by A. J. Pine
Grace dropped to her knees and scratched behind the dog’s ears.
“That’s my Aristotle in a bottle,” she cooed in the voice that only came out in the presence of animals. And goodness she loved this one. “That’s my boy,” she said. He panted in appreciation and wagged his tail with delight. Aristotle licked her cheek and spun in a circle before the whole routine started over again. She was so focused on the dog that she almost missed the tail end of the conversation between her father and Jeremy.
“…intentions twenty-two days from now. But what about after that? After you get what you’ve been waiting for?”
Grace sprang up at the sound of her father’s voice.
“Dad!”
Jeremy rubbed his palms together, then shoved them in the pockets of his jacket. It was thirty-eight degrees outside. She’d picked Jeremy up at his apartment and driven the short ride to her parents’ house—his door to their driveway. She hadn’t thought to warn him there might be dog-walking on the agenda, which would have merited the suggestion of a warmer coat. Maybe gloves. The two men had only been gone twenty minutes, but that was long enough for frostbite to set in. Wasn’t it? Hypothermia, maybe? At any rate, she could add at least mild, weather-related discomfort to the growing list of ailments suffered by one Jeremy Denning since he’d met her.
“It’s okay, Grace,” Jeremy said, his voice even and relaxed. “He’s your dad, and this is an…unconventional situation.” He turned to face her father. “Mr. Bailey, I’ve spent the past two months not only getting to know your daughter, but falling in love with her passion for her work, her determination to regain control of her life through an amazing amount of self-discipline, and the undying loyalty she has for those who are most important to her—like you and Mrs. Bailey. My intentions twenty-two days from now are no different than they will be twenty-three days from now. Or twenty-four. Or however many days your daughter will keep me around. I’m not waiting for anything I don’t already have.” He grabbed her hand and pulled it to his mouth, brushing his cold, soft lips across her skin.
“And what, exactly, is that?” Mr. Bailey asked, his brows pulled together.
Jeremy shrugged and glanced at her. “Your daughter willing to put up with me.” He let out a nervous laugh. “To trust me enough to bring me here. To maybe trust me with her heart.”
Grace’s voice caught in her throat, and applause erupted from the kitchen entryway. It was Sarah and Jeff—even her mother—seemingly giving Jeremy and his noble little speech a standing ovation. After several seconds, her dad joined the fray by grunting his approval. Everything Jeremy had said was pitch-perfect. Exactly what her parents needed to hear. But what about what Grace needed to hear?
She knew she was being a hypocrite. It wasn’t as if she’d professed her love for him. But he’d said it—and then forgotten—and now she wasn’t so sure what he felt. Trusting him with her heart wasn’t exactly saying he’d given his to her. Had this no-sex thing really taught her to rely on true emotion, or was she just as unsure now as ever?
Six months of clarity was supposed to give her all the answers, but now that she was a few weeks out, she still wasn’t sure if she could reconcile her head with her heart along with what her body craved.
You love him, her heart argued.
You want him, her…other parts suggested.
You know nothing, Jon Snow, her head insisted.
Un-fudging-believable. I’m a mess.
“Well, then,” her father said, snapping her out of her head-heart-lady-bits tug-of-war. “I’m going to wash up and check on the turkey.” He took off his jacket and tossed it over his arm before making his way up the stairs and to the master bedroom. Aristotle, ever the daddy’s boy, followed eagerly behind.
Grace narrowed her eyes at her mother, sister, and brother-in-law, who were still staring at them like they were the finale of a theater performance.
“Right,” Sarah said, the first to take the hint. “Why don’t we grab the veggie tray and check on…something else that is probably in the kitchen.” She linked her fingers with Jeff’s and pulled him back. Seconds later she returned to do the same with their mother, who was still watching Grace and Jeremy with a curious stare.
Finally, they were alone, if fifty feet away from what was surely a kitchen full of eavesdroppers meant alone.
“Aristotle in a bottle?” Jeremy said, brows raised.
“I rhyme when I talk to animals,” she said matter-of-factly. “Now you know the ugly truth.”
He was still holding her hand, his skin chilly against hers.
“Your family loves you, Grace.” His voice was quiet but intent. “And, I mean…they’re lawyers. They should be able to figure a way out of this situation. I think if you told them about—”
“No,” she whispered, teeth gritted. “If I tell them, if I call Mark’s bluff and he destroys them—taking their clients with him—I’d never be able to live with that. I already appeased my mother by telling her the prize money will go charity…and a part of it will. I just need the first three months’ rent under my belt, and I can make that work with half of what I’ll take home. I’ve been putting money away again since…since everything. And, Jeremy, please, promise me you won’t say anything to them. They worry enough about me being able to take care of myself as it is since I’m not rolling in marble and reclaimed wood and thirty-five hundred square feet. I just— I can’t prove them right, okay?”
He opened his mouth to protest, but Grace cut him off.
“Look,” she said. “When I said I didn’t want to go to college, they protested but still paid for massage therapy school just like they paid for Sarah’s undergrad and law school. When I said I wanted to live in the city and work my way through school, they paid for my apartment. As soon as I graduated, I broke my financial ties with them because I wanted to prove I could do this on my own—that I didn’t have to be like them to be successful. They have always been my safety net, Jeremy. Now I need to prove I can be theirs. Does that make sense?”
