Coming Home (The Santa Monica Trilogy Book 2)

by Jill Blake

  “I wouldn’t say that. What about our trip to Europe?”

  “One trip over four years.”

  “One big trip. Was there a single major city that we didn’t see?”

  “Okay, one big trip.” She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “But what about L.A.? Our own back yard, and we never took the time to explore it.”

  It wasn’t something Logan had thought about much, until recently.

  Growing up, he’d always had his nose stuck in a book. His father was too busy working or chasing after women to pay Logan any attention. And his mother, when she was still alive, had been too drunk or high to care.

  Later, there had been college and grad school and career. He’d barely come up for air—and even then, it was just to refuel.

  Not much had changed in the years after Grace’s departure for the East coast. Work, food, exercise, sex. The same pattern, on endless repeat. The women were interchangeable, and never lasted long. The moment they started pushing for more than light conversation and a good time in bed, he excused himself and moved on.

  But this time, he didn’t want to move on. With Grace by his side, he wanted to dig in and grow roots.

  “Logan?”

  He blinked. “I suppose we took things for granted. We assumed that this—” he swept his fingers in a semi-circle before settling them atop her hand on the table, “would always be here.”

  She dropped her gaze to their joined hands. “Things don’t always work out according to plan, do they?”

  “No. But we’re making up for lost time. And you’re having fun, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Me too.” He stroked a thumb across her knuckles. “Sometimes life works out even better than planned.”

  She shook her head. “Awfully cocky, aren’t you?”

  “No. Just optimistic.”

  It wasn’t until two days later that his optimism suffered a setback.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “I got the faculty job,” Grace announced the moment he opened his front door.

  “That’s great, congratulations!” Logan caught her around the waist and lifted, swinging her around in a circle down the hall and into the living room until they were both laughing. “We need to celebrate.”

  “Not yet.” She pushed against his chest. “I didn’t say I accepted it.”

  “You didn’t?” He set her down. “But you will.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because it’s the smart thing to do.”

  His confident tone seemed to rankle her. “I have another offer on the table, if you recall.”

  “Yes, but obviously that’s no longer an option.”

  “Why not?” She stepped back, eyes narrowing. “They jumped at the idea of my working there part-time.”

  “But Grace, sweetie.” He tried for a conciliatory tone. “If you’re already working full-time at the university, you won’t have time to work at the non-profit as well.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest.

  Logan recognized the battle sign, and felt the first stirrings of alarm.

  Sure enough, her next words confirmed that she wasn’t about to be reasonable. “That’s assuming I take the faculty position.”

  “I thought it was your dream job.”

  She was silent.

  “You’re going to be helping people, no matter what,” he pointed out.

  “It’s not the same demographic,” she said. “The patient population here on campus isn’t exactly underserved.”

  “Just because they have insurance doesn’t mean they don’t need help. You know that, Grace. Come on, don’t be so stubborn.”

  The words seemed to fuel her anger. “I can do one day a week at the non-profit and still work full time at the university.”

  He frowned. “That’s a pretty big time commitment. Doesn’t leave much room for anything else.”

  She dismissed that with a shrug. “Residency’s no walk in the park, either. I’m used to eighty hour work weeks.”

  “Eighty hours?” he sputtered. “Where would that kind of schedule leave us?”

  “What do you suggest?”

  He took a deep breath. “Move in with me.”

  She drew her brows together. “Didn’t we already have this conversation?”

  “Last week,” he agreed. “And I admit, that might have been a little premature.”

  “And this isn’t.”

  “Well, no.” He tried to moderate his tone. “I’ve had a chance to think about it. Line up my arguments, so to speak.”

  “Really,” she said, arms still in combat mode, but now the fingers of one hand tapping against the opposite arm. He wasn’t sure that was a good sign. “What arguments?”

  There was no backing out now, he realized, so he forged ahead. “First off, you won’t have to leave a nice warm bed late at night to get home.”

  “I don’t do that anyway. I wait until morning.”

  “Okay, you won’t have to rush around in the morning to go home and then double back to get to work.”

  “That’s assuming I’m working here on campus.”

  “Yes.” At her silence, he continued. “Think of all the time you’d save by not having to commute. It’ll be time we can spend together. Exploring L.A., like we did the last few days.”

  Her fingers stopped tapping. “Keep talking.”

  “You like to run in the mornings, right? So do I. We could do that, before work. And after work we could stop by the market and load up on organic veggies and cook meals at home.”

  Her brows shot up. “Since when do you cook?”

  “You could teach me.”

  “Of course. Go on.”

  “And it’ll be good for you. Get you past all of these lingering trust issues.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Yeah,” he said, warming up to the idea. “I mean, look at how far you’ve come since we got back together.”

  Her hands dropped. “Are you telling me this was all some kind of master plan to get me over my issues?”

