Page 17 of Eight Years Gone

Grace smiled as she touched her friend’s hand. She’d known Christy and her sister for as long as she could remember. The three of them had played together whenever Mom had brought her and Logan up to visit with Aunt Maggie in the town where Mom and Maggie had grown up—something they’d done regularly until the drunk driver ended her mother’s life one April night when she’d been thirteen.

“That’s why we’ll make sure Gabby’s day is everything you both want it to be.”

Christy squeezed her fingers. “What time should I pick up the arrangements?”

“I’ll deliver.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

But Grace saw the hopeful relief in Christy’s hazel eyes. “I want to. You have your hands full. Let me take this off your plate.”

Christy closed her eyes as she exhaled. “Have I mentioned that you’re the best?”

Grace grinned. “You have, but I don’t mind hearing it regularly.” She laughed as Christy did, returning her friend’s hug. “Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll have the arrangements to your place with plenty of time to spare.”

“Thank you so much.”

“Of course.”

Christy winced as she glanced at her watch. “I hate to cut this short, but I have to get over to the bank, then the grocery store. It’s my turn to bring snacks to Brennan’s Cub Scouts meeting this afternoon, and he said he wants homemade rice crispy treats.”

Grace batted her long lashes. “Mom life.”

Christy stood. “Exactly.”

Grace also gained her feet, wearing a silky cream cowl camisole and gray tailored ankle pants. “Text me if you have any concerns. Otherwise, I’ll see you at nine thirty on Saturday.”

Christy shouldered her purse, freeing her long black hair trapped by the strap. “I want details about your date. You better be texting me about that.”

“You know I will.” Grace hugged Christy again before her friend left. She’d told Christy about the latest development with Ben, but said nothing to anyone about seeing Jagger. What was the point?

“Okay,” she said as she set her bag on her chair, then closed her laptop, setting the computer in its designated compartment as she ran through her mental checklist.

She needed to get over to the shop and get orders filled. New photos had to be taken for Instagram. Then she needed to contact their supplier…

Her thoughts vanished as she glanced across the street.

The hand she’d lifted to slide her hair behind her ear fell to her side as she stared at Jagger leaning against the Stingray’s driver’s side door as he sat parallel parked in one of the metered parking spots.

He wore a navy-blue tank top and khaki cargo shorts. Dark sunglasses covered his eyes as he crossed powerful arms at his chest. His beard was still there—three more days of unkempt scruff. Gorgeous and dangerous.

“Oh, God,” she shuddered out, barely remembering to grab her laptop bag before she walked to the door and stepped outside, moving down the sidewalk instead of crossing the street to talk to the man who was supposed to be anywhere but there.

She glanced over her shoulder, muttering a curse when she realized he was right behind her.

With his next step, he fell into pace beside her.

She hesitated, then moved faster, wishing like crazy that she hadn’t left her Sorento at the shop. What was she supposed to do? What was she supposed to say? Because this wasn’t supposed to be happening. “What are you doing here, Jagger?”

“What are you doing here?”

She stopped in her tracks, clutching the strap of her bag as she faced him. “I live here. I work here.”

“What about photography? What about your pictures?”

She huffed out a laugh at his out-of-left-field question. Since when did he give a damn about her career path? Since when did he care about her at all? “Go away, Jagger.”

She hurried up the one step to her aunt’s flower shop, shutting the door before he could follow. “We’re closed,” she said, staring into his aviator lenses through the panel of glass, twisting the lock into place with trembling fingers.

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