Chapter 41 Grace
Grace
The words didn’t make sense at first.
Will you have dinner with me?
This had to be some sort of mistake. It was too big, too public, the loudspeakers echoing the question back at her from every direction.
Luke Bennett had just asked her to dinner. On a stage. In front of the entire town.
The paintbrush was still clutched in her hand, bristles hovering uselessly in the air. The little boy in the chair in front of her tilted his head, half his face still a tiger, eyes confused as he waited for her to finish what she had started.
She couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t look away from Luke.
The space between them felt impossibly large—filled with folding chairs and strollers and neighbors. The square had gone unnaturally quiet.
Everyone was watching.
She felt their attention like a physical weight. Parents. Neighbors. Colleagues. The mayor. Mrs. Keaton. Mrs. Caldwell. Every person who had ever known her family name and decided what it meant before she opened her mouth.
Luke’s parents were out there somewhere too.
They were all waiting for her answer.
Her chest ached with it.
Because God—she wanted to say yes.
Yes, she wanted dinner with him. Wanted to sit across from him at a table that wasn’t hidden or borrowed or out of town. Wanted his hand in hers on Main Street, unafraid. Wanted to walk through this festival beside him instead of watching him from behind the school’s stall.
She wanted everything. She wanted to argue about whose turn it was to do the dishes. She wanted the quiet intimacy of knowing where he kept the coffee filters. She wanted to be allowed to look at him, talk to him, no matter who could see them.
She wanted him—all of him, not just the stolen hours carved out around fear and rules and endings that had never felt finished.
But—
What if she let herself believe this, really believe it, and he walked away again?
It had been bad last time. This time it would be worse. So much worse.
And yet—
The porch. His hands gentle at her waist. His mouth warm and careful like he was asking a question.
But also—
Him leaving her bed, gone before dawn. Him turning away on Main Street. Him saying it’s not like this is serious like it hadn’t already burrowed under her skin and made a home.
She thought of her brother. Of Luke who had surprised her. Luke who had protected him.
And now he was standing on that stage, waiting for her response.
He was standing there, holding her gaze, his face open in a way she had never seen before.
Hope. Fear. Anguish.
Her heart was pounding so hard she was surprised no one could hear it.
She wanted to be brave.
She wanted to believe him.
But how could she? How could she be that stupid?
The Hart girl who thought she could have the golden boy.
She couldn’t. She couldn’t trust him. Not when he had broken her heart like it was nothing.
She had to say no. She had to protect herself.
She opened her mouth—
A hand clamped over it from behind.
One moment she was standing behind the table, breath caught in her throat, the word no gathering shape behind her teeth—
—and then she was yanked backward, a hand over her mouth and an arm locked around her middle, crushing the air from her lungs. The chair she’d been sitting on, fell. The table jolted, paint pots rattling, water sloshing.
Her feet scrambled, barely finding the ground. Something cold and hard pressed against her ribs. He had a knife.
Someone screamed. A hovering parent pulled the half-painted tiger back, arms wrapped around him protectively. The crowd surged, confused, bodies moving forward and back at the same time.
Grace’s heart slammed into overdrive.
Her thoughts scattered, useless, as instinct took over. She tried to inhale through her mouth but only tasted sweat. The arm around her tightened, the knife pressing harder as he hauled her backward, dragging her away from the table, from the square.
From Luke.
A voice hissed in her ear.
“You got me arrested.”
The words scraped against her skin.
“My boss isn’t happy with me,” he snarled. “Hart bitch.”
Recognition hit like ice water.
The man from her porch.
The spike of terror was sharp and immediate—he came back, he’s here, he’s angry.
She couldn’t twist free—not without driving the knife deeper. Her shoes skidded uselessly against the grass. She smelled him—stale cigarettes, sweat, something sour and furious.
Around her, the square had dissolved into chaos. Kids were screaming. Someone shouted her name—Mrs. Ellery, distant and frantic. Parents pulling children back.
But Grace’s focus narrowed.
Not on her attacker. Not on the noise.
On Luke.
She caught glimpses of him through the moving bodies. The gold sash across his uniform a beacon.
Luke was coming for her.
His face was fury and fear and absolute determination.
He was coming.
Of course he was.
This wasn’t hope. It wasn’t wishing. It wasn’t even faith.
It was certainty.
Luke was coming for her.
Because he was hers.
When it mattered, when the ground dropped away beneath her feet, she didn’t have to question it.
This was like a trust fall.
The moment of peace after you let yourself fall backward—when you were already in the air and you knew, bone-deep, that you were going to be caught.
The terror drained away, leaving something clear and bright in its wake.
Luke was coming.
And when this was over—
The thought bloomed, impossible and electric, right there in the middle of the danger.
When this was over, she was going to say yes.
She was going to have dinner with Luke Bennett. He was going to walk her home. He was going to kiss her on her porch.
The idea thrilled through her, sharp and alive, coiled beneath the fear like a promise.
She was still being dragged.
Still in danger.
But she wasn’t scared anymore.
She only felt anticipation. For this to be over. For Luke to reach her.
For the start of the rest of their lives.