Page 106 of Calling the Shots

My chest lightens as I say the words out loud.

I love Gracelyn. I want to be with her. I want to make her my wife.

“Dad, I’m going to need to borrow a car.”

He sets his glass down on the bar cart and hustles across the room, ready to spring into action.

“You’ve got it.” Looping his arm across my shoulders, he ushers me out of the silent sitting room and toward the garage.

The four-car garage attached to the main house stores my father’s collection of modern cars.

“Any one you want, son.” He gestures at his fleet, driven mainly around town when he feels like a quick escape from my mother. “My personal favorite is the Maserati. It’s got some pick up.”

“Perfect.”

My dad presses the key into my palm. “Take good care of her, son.”

“I will. I’ll bring her back without a scratch.”

“I’m sure the car will be fine. I was talking about Gracelyn.”

He winks, slapping me on the back, and for the first time in ten years, I think my dad gets it. Gets me.

“Thanks, Dad.” I hug him, my heart full. “I appreciate it.”

“Give me a minute and I’ll have the chef fix you a to-go plate. For you and Gracelyn. Happy Thanksgiving, my boy.”

“Thanks, Dad. Happy Thanksgiving.”

CHAPTER35

GRACELYN

Icry the entire drive home.

For myself. For the relationship I left behind. For the future I had planned that’s never going to happen.

All the pent-up emotion of the last few days seeps out of my body, leaking down my face in streams of hot tears. My nose runs and mascara tracks down my cheeks, but I’m past caring. Somehow the release of all the tension and the bullshit feels strangely good.

Cathartic.

Still, my chest aches and my heart hurts at losing Mack. He’s a good man—the best man—but we don’t work. The two of us don’t make sense together. After spending time in his world and understanding where he comes from, I get it now.

His mother’s right.

He needs more, deserves better, than me. He’s Ulysses Fauntleroy McIntire the third, for fuck’s sake.

And I’m just Gracelyn Ann Reynolds the zero. I’m not even Anne with an ‘e.’ Just plain old Ann.

He could have any girl in the whole wide world. A beautiful girl like Tinsley or Jamie. Someone tall and thin, with great cheekbones and a perfect figure. A woman he’s proud to have on his arm, eager to show off to his friends and family.

Why would he pick someone like me? Short and curvy, with skin that mottles at every reaction like a freaking emotional chameleon. I’m cute enough, I guess, but I’m no international model or pageant winner.

I maybe could win Miss Congeniality. If a judge feels generous and you get bonus points for good hair.

Cranking the truck window down, I pop my arm out as I take the exit for Thunder Creek. The cool, fresh air of my hometown flows through the cab and I suck it in. Rolling past the familiar places—the local grocery, the drugstore, the Burger Basket—my body relaxes, the tension unraveling from my muscles.

Then I drive past my mom’s street—Mack’s street—and a sharp pang shoots through me, stabbing me in the chest.

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