Chapter 39
Grace
Grace knew better than to expect him to come over.
Of course he wouldn’t.
She bent back over the table, rearranging paints. Red to yellow. Yellow to blue. Cups straightened. Paper towels stacked.
She knew the rules now.
He could look at her in public. But he wouldn’t stand with her.
She glanced up again, against her better judgment.
Luke was already walking away, guided by Eleanor Matthews toward the gazebo. Toward the stage. Toward the center of town.
Toward everyone whose opinion he actually cared about.
Grace felt the familiar hollow open beneath her ribs.
There it was. The answer she’d sworn she wasn’t waiting for.
Mrs. Ellery said something beside her—Grace nodded, smiled at the right place, kept the pleasant teacher expression firmly in place. She’d had years of practice at this. Being warm while swallowing disappointment. Being agreeable while something inside her folded in on itself.
He’d kissed her on her porch two nights ago. He’d fixed her railing. Replaced the porch boards. Sorted things out for Eli without ever being asked. Had shown up. Over and over.
Made her feel—God help her—safe.
Damn him for letting her believe, even for a moment, that this time was different.
She should have known better. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice—
Well.
That one was on her.
Grace rinsed a brush too hard, water sloshing over the rim of the cup and onto the table. She grabbed a paper towel, dabbed at it, pretended it was nothing.
She’d done this to herself.
She’d let herself imagine Luke Bennett of Crystal Lake standing beside her in public. Had let herself picture walking through the festival with him, shoulder to shoulder, no shadows, no secret rendezvous.
As if she hadn’t already learned this lesson.
As if she hadn’t asked him once and watched him pull away because proximity to her family name might ruin him.
Grace swallowed.
The paint station filled quickly as kids began lining up, faces already smudged with anticipation. Grace slipped easily back into motion—smiling, crouching, asking what they wanted. Cats. Rainbows. Butterflies.
She didn’t look toward the gazebo when the microphone crackled to life.
Didn’t need to.
She knew exactly where Luke would be standing—center stage, polished and proud, belonging to everyone.
And she would stay right here, behind a folding table with washable paints, where she belonged.
Grace focused on the child in front of her, dipped her brush into orange, and told herself—firmly, ruthlessly—not to expect anything of Luke.
Not anymore.
Grace’s brush was mid-stroke on a little boy’s cheek, an almost-finished tiger in orange when the microphone crackled.
“Hold still,” she murmured.
The crowd was already quieting, the energy of the square shifting as heads turned toward the makeshift stage.
She kept her eyes on the paint tray. She knew this part.
Luke Bennett would welcome everyone, thank the volunteers, say something about tradition and community. People would clap. Someone would whistle. He’d smile that golden smile and ignore her the way he always had.
She dipped her brush back into orange.
“If I could get everyone’s attention for just a minute.”
His voice carried, confident and unmistakably Luke.
“Thank you all for coming out today,” he said. “The fall festival is one of Crystal Lake’s best weekends. It’s about neighbors, families, and showing up for each other.”
Applause rippled. Grace focused on rounding the curve of the boy’s cheek, finishing the tiger face.
“But before we officially kick things off,” Luke continued—
—and then stopped.
The pause snagged her attention like a hook. She glanced up despite herself.
A scattering of the crowd stood between them. She had to lean slightly to see through a gap.
Luke was looking directly at her.
He stood on the raised platform, police uniform crisp and dark against the pale wood, the sash he wore catching the afternoon light. He looked… good.
He cleared his throat and adjusted his grip on the microphone.
Grace’s stomach tightened.
“For most of my life,” Luke said, “I’ve cared a lot about doing what was expected of me. About keeping things neat. About not making waves.”
Grace’s fingers curled around the edge of the folding table, the plastic biting into her palm.
“I told myself that was responsibility.” He didn’t drop the eye contact. “That it was the right way to be.”
Her heart was beating harder, her pulse felt too fast.
“But it was just fear,” Luke said.
The square seemed to tilt around her, like the ground had shifted a fraction of an inch beneath her feet.
“There’s someone in this town,” he continued, “who deserved better than I treated her. Someone kind. Someone patient. Someone wonderful.”
Her breath came shallow now, like she was bracing for impact.
“She’s the best person in Crystal Lake,” Luke said, voice raw, “and it’s not even close.”
The square was unnaturally still. Even the kids seemed to sense something important was happening.
Luke stepped closer to the front edge of the stage. The movement pulled at her—physical, undeniable—like an invisible thread tightening between them.
“This isn’t part of the festival,” he said. “This isn’t official. And it’s probably not the smartest way to do this.”
A nervous laugh flickered somewhere and died almost immediately.
“But I don’t care,” Luke went on. His eyes were locked on her, like the distance and the people standing between them didn’t exist. “I’m going to say this and I want everyone to hear it.”
The microphone hummed softly.
Her name, when he said it, seemed too loud. Too big. Like it didn’t belong to her anymore.
“Grace Hart.”
Heat flooded her face. She was suddenly, acutely aware of the people standing around her, their attention on her.
She was sitting behind a face-painting table, surrounded by parents and children and neighbors, her life laid open in the middle of the square.
Luke’s voice was steady now. “Will you have dinner with me?”