Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 87536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
“That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.” I shake my head. “You’re awfully confident for someone who hasn’t even had a second date.”
He studies me like he’s deciding which truth to pick. “Maybe. But I’d like to.” He leans back in his chair. “For the record, I make the best carbonara. From scratch, down to the pancetta. Also, my niece says I’m ‘top-tier’ at winning stuffed animals at the county fair.”
Top-tier.
My chest does an unfair little flutter, reminding me of something Benny would say in her goofy little nine-year-old way because she’s trying to sound older. And cool.
“You said you wanted kids?”
Grady nods. “For sure. What about you?”
Definitely, especially now that I know how fun they are as they get older.
“Two would be neat,” I say, feeling my cheeks flush, eyes straying to his broad chest. His arms. His big, strong hands . . .
Okay. Now I’m doing my best to have dirty thoughts, and all the things he could do with those.
I Am Moving on With My Life!
“Two.” His gaze drops to my mouth, then slides lazily down before meeting my eyes again. “I could get behind that.”
The way he says the words has me squirming in my chair, thighs pressing together under the table. Not because of the kid talk, but because of how my brain wants to spin from the conversation to comparing him to Hayes.
You’re doing great, Layla. This is good.
Faith and Margo are going to be so thrilled you put yourself out there, and the date is going great.
My phone buzzes again, vibrating on the table.
Grady tips his chin at my purse. “You can grab that.”
“I’m good.” I press on the side button to quiet it. “Tell me more about your very impressive résumé: outdoorsy company? Which one? The North Face? REI? Do tell.”
He shakes his head. “How about I tell you more about what a good cook I am. And by ‘cook,’ I mean chef. I meant what I said about carbonara. Can I make you pasta?”
My pulse skips a beat or five. “Like—at some point?”
“Like tonight.” His smile is careful, the kind that says he’ll survive a no but would really like a yes. “If you’re free.”
I am free.
But . . . isn’t it too soon to see him again?
Is this too impulsive? He’s a stranger.
“What if you’re a murderer? All the best serial killers were good looking and handsome, aren’t they?”
“Good looking and handsome?” His grin goes full toothpaste commercial. “Is that two compliments or the same one twice?” His toothy grin has me blushing. “For the record, my knife skills are only deadly in the kitchen.”
“Mm. That’s exactly what a murderer would say.”
“True.” He tips his head. “Or we can push to another night. Or do a walk in public somewhere well lit with many witnesses who could testify against me.”
“Sure.” I feel my head moving up and down. “Yes. Tonight works.”
His shoulders ease. Mine do not. Because I glance at his hands—those capable, competent, “can do so many things with them” hands—and my thoughts go sprinting toward the wrong set of fingerprints.
Relax, girl. They’re just hands.
Besides, there is no way his feel as good as Hayes’s did sliding across your bare skin. And that thing he did with his mouth? Um . . . zero contest.
Stop Thinking About Hayes Fielder!
He is gone, and he’s not coming back to Star Lake. I release what no longer serves me, even if what no longer serves me had a chiseled jawline and soft lips and knew exactly where to put them.
“Six?” he asks, pulling me out of my spiral with a hopeful lift to his eyebrows. “Not too early, not too late. I’ll have wine or hot chocolate.”
“Both sound delicious.”
Grady feels easy.
Solid.
Present.
A man who offers plans instead of uncertainty. A man who didn’t kiss me and make the ground feel unstable.
Which is safe. Which is exactly what I need.
Chapter 31
Hayes
I drop the bag by the mudroom hooks and open the fridge like it’s going to fix my life.
Bottled water. Half a rotisserie chicken. A slice of cheesecake Benny left three bites of and didn’t finish because it felt weird.
A sticky note in her handwriting: Dont Eat My Pudding Dad I Licked It. There are three pudding cups lined up on the left side of the bottom shelf—she definitely did not lick them.
I twist the cap off a bottle, drink, lean my hip against the counter. Read the note again until the corners of my lips curve into a reluctant smile. Humor sneaks in even when it shouldn’t. That’s the thing about Benny—she leaves little reminders of herself all over the place.
But me? I’m empty.
Tired—so fucking tired. Muscles dragging, head full of static, chest tight like I’m carrying something I can’t set down.
And you know what I wish I could do? Forget about Layla.