Page 73 of Paths
I exhale, thumbing the underneath side of the ring sitting at the base of my left ring finger. A ring I’m not totally sure the meaning of, but to the rest of the world, I know what it looks like. Even if I don’t know what it means to Grady, there’s nothing more I want at this moment than for him to take care of me.
I nod. Once.
Still, it’s the universal sign of yes.
“Yes?” he confirms aloud.
I nod again, this time adding a throaty, “Yes.”
A look takes over his handsome face. An expression I’ve never seen, but on Grady Cain, it’s the most beautiful thing ever. He leans in to kiss me again, and when he pulls away, wraps his arm around me.
Still stunned and staring down at the ring on my finger, wondering what just happened, I hear Grady say, “As you can see, it’s too late, Vanessa. I’m attached.”
That’s when I hear a crash.
I jerk from the noise and look up to see Weston standing, his chair thrown back with such force, it broke the glass doors of my mother’s built-in china cabinet. Glass is still settling as Weston yells from across the table, “This is not happening. This is not fucking happening!” He points straight at Grady. “This is your fault. You’ll pay for this—I swear.”
With one last vicious glare, he stalks out of the room. His parents stand quickly making multiple apologies before they hurry out after their son.
“I cannot believe this,” my mother seethes at me. “Look what you’ve done!”
I’ve had it.
Pushing my chair back, I stand quickly, and Grady stands with me.
“I hate him.” I point to where Weston left the room. “He cheated on me, he controlled me, and he threatened me. Never again will I allow that to happen. This is why I left when I did. And if it means never stepping foot into your house again to not be put through this, then so be it. I’ll go to the city to see Joe or I’ll bring him to me when he’s okay to travel. But never again will I allow you to do this. I’m done.”
“He threatened you? Why didn’t you tell me?” I turn to look at my father, and it’s clear to see he’s livid from what he just heard, his voice demanding answers. But he’s looking straight at my mother. “Did you know about this?”
“Clint—” she starts, but I interrupt.
“I’ve had enough for tonight.” Looking over at my father and Joe, I add, “Goodnight. I’ll see you both tomorrow before we leave.”
With that, I turn, making my way back through the formal living room and toward the back doors. Grady’s right beside me but doesn’t say a word. Even though he’s not touching me, I know he’s close. If possible, through the cold night, I feel the heat of him at my side.
When we reach the guest house, I’m trembling—but not from the cold—from my adrenaline crashing after the high I just went through. Not only from dealing with my mom and Weston, but from Grady sliding a ring on my finger. Everything—it’s all too much. I fumble with the door, not able to get it unlatched, when Grady’s big, steady hand covers mine and opens it for me.
I move through first and immediately kick my shoes off to the side. When I turn around, I look down at the ring he slid on my finger, needing to know, but afraid to ask.
I don’t even know what I want it to mean. He said he was with me before we even spoke a word to one other, but it hasn’t been that long. It took me almost twelve years to figure out Weston was toxic, and that was before I learned of his dark-side business dealings.
When I look up, Grady has already rid himself of his suit jacket and is pulling his tie off, unbuttoning the top three buttons of his shirt. He does all this without taking an eye off me—assessing me.
Is it possible to know in a matter of weeks?
Then he does nothing, says nothing. He stands there—half the room separating us—doing nothing.
Finally, I hold up my hand, the one showcasing the supersized, brilliant cut diamond in an exquisite setting, flanked by baguettes running down the band.
“Grady, please,” I call for him, my voice unstable and hoarse. “Tell me what just happened.”
Chapter 20 – Heavy?
Grady –
Never in my life have I been as anxious about the outcome of my actions as now.
Not when I joined the Army, not when I was recruited, not on my first assignment. Not even the first time I ever put a bullet through someone’s head, officially making me an assassin. Even though that day didn’t officially make me a killer—I’d been one for years at that point.
