Chapter 6
Gracie
My phone buzzes around in a tight little circle on the side table, the ringtone piercing as it echoes through my living room.
I stare at it, watching Braxton’s name flash insistently across the screen right under a picture of him.
It’s one I took of him when he was lying in my bed one night, shirtless and playing a stupid army game on his phone—the kind where he has to conquer the land around his kingdom.
I had come to the bedroom doorway, watching him while he was oblivious to me, my heart feeling more than a little full.
It wasn’t a feeling I was used to, and wanting to cement the moment in my memory, I impulsively lifted my phone, calling, “Say cheese!”
Braxton looked up, startled, but his face softened as he saw me, green eyes warm with affection. “What’re you doing, Rumpel?” he asked, lips twitching with amusement.
“Immortalizing a memory,” I answered promptly.
“Lies.” He laughed. “You’re taking photos of me shirtless for your spank bank. Come on, we can do better than that.” His lips curled into a wicked smirk as he grabbed the blankets, flicking them off, showing off his thick thighs and tight boxer briefs.
“Girls don’t have a spank bank,” I retorted primly, dropping the phone onto my bedside table and sliding my legs over either side of his hips. Just as I dropped down, settling the apex of my thighs in just the right spot, I smirked wickedly. “It’s a rub hub.”
Braxton had groaned, his own phone lost in the bedsheets, and his fingers clamped firmly around my hips. “Call it whatever you want, just as long as I’m the only one in it.”
The phone stops, the sudden quiet pulling me back into the present. I don’t move a muscle, my hands clenched into fists and pressed into my thighs. I don’t take my attention off the phone, waiting to see if he’ll try again, my breathing catching in my throat.
Eight days. That’s how long it’s been since Thanksgiving.
Just over a week, and it feels like something has fundamentally changed between us.
Braxton and I don’t spend every waking moment together with his shifts, and right now, I’m working extra hours to cover my boss being away on her pre-Christmas honeymoon.
One of the things I’ve always been able to trust in when we’re apart is Braxton checking in throughout the day.
It isn’t even much—a good morning message when he first wakes up, or a call, just to tell me he’s thinking of me.
And yet, something that became routine for us is now uncertain.
My phone rings again, and it’s tempting to ignore it. I know why he’s calling now, and I don’t want to hear it, dejection curdling in my stomach like sour milk.
Counting out four seconds, I pull in a deep breath, reminding myself that I’m a big girl, and I can handle a little disappointment.
Or a lot of disappointment.
“Hey, Brax,” I greet when I accept the call and put the phone to my ear, keeping my tone neutral. “You almost here?”
We have fifteen minutes before we’re supposed to be across town to meet Majorie at the house—something we were supposed to do three days ago, but Braxton bailed on me then, too. I know what he’s calling to say. I know. But the longer he goes without saying a word, the lower my stomach sinks.
“Baby,” he breathes down the line, full of regret. “I’m so sorry. I have to postpone.”
“Again?” My throat is tight, and I wish I were more surprised.
“Yeah. Ben’s still not back at work.” Braxton sounds distant, distracted, as if, in his mind, he’s finished the conversation and moved on to the next thing. “They need me to cover his shift.”
I roll my lips between my teeth. “And you’re the only one who can do it?” I ask carefully. He doesn’t answer, tension radiating down the line. “Braxton, we already postponed once.”
He huffs impatiently. “And Marjorie said she wouldn’t do viewings with anyone else until after we saw it. She knows what I do for a living, and that these things happen. It’s not a big deal. We’ll just go some other time.”
I lean back against the couch, staring up at the textured ceiling. “Braxton, what’s going on?”
“What do you mean?” The frown is clear in his voice, and I can picture the way his dark brows will be pulled low. “It’s just one day.”
“No,” I counter softly, keeping my voice even. “It’s been a week. You’ve been off since Thanksgiving.”
Braxton goes silent, only his quiet breathing telling me he’s still on the other end of the line.
I wait, even though I’m not sure what I’m waiting for.
A month ago, I could have predicted how a conversation would have gone between us, but suddenly, I’ve got no idea.
The only thing I do know is that my chest is so tight, it’s almost impossible to draw a full breath.
“Look, Gracie.” Braxton’s tone is so patronizing that I stiffen. “We’re short-staffed. There was no one else, okay? It’s not that big of a deal, and it’s kind of pissing me off that you’re making it one. I called Marjorie and told her we’re going to reschedule for another time.”