He nodded.
“Then please, promise,” she said again, knowing their privacy was short-lived.
He nodded. “I promise, Grace. But I swear if I ever meet this guy, I’ll—”
She shook her head. “You’ll nothing. Because sometimes the bad guy wins, and we have to accept that and get over it.”
“That’s bullshit,” he whispered.
She shrugged. “It’s reality. I can’t control what other people do. I can’t change anyone who doesn’t want to change themselves. And I can’t keep banging my head against a wall for wanting things to be different when they never will be. It’s all finally starting to sink in.” She tapped her temple with her index finger and let out a long breath. “But I can control me. I have a say in what I do. And as much as I miss sex—because, holy hell, I do—I’m in control.” She wrapped her arms around his torso and rested her head on his chest. “Did you really mean all those things you said to my dad?”
He buried his face in her hair, his breath warm against her.
“About hanging around for as long as you’ll have me? Every. Single. Word.”
Believe him, her heart insisted as she inhaled his intoxicating scent. And though the rest of her inner trio of litigators tried to chime in, she ignored them now.
Maybe it was time to trust.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Jeremy grinned at the light dusting of snow on the ground. It wasn’t that he particularly loved a morning run in the snow so much as it was what said snow represented.
Winter.
December.
Grace.
He was four days away from kissing the first woman he’d dared to love since he thought Whitney Gaines had destroyed him for good. Four days away from the deadline for him to sign away a good chunk of his savings—and responsibility—to partner with Jamie on the business his friend had built from scratch less than a decade ago.
Shit. He was four days away from full-on commi
tment, in every sense of the word.
His feet hit the cold pavement with purpose as he ran along the lakeshore path. He didn’t bother with earbuds today, preferring instead the white noise of Lake Michigan’s waves lapping at the shore. The wind was mild for December, but it was still winter, so he was layered against the elements. This was all fine and good when he started his run, but now he was sweating beneath his fleece and Under Armour. The band over his ears hindered more than helped now that his body temperature had risen.
He knew he shouldn’t interrupt his momentum, but he had to lose a layer or he was going to overheat in thirty degrees next to a frigid lake. It wouldn’t take more than a high tide to carry him out to sea—or lake—and then he’d not only miss his first kiss with Grace but also Brynn and Jamie’s wedding.
That was all the convincing Jeremy needed. He was losing the fucking fleece.
He paused and pulled the garment over his head. As he tied it around his waist, he heard the slap of sneakers against the pavement behind him and moved to the side to let the other runner pass. As he did, the person tapped him on the shoulder with a palm and yelled, “Race you to the next bench!”
As she passed, blond ponytail whipping in the increasing wind, Jeremy shook his head and laughed.
Whitney.
He wasn’t surprised she was back to running the same path they used to run together years ago. But he hadn’t hit the trail as much as he’d wanted to in the past couple of months. Today was the first day he felt completely like his old self after his little sciatica bout. He rolled his eyes at himself, still feeling more like an old man to already be having back problems. But today he was pain free, and because he never lost a race, he took off after Whitney before she gained too much distance.
“Shit,” he said between breaths, the cold air filling his lungs as he pushed his body harder than he had in weeks. She definitely hadn’t eased up on her running schedule. She was faster than he remembered, and he fought to close the gap between them. He could finally see the next bench, which hadn’t even been visible when she tapped his shoulder. They probably had another quarter of a mile to go, and already he felt the stitch in his side that came with pushing himself past his comfort zone.
Whitney glanced over as he came up on her right, smiling as he did. They were neck and neck now, and despite his burning lungs, he flashed a smile, one he hoped said, It’s fucking on, and pushed harder.
The bench approached. Whitney’s smile had vanished, and she looked instead like she was in pain, but she never slowed. Neither did Jeremy. When they overran the bench, Jeremy let himself tumble into the grass just off the path, not caring that it was blanketed in a thin layer of snow. He just needed to catch his breath.
Seconds later, Whitney lay next to him, panting as she tried to speak.
“…totally beat you,” she gasped, and Jeremy shook his head against the cold, wet ground.
“No way. I had you by a nose.” He was gasping still, which made him laugh, which then made him gasp some more.
Whitney backhanded him on the stomach.
“You’re getting slow, old man,” she said, then broke into her own fit of panting laughter.
“When the hell did you get so fast?” he asked, sitting up and brushing the snow from his hair. “I always got the impression you didn’t love running with me but did it anyway.” He bit his lip, contemplating what he was about to say and if it would land him in hot water to say it. “I was kind of under the impression it was a competition thing.”
She sat up, glancing back the way they’d come before her eyes met his.
“Me? Competitive?” she said with exaggerated incredulity. “What ever gave you that idea, Mr. Denning?”
He let out a relieved breath, thankful that his breathing, in general, was returning to normal. Then he stood and held out a hand for Whitney. She took it, and he pulled her up and over to the empty bench that signified their finish line.
