“You knew?” The words came out startled. “You didn’t—” My throat tightened. “You didn’t turn me in to the Board?”
“No.” He frowned slightly, confusion flickering before understanding dawned.
I pushed back to see his face. “That’s not how the agency works, Grant. We report everything. Agents have to be at their peak or—”
“Or what?” he interrupted. “They’ll take the hardest case in the archives—the one that sent another agent to the hospital—and get closer to solving it than anyone else? Remindme again why you’re not suited for this job. Because you can’t use magic to turn off a light?”
He laid his palm against my heart. “Magic makes things easier. But this—” His thumb brushed once, gently. “—this is what solves cases.”
I stared at him, caught somewhere between disbelief and something close to awe. He wasn’t scolding me. There wasn’t even pity in his eyes. He just understood something I’d never fully acknowledged.
It struck me then how much he deserved to run Snowbelt. He wasn’t the family outcast, taking the place of his cousin and pretending to lead. He was stepping out of the mold. Changing what leadership meant. He’d make the Agency better in a way Matt never would have.
“You’re doing a good job,” I said, resting my hand over his. “Running Snowbelt. Making it different. If no one’s ever told you that… it’s true.”
He just looked at me, the usual light in his eyes dimming to something unguarded. It was like peering into a mirror and seeing everything you hate about yourself, only to turn and face the one person who sees you best. Who thinks your flaws are beautiful. I felt the shift before he moved, emotion too strong for him to mask.
Then he kissed me—lowering his mouth to mine as if words had finally failed him. Nothing about this kiss felt safe. It was raw, that wire between us exposed, susceptible to heartbreak.
It would have been so easy to let him pull me back under. After last night, I’d found a new cure for that seasonal depression he’d mentioned. But then we’d spend all day under the covers. Maybe all the way to New Year’s. And we couldn’t shut out the world, even if I wanted to.
I pulled back, resting my forehead against his, both of us breathing the same air. The ache in the back of my throat was back. I swallowed hard and forced a stern look.
“Okay, that’s enough couples therapy before breakfast. We should get extra credit from the resort. A fruit basket wouldn’t go amiss.”
“They should send more than a fruit basket for what I paid,” Grant grumbled.
My stern look morphed into shock. “Wait, you paid for that abysmal beach wedding? With the creepy doves and poor signage?”
Grant sat up, the blanket twisting around his waist. “Of course, I paid for our wedding. Did you think I’d let that bill go to collections? You’ve seen how persistent they are with their letters.”
I scowled, swinging my legs out of bed and grabbing a fleece sweatshirt from the chair. “Maybe so, but you paid to marry a woman covered in mud. Mercifully, there was no photography.”
Grant pulled on a pair of sweatpants, then captured me around the waist, drawing me back against him. “I would’ve paid extra for that photo, Spells. Actually, now that you mention it, you owe me for that ceremony.” He tickled my ribs, and I bent double, laughing as I tried to wriggle free. “I’ll collect my payment in bacon.”
Chapter 23
Grant
She was burning it.
Not in aslightly overdoneway. In athe smoke alarm is about to enter the chatway.
I leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching as the smoke billowed toward the ceiling as she cursed the pan like it had personally wronged her family line. The spatula clanged, the bacon hissed, and the entire kitchen smelled like grease and the promise of smoke inhalation.
She’d tied her hair into a messy knot, but a strand kept falling in her face. She cursed that too, muttering about “culinary sabotage.”
I should’ve helped. Any decent person would’ve helped.
Instead, I stood there like a villain, completely and irreversibly gone. Because the way her sweatshirt slipped off one shoulder, and the way she pursed her lips with that stubborn, messy determination, somehow made the whole room feel like home. The wild, unguarded kind of home I’d been chasing my whole life.
She flipped a pancake, and it landed on the kitchen tile. She glanced at me, unbothered.
“No one likes the first pancake, anyway,” she declared, tossing it in the trash.
That basket she made—no net.
And I swear, in that moment, I knew I was in love with her.
