Page 64 of Accidentally Yours
“Oh, what a wonderful surprise,” she said, clasping her hands together.
Ethan set his phone and briefcase on the dresser, pulled out the leather-bound journal, and brought Queenie over. He crouched beside his grandma and placed the dog in her lap. Queenie, always gentle with Mary Anne, licked her hand twice before curling up on her lap, in a perfect little doughnut. His grandma’s face lit up, and she stroked Queenie’s ears with slow, careful affection.
“That’s my girl,” Mary Anne cooed, gazing down at her. “She always comes with you, doesn’t she?”
Ethan’s throat tightened. He swallowed. “Yeah. She never lets me come alone.”
Mary Anne looked up at him with such love, it nearly knocked him over. “Has Aldean gone to get the car? He’s always forgetting where he parked.” She chuckled, brushing her hand over Queenie’s back.
Ethan smiled gently and sat in the chair that was next to hers. “Yeah, Pops is probably circling the lot.”
It was easier that way. Letting her believe. Kinder. Ethan couldn’t stand to see her hurt.
Easing back into the armchair, Ethan opened the journal—his grandfather’s—and thumbed through the soft, worn pages. “Want me to read to you for a bit?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, settling deep into the chair, hand never leaving Queenie’s fur.
Ethan picked an entry he hadn’t yet read and began.
His grandfather’s voice spilled from the pages. It was a passage about his first dig at the jewel site. About the necklace and the legend surrounding it. Mimi was woven into every sentence. Her laugh, her stubbornness, her insight. It was all there, in Pops’s careful script. Ethan read slowly, reverently, like the words might fall apart if rushed. The whole time, his grandma smiled.
“Oh, Aldean always says I’m stubborn,” she chuckled. “Little does he know he’s worse than me.” Her words were light and full of love.
Ethan huffed a laugh, but it landed heavy in his chest. So much loss was living there. Today, the ache was sharper. Because he also missed Paige. He missed her laughter, her mind, her fire. He missed the way she challenged him with everything. The way her eyes danced when she was making a point. How she softened when he least expected it. He missed all of her.
And his heart ached because she’d set another boundary, thrown up another wall. She’d told him not to come to her dad’s birthday dinner. She’d told him gently, but clearly, to step back, and he had. But it felt like breathing underwater. It felt like another loss.
As he paused, gaze dropping to the journal, Mary Anne’s hand came to rest on his.
“What’s wrong, my love?” she asked softly.
The question made him freeze. He looked over, ready to deflect, but her eyes were sharp and knowing—the kind of clarity that only came in rare, bright flashes now.
He steeled himself. Then, with a swallow, he let his dilemma spill out. “I think I’m in love with someone who doesn’t love me back.” The words escaped like a secret.
His grandma gasped. “How could anyone not love you?”
One side of his mouth turned up in a soft smile. “You’re biased.”
She tilted her head. “How do you know?”
“How do I know what?”
“That she doesn’t love you?”
He blinked. The question gave him pause, because . . . Paige’s actions showed she cared for him. And he didn’t know how she could fake the chemistry and tenderness in her touches and her kiss. But . . .
His grandma squeezed his hand. “Don’t wait,” she whispered. “We always think there’s more time.”
He swallowed, the truth of her words cutting straight through his chest.
She patted his hand. “Tell her. Whatever you feel. All of it. Do you hear me? You won’t know her answer unless you ask.”
Ethan nodded, emotion tightening his chest, making it hard to form words. He’d spoken part of his truth to Paige, that she was the best thing that had ever happened to him. But he hadn’t actually asked her how she felt. Maybe he feared the answer.
Mary Anne smiled and turned her gaze back out the window. She started petting Queenie again, who was still curled contentedly in her lap.
“I have to ask her,” Ethan murmured, like he’d received marching orders he should’ve thought of himself. He stood, setting the journal on the armchair.
