Page 56 of Eight Years Gone

“Thanks.” He lifted the lattice higher, maneuvering around her lawnmower. As he took another step to avoid her SUV’s mirror, his tricep connected with the shelf’s edge. “Fuck.”

She winced as pain radiated across his face.

“Fuck,” Jagger said again, clenching his jaw. “I guess that’s the shelf you were warning me about.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’ll live.”

But she gasped when blood bloomed on the white cotton of his shirt. “You’re bleeding.”

He glanced at his arm, setting the lattice down as she did, leaning it against the wall. “I opened the damn thing up again. My scar.”

“Let me take a look,” she said, moving closer as he gingerly eased up his sleeve. She sucked in a breath through her teeth, studying the bloody three-inch gash already blooming with a bruise. “Ouch, Jagger.”

He shrugged. “It stings, but I’ve had worse.”

She settled her hand on his elbow, intending to lead him toward the house. “Come on in—”

He shook his head, pulling away from her. “It’s no big deal. I’ll clean up at home.”

She frowned as a drop of blood trailed down his arm to drip on the cement floor. “But I have Band-Aids right here.”

“It’s no big deal,” he repeated, taking another step back.

Not entirely interested in arguing, she walked to the interior door, hitting the button to close the garage as she stepped inside her laundry room, flipping on the light, knowing he would eventually follow.

* * *

Jagger sighed as he stared at the doorway Grace had just walked through, recognizing that he wasn’t going anywhere until she fussed with his arm.

Mostly, he just wanted to get the hell out of there so he could get home, lace up his running shoes, then put himself through the paces until he could think straight again.

You didn’t free me from you, Jagger. You destroyed me, damn you.

“Fuck,” he muttered, clenching his jaw as he shook his head, loathing himself all over again as Grace’s words haunted him.

Twenty minutes ago, he’d been relieved that they’d finally said what they needed to say, but he didn’t know how to fix their mess any more than Grace did.

“Fuck,” he repeated, following her inside, noting the fancy washer and dryer in the small laundry room as he shut the door behind him.

“Grace,” he called, breathing in the subtle hints of shampoo and perfume as he moved into the dimly lit kitchen, studying the open-concept space that was one hundred percent Grace.

White cabinetry, swirled pale-gray quartz countertops, stainless steel appliances, and a gorgeous, sturdy table with seating for six tucked in its designated spot off to the left.

Everything was new in the home that had recently been renovated—warm, cozy, and stylish with accent pillows and a pretty fall-themed throw tossed over the plush light-beige couch, fat candles and thriving plants placed on the fireplace mantle and coffee table, and gorgeous area rugs covering large spaces of neutral hardwood flooring.

All of the class with none of the stuffiness of her upbringing.

“Gracie,” he called again, following the sounds of cupboards closing down a short hallway.

He hesitated as he stepped into the master bedroom Grace had decorated just as beautifully with another area rug, pretty plants and furnishings, and brand-new French doors that led to the backyard.

Zeroing in on the queen-size bed—where he immediately craved to lie down with Grace—he kept moving to the en suite doorway.

She glanced over her shoulder, sending him a small smile as she grabbed a couple of cotton balls from a glass jar, setting them next to the bottle of antiseptic and the box of Band-Aids on the countertop. “Let’s get you fixed up.”

His guilt compounded as he studied her in the dim overhead lighting. Grace’s lips curved as she looked at him, but her eyes were still puffy and her nose and cheeks red and blotchy the way they always were after she cried.

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