Page 8 of Eight Years Gone

“That must be easy to do,” she said as she checked her work on the digital screen, then showed the boy’s mom. “I freelance for Travel. I’d like to send you copies and a release to sign if we decide to use the pictures in the magazine.”

The woman studied her for a moment.

Grace sent her another warm smile, knowing she was being scrutinized as she often was. And that’s why she’d worn her past-shoulder-length hair in a ponytail and had chosen her white Keds with no socks when she left her hotel room this morning.

The friendly, casual, harmless blonde who unobtrusively took her pictures. Most people responded favorably.

The woman nodded. “Okay.”

Her grin was back. “Great. I’ll just need an email address.”

“Sure.”

Grace spoke the woman’s information into her camera, smiled as she waved, then moved on, soaking up every blissful second of her last afternoon in the city.

Mother Nature had granted her three amazing days on her early-September getaway, gifting her sunny skies and high-seventy-degree temperatures—and she’d taken advantage. She intended to do more of the same—or at least until she packed up her SUV and headed home in a couple of hours.

Her gaze wandered to the maple trees as she marveled at the quiet. One of the world’s largest cities surrounded her, but it was currently impossible to tell.

Choosing a new direction, she wandered closer to The Great Lawn and Turtle Pond, stopping by the edge of the clearing to take it all in while people lazed around on blankets or played in the grass.

This was life—the different slices of humanity she treasured. And somehow, the park had a way of dulling everyone’s urban edges.

The group of men playing hacky sack caught her attention. Suit jackets had been tossed aside and starched long sleeves rolled halfway up masculine arms.

Grace settled her camera in place, snapping numerous shots, laughing when one of the men fell to the ground in his attempt to keep the game going. “Great effort,” she called.

“Thanks.” The guy waved as he smiled.

She stepped in the group’s direction—to show them her work and ask their permission to use the images she’d captured. But she stopped when the man wearing a navy-blue muscle shirt and white athletic shorts ran past her on the pavement twenty yards in the distance.

Her pulse stuttered as she stared. There was something about how he moved—the familiar cadence of his efficient jogging.

Without thinking, she lifted her camera, searching for him with her lens, zooming in when she found him.

He was broad and fit—powerfully so as he swung strong arms with each stride. His hair was a shorter, darker blond, and he had a deeper tan, but he reminded her so much of…

He bumped into a runner, slowing to turn his body as he spoke an apology she couldn’t hear.

“Jagger,” she shuddered out, dropping her camera to dangle before she protected it against her chest when she took off at a walk-jog.

She picked up her pace to a full-out run, terrified she would lose him as he disappeared down one of the paths that led into the trees.

This wasn’t the first time she’d been sure she spotted him in a crowd, but today was different. The man several steps ahead was Jagger Tennyson.

So many emotions ravaged her system as the memories she’d tried hard to forget came rushing back.

Top 40 music played on the stereo when Grace heard the familiar rap of knuckles on her doorframe. She looked up from the equation on her page, smiling at the wall, already knowing it was eight o’clock as she glanced at her bedside clock—Jagger’s usual time for walking down the hall with his books and the laptop her father had bought for him hooked in his arm.

He’d moved into the house in late July—when football practice had officially kicked off at Sheraton Prep.

When she’d returned to Wakeview after spending the summer in Preston Valley with Aunt Maggie, the guy from the crappy part of town had been bringing his boxes inside.

By mid-September, Dad had called from the Philly condo he lived in more than he did the mansion, asking her to help Jagger with his studies. Quarter-term grades had been emailed out to all parents and guardians, and Jagger’s were less than amazing.

“Are you up for a study buddy?”

She casually shrugged as she glanced over her shoulder, ignoring the flutters in her stomach when he sent her one of his slightly crooked grins. “Sure.”

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