  Her tone didn’t bode well. Maybe that hadn’t been the wisest argument to make, but he was right, damn it. “You’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you?”

  If anything, her tone turned frostier. “I don’t need some arrogant, patronizing male rearranging my life for me. I’m an adult. I can take care of myself. No matter what happens, I’m not going to fall apart.” She turned on her heel and marched toward the front hall. “And for your information,” she tossed over her shoulder, “you’ve just justified whatever trust issues I might have.”

  Logan stood rooted to the spot. It was the sound of the door opening that finally shocked him into motion. “Grace, wait.” He caught up with her halfway to the elevator. “I know you’re strong and can take care of yourself.”

  “Damn straight.”

  He overtook her and planted himself in front of her. She tried to step around him, but he matched her step for step. “I wasn’t trying to arrange things for you,” he said, when she finally stopped and glared at him. “I was trying to help in whatever way I could.”

  “Including getting me over my trust issues in bed?”

  He wished she’d stop using that term.

  Down the hall, the elevator doors pinged and slid open. A woman exited and glanced at them curiously before heading toward an apartment in the opposite direction.

  “It wasn’t like that,” Logan growled.

  “Sure sounds that way to me.”

  “For God’s sake, Grace, I love you.” He stepped closer, reaching for her. “You’re everything I ever wanted. Don’t you get it? We all need to have one person in our lives whom we can turn to, no matter what, and I want to be that person for you. The person who loves you, protects you, and yes, damn it, helps you, in whatever way you need, for the rest of our lives. I love you, Grace.”

  His hands cupped her cheeks, and he lowered his forehead to rest against hers. He dropped his voice to a whisp
er. “I love you.”

  Her lips trembled. With shaking fingers, she clasped the backs of his hands.

  He wiped the moisture from her cheeks with his thumbs. “Grace?” His lips brushed hers.

  Her voice was barely there. “What?”

  “I really do love you.”

  “Okay.”

  He smiled against her lips. Stubborn to the end, that was his Grace. But he loved her. And whether she admitted it or not, she loved him.

  The rest—that was all details. They’d work things out. Eventually.

  He took the final step that brought his body flush against hers. When he lifted her up, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and nestled her face into his neck. Her lips moved almost soundlessly against his skin.

  “What was that?” he said, barely pausing on his way back to the apartment.

  “I forgive you.”

  “And...?”

  “And maybe I love you too.”

  “Maybe?” He kicked the door shut and eased her back to her feet, keeping his arms wrapped around her.

  “Probably.”

  “After all we’ve been through?”

  “Okay, I’m pretty sure.”

  “We have to work on that.” He dipped his head to capture her mouth in a soul-stealing kiss.

  By the time they came up for air, she was barely standing.

  “You know what this means,” he said.

  “What?”

  “We’re going to have to go to New York.”

  She reared back. “What?”

  “So I can meet your father.”

  Her forehead puckered. “Why?”

  “You stood up at his wedding. It’s only right he do the same for you.”

  In the silence that followed, Logan wondered if he’d overplayed his hand. Finally, Grace cleared her throat. “Are you asking me to marry you?”

  For the first time ever, the words didn’t make him break out in a cold sweat. In fact, he kind of liked the idea of matching china, jumbo mortgage, two-point-four children, and furry pet. As long as Grace was the one sharing it all with him.

  “Yes,” he said. “I am.”

  She took a deep breath. “That’s kind of a big step, isn’t it? What’s the rush?”

  “We’ve known each other twelve years, Grace. I wouldn’t exactly call that rushing.”

  “We spent eight of those years apart.”

  “I know, and believe me, I’ve regretted every minute of that since.” He tipped her chin up to look directly into her eyes. “Tell me you don’t feel the same.”

  She blinked. “That’s no reason to jump into anything. We should both take some time to think this through.”

  “Right.” He reminded himself he was a patient man. And he’d already waited this long. He eased back, making sure she was steady on her feet before he stepped away.

  She eyed him uncertainly. “So that’s it?”

  “You said you need time to think.”

  “Yes. Yes, I do.” She glanced around, as if unsure what to do next. “Well, then. I should get going.”

  She hesitated, as if expecting him to make a move. When he remained still, she rose up on her toes and pressed a quick kiss to his lips. “’Bye.”

  Logan stared at the closed door, replaying the scene in his head. He’d told Grace that he loved her and wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. And she’d hightailed it out of there faster than a gazelle trying to outrun a lion.

  Clearly, he still had a lot of convincing to do. He ran a hand through his hair and down the tight muscles at the back of his neck.

  In the kitchen, he started a fresh pot of coffee and considered his options. It wouldn’t hurt to get some allies on his side.

  He poured his first cup and glanced at the time. New York was three hours ahead. Good, not too late to call.

  Powering up his laptop, he opened a search window and typed in Joseph Prentice.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Grace drove home in a daze. She half expected the car radio to spontaneously sputter to life and play the theme from the Twilight Zone.

