Page 48 of Just Let Go

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THE POUNDING IN GRADY’S HEADpulled him from sleep. He forced his eyes open, though his eyelids still felt heavy, like he’d slept in fits and starts. He stared up at unfamiliar wooden beams on a high ceiling. Slowly, he turned, trying to piece together the events of the previous night.

He’d been upset about losing Bowman—really upset. He’d gone into town and found what seemed to be the only place in all of Harbor Pointe to get a drink. Never mind that there were three churches just on his drive in from the cottage. Three. Wasn’t that a little excessive? How many churches did one tiny town need?

He didn’t like that he noticed them at all. He’d stopped paying attention to church a long time ago. Just another way he’d disappointed his parents.

He’d had too much to drink. His throbbing head told him that. The guy next to him said something about skiing, about his career being over—because for some reason that was the only thing people were talking about when it came to Grady Benson.

Grady didn’t want to hear it. Not last night. Especially not after losing Bowman. He’d gotten in the guy’s face—rammed him into the bar, threatened him. And he would’ve made good on the threat too if someone hadn’t pulled him off.

He’d ended up walking around downtown. He couldn’t drive, not in his condition, so what was he going to do? Fall asleep on a park bench like someone who’d really hit rock bottom?

And then he’d seen it. The light in the flower shop. And he’d seen her. Sitting on the floor, completely oblivious to the outside world. She was like a beacon of light—something about her was special.

He knew it in the way shedidn’tfall all over herself to get his attention. In the way she’d never be caught dead in that bar. In the way she’d told him that story about the old man buying flowers for his dead wife.

A clang in the kitchen roused him from his thoughts. He sat up and looked in the direction of the noise.

This morning Quinn wasn’t so much a beacon of light. More like a warning flare—a loud one. She glanced up from her spot behind the counter.

“Sorry,” she said, her eyes wide. “I’m clumsy in the morning.”

He ran his hand through his hair, then over his face, which was in need of a shave, and watched her for a minute. He was in Quinn’s apartment—a loft that was smaller than most hotel rooms he stayed in. He couldn’t place the details of getting here.

She wasn’t looking at him anymore. “I’ll be out of here as soon as I get my coffee.” Her head was down and she was fishing around in a drawer that sounded like it was loaded with metal kitchen utensils.

He pulled himself up off the couch and stood still for a moment, righting himself as his head spun. How much had he had to drink? He had to stop doing that—it only ever led to mistakes.

How many mistakes had he made last night?

After a few seconds, he walked into the kitchen, still wearingjeans and one of his old gray T-shirts, but no shoes or socks. “I slept here.”

She stopped what she was doing—organizing silverware?—and looked at him, eyes wide again. “Yes. You came to the flower shop. You don’t remember?”

He looked away, still trying to piece together the details. He glanced back and found her staring at him, and in a flash he remembered. He’d told her about Bowman. She’d listened—no one ever listened to stuff like that—but then he’d closed up. Because Grady Benson didn’t talk about his pain. Not about Bowman. Not about Benji. Not about his past.

But she would’ve kept listening if he had. And he supposed that meant something.

“Do you remember... anything about last night?” She screwed the lid onto her travel mug, still avoiding his eyes.

“Was I rude?”

“I think you were rude at the bar,” she said. “Walker said someone called the cops and told them you were disturbing the peace.”

“Great, that’s just what I need.” He sat on a tall barstool on the opposite side of the counter.

She poured a cup of coffee and slid it across the counter, still not looking at him.

“Thanks.” He took a sip. “You’re being nicer than usual.”

Now the trademark furrow in her brow had returned. “I’m always nice.”

“Not to me.” He grinned. Pushing her buttons was quickly becoming one of his favorite pastimes.

“I have to go. I have work to do.” She picked up a small notebook held together by a flimsy piece of attached elastic, her travel mug, and her phone.

“Am I working with you today? Festival stuff?” He took another drink. She might be cranky, but Quinn made good coffee.

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