“That was impressive,” I murmur.
“I had a lot of practice,” she replies. “My mom’s house was basically a kiddie jungle.”
We drift toward the stairs, still hushed, like even the slightest noise might undo the magic she wove in that crowded room filled with tiny imaginations.
“So,” I ask casually, “you always this good with chaos?”
Grace smiles. “Only the small, sticky kind. Adults are harder.”
“I’d argue we’re stickier.”
She gives a low laugh, eyes flicking up to mine. Her scarlet lipstick has finally worn down to a more natural shade of pink, and she seems softer like this.
“You like your job?” I ask.
She shrugs and rubs her upper arm. “Most days. It wasn’t the dream, but it’s become my life.”
“What was the dream?”
“Novels. Fiction. The long kind of story with drama and heart, but journalism has deadlines and paychecks, so, here we are.”
“Where do you see yourself? In ten years?”
She shrugs. “With a family, maybe. A house. Kids, eventually. Not yet, though. I tell myself that version of life comes later.”
“Later when?”
She’s quiet for a beat. “When I’m less busy. Less ambitious. When I stop being scared that I won’t be good at it.”
I watch her closely. Her thoughtful face is soft in the dim hall light and beautiful in a way that sneaks up on you, rather than begs to be seen. I can’t look away.
“You’d be good at it,” I say.
She meets my eyes. The look we share is quiet yet charged, her lips parting as if she might speak.
But she doesn’t.
She watches me.
And I watch her.
Heat coils low in my gut. Attraction is easy to feel, even for a man like me who’s known the true depths of love and loss. But this is something deeper. Something more dangerous. Something I thought I’d never feel the echo of again.
“Night, Corbin.”
“Night, Grace.”
She disappears down the hall, and I wait a beat longer before walking away.
9
GRACE
After I say goodnight to Corbin, I go to my room intending to work, but I get a craving for the clear night air and the mental clarity the uninterrupted view gave me last night. And, honestly, a drag of a cigarette would add to the serenity.
My legs carry me to the front porch instead, where the boards creak underfoot, and the air smells like grass, dust, and cooling wood. I tuck myself into the corner of the porch swing with my laptop balanced on one thigh and my phone in the other hand. The house still hums behind me with the murmur of voices, dishes, and evening rituals, but out here, the world exhales with me.
I skim through personal emails that are mostly clutter: edits on a feature I assigned two weeks ago, questions from the design team, and a calendar reminder about a networking brunch I won’t attend. I respond to what I can, flag the rest to Leo, and then flick over to my messages.
