Page 182 of The Darkest Chase

The expression on his face makes me smile.

Pure love, so utterly absorbed in his work as his fingers glide over the rotating wooden post and plies his tools with delicate care.

I adore my work.

I love working with him.

I just wish I could find that kind of love in everything I do.

Then maybe I’d never feel a need for another person’s love again.

I don’t know how he does it. Just sinks away from everything until there’s nothing but the wood, his tools, and a creative spark flaring.

It’s like existing in this sort of beautiful trance, and I settle on a stool with a fresh cup of coffee.

Instead of focusing on my own work or opening up the shop, I watch Grandpa work his magic.

It’s soothing.

There’s not a single sound except the spinning lathe as I focus on his hands.

They’re wrinkled, wizened, but so very steady. Some days they shake, and other days they’re so inflamed I can see the redness and swollen skin.

But today, they’re as steady as a man who’s twenty years younger.

I don’t know how long I watch him.

Long enough to soothe my soul, maybe, washing away the hurt and losing myself in the familiar warmth of this space.

I learned everything I know and love right here at his knee.

That love… it’s still enough for me, isn’t it?

I realize he’s breaking his trance when the lathe’s rhythmic whirring slowly stops. He sets his tools aside on his workbench and touches the bedpost gently.

His eyes are twinkling. He glances up over the fresh, pale wood at me, his thin lips creasing in a smile.

“Lily,” he whispers. My split second of morning peace dies in a single heartbeat. “How long have you been there?”

Normally, when he’s lost in time, he calls me Serena.

My mother’s name.

But Lily?

That’s my grandmother’s name.

Holy hell.

He’s farther gone than usual.

My throat closes up.

Everything hurts so much when I desperately want to stop hurting.

“Honey?” He’s up in an instant, crossing the room to pull me into his arms. “What’s wrong? Why are you upset? Did Serena call?”

Oh, no.

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