Page 12 of Calling the Shots

Gracelyn swallows hard, the sound audible, her throat moving with the effort. She’s off-balance as she searches for words.

“It was…fine.” Her fingers glide up and down the black ceramic handle of the mug.

“Only fine?” I catch her eye and the skin on her chest flushes, giving her true feelings away.

She definitely thought the night went better than fine.

Her reaction buoys me—this thing between us isn’t one-sided.

“The second half went better.”

“Oh? Sounds promising.” Mrs. Reynolds’s voice tips up with hope. “Are you seeing him again?”

Gracelyn locks her gaze with me. “I’m not sure, to be honest. We left it kind of open-ended.”

Wide open.

My muscles tighten under her stare, my body subconsciously flexing for her.

“Open ended?” Mrs. Reynolds cries, chiding her daughter. “Grace, you’re not in college anymore. The clock is ticking! If you want to get married and start a family, you better get going.” She taps her watch face for emphasis.

“Mother!” Gracelyn hisses. “Stop! I’m only thirty, for goodness sake.”

“Only thirty.” Mrs. Reynolds rolls her eyes. “By the time I was thirty, you were already in kindergarten. Y’all think you have all the time in the world these days. Flit about the globe, going on grand adventures, chasing careers.”

“I’d hardly say I’m doing any of those things, Ma. Trouble is, I live in Thunder Creek. There aren’t a ton of eligible bachelors sitting around.”

I clear my throat, scootching back from the table. Now it’s my turn to be uncomfortable.

“Thanks for the coffee, Mrs. Reynolds. It was good seeing you, Gracelyn.” I nod in her direction and some type of emotion flashes across her face, but I can’t quite place it.

“You’re going?” Mrs. Reynolds presses her lips together. For a woman in her mid-fifties, I’m struck by how similar Gracelyn is to her mother. Same heart-shaped face, full bow mouth, even the same expressions.

“Yeah, I have yard work to do.”

“Okay. Before I forget—would you mind fixing that chair in the salon? Probably needs a dab of wood glue.”

“Sure. I can take it right now and get it back to you later today.”

“No rush. But I don’t want a client falling and breaking a hip.” Mrs. Reynolds rises and shuffles out of the kitchen, gesturing for me to follow. Gracelyn shrugs and does the same, and I follow behind them down the hall toward the salon. I’m glad her mother’s leading the way, giving me ample opportunity to appreciate the tiny shorts barely covering her daughter’s ass, the gentle sway of her hips. Her blonde ponytail swishes back and forth and I can’t help but think how it’d feel to wrap her hair around my fist and hold her tight, pressing my mouth to hers in a deep kiss.

Mrs. Reynolds flips on the overhead light, jarring me out of my fantasy. She points to an ornate violet chair in the corner. “That’s the one.”

The chair’s going to need more than a touch of wood glue, I can tell by the lean from way over here.

“Got it. I’ll see what I can do.” I grab the offending chair and maneuver through the narrow doorway, brushing against Gracelyn as I walk by.

Sparks fly up my arm and I work hard to ignore them, especially on account of her mother being a foot away from us.

“Let me get the door for you.” Gracelyn hurries around me, opening the screen door and holding it wide.

“Thanks.”

“Mom, I’m going to help Mack with the chair. Be right back,” she calls over her shoulder and I suppress my grin, happy my back’s to Mrs. Reynolds.

“Not sure how you’re helping me carry a chair, but okay…” I murmur, quiet enough that only she can hear.

That earns me a sharp elbow to the ribs.

---