I close my eyes, forcing air into my lungs, fighting for a calm that feels as fragile as a butterfly’s wings.
If I get angry, he’ll shut down. Braxton and I rarely argue, but I know how he operates.
It doesn’t matter if he’s in the wrong or not; if he feels like he’s being attacked, he’ll go on the offensive and bite back.
“Okay,” I say calmly. “So what day did you tell her we would go see it?” He doesn’t answer, and I nod. “You didn’t, did you?”
Braxton grunts. “Why does that even matter?”
“It just does.” Frustrated tears prick at my eyes, but I don’t let them fall. “Answer the question, please.”
“I don’t know,” he snaps. “I told her we would call her back, I guess. Obviously, I needed to check with you to find a time that works for everyone.”
How magnanimous. And yet, I have the niggling feeling that even if I had a time that worked, he would have found a reason that it wouldn’t.
“Okay—”
“I have to go,” Braxton cuts in. “We’ll talk tomorrow. Okay? I’ll call you. Love you.” The words are rushed, absent-minded, like he’s saying it by rote rather than with any real meaning. Still, I open my mouth to say it back, but there’s a click and a beep as he hangs up before I can.
Bridget cautiously moves around the shop, watching me out of the corner of her eye, like I’m a bomb about to detonate at any moment. She’s standing at the back counter, fixing an arrangement of tulips, hyacinths, and eucalyptus, but every few seconds, her head tilts in my direction.
“Stop it,” I tell her firmly.
Her brows climb her forehead. “I’m not doing anything,” she protests. “Just making pretty flowers prettier.” She snatches up a piece of white ribbon, waving it around her head like a flag.
I hum dubiously, but turn back to the computer. We have a massive Christmas wedding in two weeks—250 people—and the bride wants an arrangement of calla lilies and amaryllis on every table, as well as six bouquets and six matching boutonnieres for the bridal party.
It’s going to take me and Bridget days to put it all together, but it’s the kind of challenge I thrive on, with the added bonus of it helping to get myself out of my head.
Bridget finishes what she’s doing and approaches the counter where I’m working, slapping her palms against the surface. “Are you okay?” she demands. “You seem…off.”
I bite back a sigh, giving her a tight smile. “It’s been a rough week.” I drop my eyes back to the screen, but Bridget’s staring a hole into my head, and it’s distracting. I shoot her an exasperated look. “What?”
She scrunches her mouth to the side. “Braxton hasn’t been in this week,” she observes. “In fact, I don’t think I’ve seen him since before Thanksgiving.”
“They’re short-staffed at the station,” I say weakly, carefully averting her stare. It’s not a lie, but it’s not the whole truth, either.
Movement has me looking up, eyes widening as Bridget approaches like I’m a wild animal; extra slowly with her hands up, palms out. I squint at her. “What are you doing?”
She smiles gamely. “I’m going to hug you.”
I screw my face up, knowing it’ll be game over if she touches me. “Please don’t.”
“It’s happening,” Bridget sing-songs, creeping closer, her hands swaying up and down. She looks like someone getting close to a nervous horse, and I’m kind of surprised she’s not saying, “Easy, girl, eaaasy.”
“I don’t need a hug,” I grumble in one last-ditch attempt, but then Bridget’s arms are around me, and she’s squeezing me so tight, my ribs creak.
“You need a hug,” she whispers in my ear. “You don’t need to tell me what’s going on, but you need a hug.”
“I don’t,” I croak, but it’s too late. I can feel myself getting choked up, my throat tight, and my eyes burning. I slam them shut, trying to stop the overflow, but Bridget won’t let me go, resting her temple against mine as she holds me.
“It’s okay, Gracie,” she whispers. “Whatever’s wrong, it’s okay.”
Just like that, the dam breaks, a painful sob bursting free. It’s followed by another, and then another, until tears are streaking unchecked down my face and I’m shaking in her arms.
I don’t know how long we stand there, Bridget gently swaying me from side to side, but I’m so damn relieved no customers walk in to witness my meltdown.
My breath shudders out of me, the tears finally slowing. I pull away, scrubbing my face on my sleeve, feeling drained. My eyes are swollen, and my nose is running, but I admit hoarsely, “I think I needed that.”
Bridget watches me, a divot in her brows. “Why don’t we shut up early and get a coffee?”
“Maryann—” I start.
“Would be the first to tell us to do it,” Bridget says firmly. “This shop is her baby, but she loves us more, and you know it. But you’re welcome to message her and check.”