Page 19 of Eight Years Gone

Grace held her breath, fighting the urge to hurry over and help. But she knew Aunt Maggie would only get pissed. “I need to get to that ramp,” she said mostly to herself, adding finding someone to build a ramp for the back entrance to her to-do list as she glanced at Jagger again.

The silence stretched out between them as the refrigeration unit hummed to life.

“Aunt Mags has multiple sclerosis?”

“She was diagnosed six months after Logan died.” She turned, heading into the main shop toward the computer, hoping he would take that as a hint to walk back outside.

He followed her.

She ignored him, glancing at the number of overnight orders that had come in, then hit the print button for the invoices.

“Grace.”

Sidestepping him, she moved to the back, grabbing the first six vases she would need off one of the supply shelves. “You made yourself perfectly clear in the park the other day, so why are you here?”

He followed her again, setting her up with more vases on the worktable. “Because this isn’t the way it’s supposed to be.”

She settled an apron in place as she moved to get the flower food next. “What does that mean?”

“You were supposed to travel the world. You were supposed to take your pictures.”

She stopped mid-reach as her anger grew—when it felt like he was judging the way she lived her life. “I take my pictures. I also take care of myself and the only person who’s never let me down.”

He swallowed as they eyed each other.

She huffed out a breath, refusing to feel guilty for hitting below the belt. What she’d said was the absolute truth. Since her mother’s death, Aunt Maggie was the only person she’d always been able to depend on. Plus, Asa, too. “I don’t have time for this. I have a million orders to fill.”

“So, I’ll help.”

“No.”

“Then I’ll come back later.”

She moved to the large sink, turning on the faucet to fill a bucket. “I’m busy all day.”

He snatched a copy of the orders from the backroom printer, clearly remembering the daily process of the job. “Can we talk tonight?”

“No.” She snapped off the water, hefting the bucket. “I have a date—” She turned, smacking into his solid chest, sloshing water onto the floor.

He grabbed her, steadying her with rough palms on her naked arms. “Let me take that.”

She took a step back as she breathed in the scent of his soap, pretending she wasn’t entirely aware of what his touch did to her. “I’ve got it.”

He continued to stand in her way, holding her gaze.

She stared into his eyes, unable to read him. Eight years ago, she would have looked at him and known exactly what he was thinking. Today, he was a stranger. “You’re scruffy,” she heard herself say, annoyed that she sounded so breathless.

He scratched at his beard. “I’m due for a trim.”

“I have to get to work.”

“When can we talk?”

She shrugged as she shook her head. “Is there really anything we need to say?”

He moved to the table, writing down a number. “If your schedule opens up, give me a call.” He headed out the way he’d come.

She hesitated as she glanced from the paper to the door, wanting to tell him to come back, terrified that he would vanish from her life again. But it would be better if that’s exactly what he did. She couldn’t go through all of this a second time.

---