Page 85 of Looking Grimm

I crouched in the tufted grass with a bouquet of white roses tucked under my arm. My fingers dragged across the letters engraved in the polished quartz.

They’d wasted no time digging the grave and marking it with my name and dates. The local news reported that Fitch Patrick Farrow died in the attack on the Capitol, ridding the city of the last remnant of the scourge known as the Bloody Hex. That official story would be shared with the upcoming class of investigators, and the citizens would rest easy believing every one of their boogeymen was dead and gone.

Holland got the credit for all of it. Rumors were already circulating that she would take over for her father soon, like a queen assuming her place on the city’s throne. I wished herthe best. In the wake of so much tragedy and chaos, the people needed a hero, and that was not a mold I was made to fit.

She gave Nash and me everything we needed to make a clean break: fake IDs, secure passage out of town, and directions to a remote cabin in the next state over. It was a welcome respite, but a temporary one. Nash had his sights set on the Canadian border and, with the payout he’d collected from his fire insurance claim on the bar, we could afford to put down roots wherever we wanted.

We didn’t have much to pack. I didn’t have a lot to begin with, and most of Nash’s things had burned or been damaged by smoke. In a single afternoon, we managed to box and cram all of our worldly goods into the back end of the Woody Wagon.

On our way out of town, we stopped at the quiet little cemetery so I could say goodbye. To my parents. To Donovan. To the life I was leaving behind.

The plastic-wrapped roses crinkled as I set them on my brother’s grave.

“Remembered the flowers this time,” I mumbled to the quiet.

I surveyed the four burial plots in a line. I belonged among them. The prospect of leaving the town where I’d spent my entire life still felt surreal and profoundly unfair.

“It should’ve been you, you know.” I directed the words at Donovan’s epitaph and chased them with a lung-swelling sigh. “I was never supposed to get out of here.”

Of course, he didn’t answer, but I wondered what he would say about my new alias—Patrick Edwards, a combination of both our middle names—, or about thePorsche left to rot in police impound. He would definitely have given me a big, fat “I told you so” about the boyfriend I had long before I admitted it to myself.

Shuffling footsteps announced Nash coming up behind me. He stood against my back and rested his hands on my shoulders.

“You want some company?” he asked.

I nodded, realizing how alone I felt with three dead bodies under my feet.

He came around and knelt beside me. We surveyed the burial plots in somber silence, and I couldn’t help but think of bringing him here to help me put Donnie in the dirt. Looking back, Nash had always been around. Even when I was a scared teenager newly thrust into a life of crime, Nash had been constant. Kind. The least problematic person I knew.

It was no wonder I loved him. I imagined I always would.

When distant trees rustling and chirping birds failed to fill the quiet, Nash drew a deep breath. “So, are you gonna introduce me or what?” The angle of his gaze indicated my parents’ weatherworn headstones.

I rolled my eyes. “You just wanna hear me say it.”

“Say what?” He raised a brow.

Nerves made my stomach flutter, but I smiled despite them. “That I’m yours.”

He raked his fingers through his coppery hair, looking simultaneously flustered and cute as hell.

“Idolike the sound of that,” he said. “But I also feel it’s my responsibility as a gentleman to be upfront about my intentions.”

I snorted. Talking like that, he was a tailcoat away fromchanneling some regency romance hero ready to sweep me off my feet.

My lips pursed. “And what are your intentions, Mister Nash?”

Reaching over, he clasped one of my hands between his. I looked at that, then up at him.

“I want to take care of you,” he said. “Treat you well. I want to be the partner you deserve.” His expression was wholly sincere, and his words sent goosebumps prickling down my spine.

“Fuck, Nick.” I expelled a held breath. “What am I supposed to say to that?”

He raised his shoulders. “How about an enthusiastic ‘okay?’”

My gut was churning with feelings I used to scoff at, sentiments I denied until they grew so big I couldn’t keep them inside any longer.

It may not have been enthusiastic, but it was genuine when I told him, “Okay.”

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