Page 151 of Return To You

“In the kitchen,” he says.

Grace leads the way. We find my parents at the dishwashing station, taking sips of wine in between loads. Mom wipes her hands and hugs me, then embraces Grace. Dad wants to know everything about the Harpers’ basement and Grace’s roof, complete with square footage of damage, wattage and power of the underwater pump. I end up putting dishes away with Dad while Grace and Mom load the racks, talking about colors for ceiling paint.

When the crowd thins, and the kitchen looks under control and my parents are gone, Grace wraps her arm around me and says, “Ready to go home?”

It hits me like a bullet. Knocks me out and settles in my chest and hurts real good.

Yeah.

I’m ready to go home.

I love how it kinda fell naturally from her lips, and now here we are, in bed, the jersey flying off her back, our bodies finding each other, playing off of each other in ways both familiar and new, until we climax together and fall asleep in each other’s arms, our breaths and heartbeats seeming to sync.

At some point during the night, we shift, and in the morning, I wake up spooning Grace.

Having her safely nested against me is the absolute fucking best feeling ever. I stay awake for a few moments without moving, savoring the moment, until my dick asks for more, and I slip out of bed to let her sleep.

When I get to Lucas’s, he meets me with a concerned frown. “We need to get to the Richardson’s house first. They lost part of a wall, and his mother lives there right now. That gonna be a problem for you?”

The name doesn’t register right away, but then I get it. He’s Grace’s landlord. The guy who’s selling and doesn’t care that means she might lose her business.

I clench my jaw but shake my head. “You’re the boss.”

As I grab an old Air Force T-shirt from my saddle bag to change into, my fingers touch a glossy stack of brochures. Pulling them out, my eyes fall on A Touch Of Grace.

Perfect. I slide them inside the pocket of my windbreaker and get to work.

The people of Emerald Creek are going to get swift repairs and a not-so-subtle nudge to support local businesses by taking care of themselves. Triple win.

Starting with the unsuspecting asshole’s mother.

forty-nine

Grace

Ispend the morning helping Mom clean up the basement. Ethan went to Lucas and Thalia’s early, and Colton had some work. Ethan’s idea to advertise a special storm discount was brilliant, and a few hours after posting it on Echoes, I see our online bookings pick up. That afternoon, I clean up the backyard, sweep the deck, tidy up the front yard and rake the driveway.

Two days after, I open the spa early, happy to be back at it. My first client is someone I don’t know, and she’s booked a whole day of treatments for herself.

“I’m staying with my son for the summer, but half the wall went down when the storm created a water pocket under the foundation, and it’s a mess out there. A real mess. Some very nice—and I should add, handsome—young men came to make repairs, but you wouldn’t believe the amount of dust and noise I’ve had to put up with. Anyhoo. I told my son, I said, Darling, Momma needs her me time. Oh I forgot to tell you, one of the men doing the repairs highly recommended your place. He even handed me a brochure. So I said to my son, I said, Arrivederci, I shall see you tonight. Thank god the temperature is divinely perfect this time of year, because what with the walls being down, I would have had to move to the inn or the resort, and I don’t want to do that. I only see my son every so often, you see?…”

I mentally shut off her incessant chatter and let my instinct take over the massage, let my hands follow the path that her body needs. Soon after, she’s snoring, and when I wake her up gently, she stretches and greets me with a wide smile. “You know what would make my day, dear?”

“Tell me,” I say, smiling to myself. “I don’t have Champagne, but I do have a locally made bubbly, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

He mouth rounds in a surprised O. “Why not? But I was hoping you’d do my nails for me.”

“Cheyenne does a wonderful job. We don’t call her a nail artist lightly.”

“Pretty please? I promise I’ll book with Cheyenne next time. But I just need some pampering, nothing fancy, and you have magical hands, and I want to hear alllll about you now.”

My next massage is scheduled with Alex, so I shoot her quick text to move her later—I know she won’t mind—and smile to my new fan. “It would be my pleasure.” When someone books a whole day with you, you give them what they want.

We continue chatting as I lead her downstairs, and I learn that her son from a previous marriage lives here. Her name doesn’t ring a bell, and I don’t ask her her son’s name, because she talks nonstop without prompting, so I just let her follow her own flow while she chooses her nail polish color.

“I’m not familiar with this brand, what is it?”

“It’s free of a lot of harmful products, cruelty-free, and made in New England. Not in Vermont, but close.”

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