  Logan’s declaration of love had completely broadsided her. Maybe if she hadn’t been so wrapped up in her own dramas, she might have been able to see it coming. Despite his outrageous claims to the contrary, they had been spending more time together, both in and out of bed.

  But marriage? She shied away from even contemplating it. Rationally, she knew Logan wasn’t Harry. He had proven that time and again. But her immediate, visceral reaction to Logan’s proposal—if his offhand statement could even be called that—was to run as far and as fast as possible.

  Living together would be a big enough commitment, as far as she was concerned. It didn’t legally bind her to anything. And if things didn’t work out—she winced at the thought, but it had to be considered—then at least there would be no drawn-out divorce to negotiate, no need to work out the legal niceties that would grant them both their independence.

  As for his autocratic decree regarding her job choices...she was still too angry for words. Where did Logan get off telling her how to manage her career? She was an adult, with at least as much education under her belt as he had. She could damn well make her own decisions.

  She didn’t need anyone to tell her how difficult and emotionally draining it would be to work for the non-profit. With a clientele consisting almost exclusively of battered women, many of whom were bound to be indigent or homeless, and likely to have comorbidities that included mental illness or addiction, how could it be otherwise? Especially when resources were limited and long-term social support networks inadequate.

  She knew that success stories were few and far between. But they did exist. She was one. Granted, she’d had advantages that most of these women probably didn’t have. But her experiences at least gave her some insight into where the women might be coming from, and what the road ahead entailed. That alone would provide a common starting point on which to build a foundation of trust.

  Could she see herself doing this kind of work full-time without burning out? If she was going to be completely honest, the answer was probably no.

  And did she really want to risk losing the golden opportunity of a tenure-track academic position? Again, in full honesty, no.

  So where did that leave her?

  Working, as she told Logan, an eighty hour week? Full time at the university, part time at the shelter? Was that even sustainable?

  In the end, the solution came from an unexpected source: a grand rounds lecture on treating post-traumatic stress disorder, or PTSD, in victims of domestic violence. The speaker was a professor who held joint appointments in the psychiatry and health policy departments. Her area of interest, it turned out, was developing cost-effective outreach programs for women and children affected by domestic violence. And she was very interested in hearing more about Grace’s idea for a collaborative effort between the university and the non-profit sector.

  Best of all, she was willing to back Grace’s proposal for establishing a satellite office that would offer comprehensive medical and mental health services specifically for the women and children who sought refuge at the non-profit’s shelters. Senior psychiatry and family medicine residents would rotate through this office as part of their training, under the supervision of Grace and other faculty physicians.

  If Grace could get buy-in from the university’s institutional review board, she might also be able to set up a research project to study the outcomes of various therapeutic approaches in this particular patient population.

  It wasn’t guaranteed—there would be multiple bureaucratic hoops to jump through—and she would still have to spend time doing administrative work to set everything up and oversee the project. But this would allow her to fulfill her research and at least part of her teaching obligation, while providing the care the non-profit’s clients so desperately needed.

  If everything worked out, full time would still be on the order of sixty hours a week. Not e
xactly the laid-back schedule Logan was suggesting, but definitely manageable. She couldn’t wait to get started.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “A letter came for you today,” Ruth said over dinner.

  “Oh?” Grace gave up trying to cut the black bean burger patty on her plate. At least Maria had stopped serving her meat. The next step was convincing her that vegetarian entrees didn’t need to be charred to be well done.

  “It’s on the sideboard.”

  “I’ll take a look later, thanks.”

  Ruth wiped her lips with a napkin. “It was forwarded from your old address in New York.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Looks like an invitation.”

  “Fine, you want me to open it, I’ll open it.” Grace retrieved the thick vellum envelope from the sideboard.

  “Well?” Ruth prompted, after watching for several minutes in silence while Grace examined the contents. “Who’s getting married?”

  “What? No one. Why would you ask that?”

  “It looks like a wedding invitation.”

  “It’s not.” Grace set the papers aside.

  “Well, then, don’t keep me in suspense.”

  “It’s an invitation to a commencement ceremony.”

  “You mean graduation? Yours?”

  “Yes.”

  “When is it?”

  Grace pushed aside her plate. “In three weeks.”

  “That soon?” Ruth glanced at the ever-present walker nearby. “I wonder if the doctor will let me travel by then.”

  The remark took Grace by surprise. After years of lukewarm, pro-forma telephone exchanges, her grandmother all of a sudden wanted to attend Grace’s residency graduation? Though on reflection, she supposed it made sense, in light of some of the other conciliatory gestures Ruth had made over the last few weeks.

  Before they got too carried away, Grace decided a reality check was in order. “Neither of us is traveling anywhere any time soon, Grandma.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re barely five weeks out from surgery. The orthopedist said at your last appointment that it’ll be at least three months before you can get on a plane.”