Page 83 of Drop the Mitts
His stomach dropped as he swiped up, looking for the message from Luc.
But it wasn’t him. Grace’s name popped up at the top of his messages.
Are you free tomorrow morning?
His brows shot up. He started to type.
What are you thinking?
He waited, staring at the screen until her reply popped up.
I need your help with something. Moral support.
Andre’s heart picked up speed.
Sure. What are we doing? Do I need a shovel or a suit?
Three blinking dots appeared. Then stopped. Then started again.
Just bring yourself. Wear something intimidating?
He frowned. That narrowed it down precisely zero percent. But something in his chest shifted. Just slightly. Like one of the bricks he’d been carrying all morning eased off his spine.
He texted back.
When and where?
Chapter
Thirty
Grace
Grace staredat the text from André the night before. What did it mean that she’d texted him first? Last night she’d justified it by convincing herself it was the only reasonable option. She couldn’t text Country or Jenna since she had no idea whether this visit would amount to anything. She couldn’t text Tyler or one of the other guys because they were close with Country . . . and that’s where the argument lost steam.
André was close with Country. Wouldn’t texting him hold the same amount of risk that he’d mention something? And yet, sending that message had been automatic.
As soon as Grace got home after her hasty exit from Dusty Rose, she jumped onto her laptop. Finding the letter to Hope’s birth dad didn’t take long. She’d been through the records so many times, she knew exactly where to look. Brady McGinnis. The letter was rerouted through the Department of National Defence forwarding, and by the time it reached him, he’d beenout of service six weeks. He’d moved. No follow-up. No certified mail. Just a single attempt, and it died in the system.
She could get in touch with Veterans Affairs, but since it was a weekend, she opted for internet sleuthing and searching public records. She found him. Brady McGinnis had moved back to Calgary and his address was updated two months ago when he registered for provincial healthcare. After searching a few socials, she found a dating profile with pictures of him in his military gear. Same guy. It had to be.
“Grace?”
She blinked. Looked up. Her contractor, Matthew, stood a few feet away, arms crossed. “Sorry.” She slipped her phone into her back pocket. “Yes?”
He pointed toward the far wall, now lined with new baseboard trim and a fresh coat of eggshell paint. “Colour okay?”
Grace nodded. At this point, she didn’t have any colour opinions. It wasn’t abrasive, and this project was almost finished. It would’ve taken a sewer-green to make her even consider repainting.
Matthew nodded. “The last cabinet doors are being installed Friday. The new electrical passed inspection this morning. Fire code stuff’s done. Plumber came and signed off on the hot water system. After that it’s just touch-ups and a deep clean.”
She turned slowly, taking in the space—the wide hallway, the updated lights, the muted scent of fresh paint still clinging to the air. It wasn’t flashy, but it was beautiful. Clean. Functional. Safe.
“It looks . . . ” She exhaled. “It looksreally good, Matthew.”
He grunted. “Not perfect. But up to code and then some. You’ll make your money back three times over.”
Grace smiled and nodded, clearing her throat to fight the emotion building there. She exited into the main foyer, then out the front steps. Outside, the late March sun blazed through thelarge east-facing windows, glinting off the remaining patches of crusted snow.