She grabbed a bottle of water from a holster around her waist and squirted some into her mouth, closing her eyes as she swallowed. Jeremy swore under his breath and watched her, his savage thirst reminding him how unprepared he actually was for this impromptu race.
Their eyes met again, and she laughed.
“You don’t have water. Do you?” she asked.
“Uh—no.”
“Do you still stop at the 7-Eleven on the way back to your apartment?”
He nodded. That was the plan. He always mapped his run so that his cool-down took him past the store just when he was ready to down a half liter of water or Gatorade, depending on his mood. Jeremy preferred distance running to sprinting. That was the plan for this morning—until Whitney showed up.
She handed him the water bottle, and he drank from it with greedy gulps, not letting himself take an unwanted trip down memory lane. There was no comfort to be found in Whitney remembering his routine. It was the past, and he was finally living in the present.
“Thanks for the drink,” he said, handing the bottle back to her. Then he stood. “And thanks for the race. But I gotta go.”
He started to walk away when she called after him.
“I made a new acquaintance a couple weeks ago,” she said. “Mark Wright? You remember him, don’t you?”
She always did know how to keep his attention.
Jeremy stopped and pivoted back to face her.
“What are you doing, Whit?”
His heart rate was slowing, and he was beginning to feel the December chill. Or maybe it was just the chill of anticipation of what she would say next.
She grinned. “Just producing good television,” she said with a shrug. He opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off. “Look. The weather girl thing is good, but it’s not a forever thing for me. Reality television is where the money is.” She took another sip of water, no doubt pausing for effect. “Our ratings in the prime-time spot have been dipping. The national affiliates are blowing us out of the water. If I get this little reality stint to go according to plan, I think I can get us on the path to doubling our ratings in the next six months. And once that happens, my agent says she’s got some national producers waiting to see how this all pans out. Best-case scenario—I get my own show. Worst case? I still double the ratings and get to be executive producer for the whole half-hour segment.”
Jeremy narrowed his eyes. “Doesn’t the station already have one of those?”
She shrugged. “Not if I can do better.”
He shook his head. “God, Whit. Tell me you do think about how your decisions affect others.” He’d told Grace she could trust Whitney. Of all the things his ex was capable of, he’d never thought she’d go so far as to ruin someone else’s life to benefit her own. But if she was willing to try to steal a job from someone who probably wasn’t looking to leave it, what was she willing to do to Grace—someone who meant nothing to her in the grand scheme of things? Did she even know what kind of person she was dealing with when it came to Grace’s ex?
“Whitney,” he said, trying to keep his voice even. “That guy is not someone you want to mess with. I know you can hold your own with pretty much anyone, but trust me on this one. Don’t bring him into this.”
She stood and crossed her arms.
“Pretty much anyone? Come on. You know me better than that. And you know I’m not doing my job, no matter what it is, if I’m not producing the best possible product—whether it’s a meteorology report or a surprise, on-camera visit from the man who wants Grace back, the man who’s willing to fight for the woman he loves. One suitor is sweet. But two and we’ve got drama. And drama equals ratings.”
Forget the cold. Jeremy burned with anger. Not just at Whitney. But hell if he was going to subject Grace to an on-air setup with a man he knew she never wanted to see again.
“Whitney. You have to call this off. You don’t know what the hell you’re dealing with here.”
Whitney shrugged. “I think you’re just afraid of a little competition. If Gr
ace really doesn’t want what Mark has to offer, then you have nothing to worry about. It’s just television. A few minutes of airtime that will equal a windfall of ratings.”
“Whitney, please—”
She grinned, and something glinted in her eyes. “Did you keep that sweet little engagement ring you offered me three years ago? Are you really ready to commit to this girl? Because Mark Wright is.”
Jeremy paced, his fists opening and closing.
“Fuck.” He stopped in front of Whitney again. “Call it off.”
“Propose to her.” She clapped her hands together. “Oh my God. I swear I wasn’t going to goad you into this, but that would be brilliant!”
“Whitney—”
“It would be like that movie, Sweet Home Alabama, though I think I look way more like Reese Witherspoon than Grace does.”
“Whitney, listen to me…”
“Mark is Patrick Dempsey, offering her this life of luxury and a maybe even a Tiffany diamond. And then you’re Josh Lucas, but without the sexy Southern accent. You get drunk a lot, lead a simple enough life… Wait, she chooses the simple life in that one. Maybe not the best example.”
“Christ. Whitney! Call it the fuck off!” He was finally losing it.
“It’s ratings!” she yelled back.
“It’s Grace’s life.” Now he was pleading. No one could be this heartless, not even Whit.
She rolled her eyes. “That’s reality TV, Jeremy. Hate to burst your bubble, but the whole point is messing with people’s lives in front of thousands—or in a perfect world, millions—of viewers. Don’t take it personally. It’s business. It’s what she signed up for.”
No. This was something more, and he knew it. It was about them. Him and Whitney.
“Whit,” he said, forcing himself to stay calm even though he was on his last thread of anything remotely close. “Whatever you do—whatever happens that night—you and I can’t go back to what we were.”
She held her head high and put on the same, practiced calm. “I’m not calling it off,” she said softly. “This is my job.”
