. This is next level.”
I don’t look up. “I’m fine.”
She snorts. “Yeah, and I’m a virgin.”
That makes me look up. “Really, Kate?”
She grins, completely unbothered, and gestures toward the bouquet sitting obnoxiously in the center of my desk like a damn siren call. “So. You wanna talk about those ?”
“Nope.”
“Oh, come on ,” she groans, crossing her legs and settling in like she’s here for a full-blown therapy session. “I walk in, and you’re staring at those flowers like they personally insulted you.”
“They have personally insulted me,” I grumble.
Kate leans in, her expression downright gleeful. “Lemme guess. Tall, dark, and aggravating?”
I roll my eyes. “They’re from Kane. Obviously .”
Her grin widens . “Oh my god, he sent you roses ? You have to be sleeping with him.”
I nearly choke. “ Excuse me ?”
“Oh, don’t even try to play innocent. Kane Mitchell does not send flowers for no reason. That man barely remembers to replace his own underwear, and yet he’s out here ordering roses? Yeah. You two did something .”
I clench my jaw, shoving my hands under my desk before she can see how damn shaky they are. “We did not .”
Kate narrows her eyes, studying me like she can see every single thought scrambling through my brain. She probably can.
She’s my best friend. It’s obnoxious .
“You like him,” she says, voice laced with way too much confidence.
I snort. “Not even a little.”
“Oh, honey,” she sighs, leaning forward like she’s about to break me open with a single sentence. “You’re not even lying well .”
I open my mouth to argue, to deny, to shut this entire conversation down , but Kate just lifts a single perfectly manicured finger.
“Before you try to feed me some bullshit about how much you hate him,” she says, voice dangerously close to laughter, “just answer one thing.”
I scowl. “What?”
Her lips curl into a smirk. “Did your stomach do that stupid little flip when you saw his name on that card?”
I freeze.
Because the answer is yes.
A loud , unavoidable , earth-shattering yes.
My traitorous, pathetic stomach did, in fact, flip like I was some lovesick idiot in a rom-com.
Kate sees the hesitation. Smells the blood in the water.
“ Oh my god ,” she whispers, delighted. “ You’re so screwed .”
I shove a stack of papers at her. “Get out.”
She cackles, standing. “It’s fine, babe. Just let me know when you’re ready to admit that you’re one smoldering stare away from climbing him like a tree.”
I throw a pen at her head .
She dodges effortlessly, still laughing as she waltzes out of my office.
The second the door shuts, I collapse back in my chair, staring at the ceiling, at the flowers, at the disaster that is my entire life .
Because Kate might be the most annoying person on the planet.
But she’s not wrong .
The door chimes as I step into Bean & Bagel, and I’m already exhausted before I even place my order.
It’s been a day . Between dodging Kate’s relentless teasing and spending far too much time staring at the damn flowers Kane sent, my brain is fried .
I just need sugar. Preferably enough sugar to knock me unconscious or at least make me forget that the man who drives me absolutely insane somehow manages to take up every spare thought I have.
So, of course, when I glance toward the counter, there he stands.
Because the universe hates me .
Kane stands at the register, looking entirely too comfortable, like he owns the damn place. His dark jeans and fitted t-shirt do unholy things for his body, his firefighter build impossible to ignore. His hair is still damp, like he just showered, and I don’t want to know what that means for my sanity.
He’s laughing at something the barista says, flashing that annoyingly perfect grin, the one that sends half the women in here into a collective swoon. I swear I see one girl clutch her pearls .
I should walk out. Leave before he sees me. Avoid him at all costs .
But my feet? Yeah. They don’t listen. I step forward just as he turns.
Our eyes meet.
The grin fades, just a little, like he wasn’t expecting me, and for a split second, neither of us moves. Then—like always —he recovers first.
“Well, well,” Kane drawls, eyes sweeping over me in a slow, knowing way that makes my skin burn. “I was wondering when I’d see you again, Gracie.”
I hate it when he calls me that.
I hate that my body likes it.
I cross my arms, arching a brow. “I didn’t realize this was your personal coffee shop.”
“Didn’t realize you were keeping tabs on my habits.”
“Hard not to when you’re everywhere I go,” I shoot back.
Kane smirks. “Maybe you’re just drawn to me.”
I roll my eyes. “Maybe I have a death wish.”
His laughter is low , gravelly , and entirely too sexy for a man I supposedly can’t stand.
I refuse to acknowledge the way my stomach flips.
Kane takes a step closer, just enough to make my breath hitch. “Come on, Gracie. Admit it. You’d be bored without me.”
I scoff, ignoring the way his presence completely derails my equilibrium. “I’d be at peace without you.”
“Liar,” he murmurs, his voice dangerously close to something I don’t have the strength to deal with tonight.
I open my mouth, prepared to rip him apart , but then—he tilts his head slightly, studying me with something far too perceptive.
“Always keeping me on my toes,” he says, voice low. “That’s what I love about you.”
My brain short-circuits.
Love ?
What the hell is that supposed to mean?
For the first time ever, I have no comeback.
Kane watches me for another beat, like he knows exactly how much he just rattled me, then steps back, grabbing his coffee from the counter.
He turns to leave, and I should let him go. I shouldn’t watch him walk away. I shouldn’t be frozen in place, my heart slamming against my ribs like it doesn’t know who the hell it belongs to anymore.
But I do.
I watch the way he moves, all effortless confidence and quiet power, and I hate that I can’t look away.
I hate that I feel this.
Because it’s not anger.
Not irritation.
Not frustration.
It’s something far more dangerous.
And for the first time, I can’t tell if I want to run?—
Or if I want him to catch me.