“You should have your wood delivered pre-cut.” I stacked the wood next to the fireplace as he laughingly waved my comment off.
“You were saying, Grace,” Jean said, “about how your grandmother inspired you?”
“I went to school for finance.” Grace’s shoulders tightened slightly. “I worked for a company in Detroit that I thought suited me. The money was excellent, and I had really good reviews, but Didi said it was sapping the life out of me.”
“And she was right?”
Grace’s jaw tightened, and she took a breath, grief flickering across her face. But she obviously shoved it all down, becauseshe lifted her chin and smiled. “She was always right about things like that.”
Had I ever asked her a single question about her grandmother? Grace talked about the woman the way some people talked about religion—constant, reverent, woven into everything. And I’d just let the stories blow past me, treating them like background noise instead of actually listening.
I should have asked.
No, you shouldn’t have, because this is a fucking job, Garrett.
“Jean,” I said, “we were hoping you could examine the egg.”
“Of course, of course. But you’ve had a long few days, and I’ve been alone too long.” He rose and offered Grace a hand to help her up, which she didn’t need, but still accepted. “I must prepare dinner first. Besides, you two are staying the night, no?”
“Jean, I’d like you to examine the egg first.”
“The egg has waited a hundred years, Galahad. A few more hours won’t change anything.” He retrieved three glasses from a cabinet and selected a bottle of wine. He paused, glancing at me. “Still don’t drink?”
“No.”
“Do you mind if we do?”
“No.”
He opened the bottle and poured two glasses. “I’ll be right back.”
Grace picked her glass up. “Why don’t you drink?”
There were too many reasons to count. Messed with my focus. Gave me nightmares. Reminded me of my father. But I settled for: “I don’t like the flavor.”
Grace accepted my answer with a small nod and took a sip of her wine.
Jean caught my eye as he returned with a bottle of still water. He knew. I could only turn down so many vodka toasts and localalcohol before the Legacy team started making guesses and I’d finally shared some part of the truth. None of them had ever pushed afterward.
“Now! Dinner.” Jean clapped his hands and led Grace into the kitchen. He already had several items on the counter, including some small onions. “Grace, can you chop these shallots? Thin slices, like so.” He pulled out a knife, made a quick motion to demonstrate, then handed her the blade.
I leaned against the doorframe as Grace settled into her assigned task.
Finance? Her grandmother was right—that wouldn’t have suited her. A woman like her needed people around her. People she could make smile.
Notpeople like me.
Chapter 19
Grace
The wine had gone straightto my head. Well, to my belly. I was warm and fuzzy, not drunk. Loose in a way I hadn’t been since before the Russian showed up at my café. Jean had kept refilling my glass during dinner, and I’d kept emptying it because the food was incredible and the conversation was easy, and for one evening I’d almost forgotten why we were here.
Almost.
Garrett had laughed twice at Jean’s stories during dinner. Actual laughs. Short, surprised sounds, like they’d escaped before he could stop them.
I did my best not to stare when it happened the first time, but considering how quickly he frowned afterward, I was pretty sure I’d failed.
