“Gracie, please. I have a spare room if you need somewhere to stay.”
“Wow, I tell you to open your heart once, and you’re already propositioning me.”
Heat scrapes up my neck. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Then just let me risk my life and good driving record in peace, okay?”
“At least let me follow behind you. If you break down, you’ll have a ride.”
“No need for that, I’ve got a kayak right here,” she says, waving the sandwich.
“I’ll get my car. It’s not far away.”
“Stop. You’re going to give yourself an ulcer. I’ll text you when I make it back.”
I bite back another argument, knowing I’m edging away from concerned and into controlling. “Fine.”
“See? Was that so hard?” she asks, opening the driver’s-side door.
Yes.
“I’ll text you when I make it,” she assures me again when I don’t answer her.
“Bye, Gracie.”
She closes her door and starts what sounds like a hamster-powered engine. As she drives away with a wave, I grab my phone, check the GPS, and set a timer for fifty-six minutes—the exact amount of time it’ll take her to get from here to Larkwood.
12GRACIE
Six Weeks Before the Wedding
Jude:You should be back now.
Jude:Are you not responding on purpose?
Gracie:Too busy hailing a long-haul trucker with my sandwich. Do you think flashing some leg would work better than flashing pastrami?
Jude:Tell me you’re not broken down and hitchhiking.
Gracie:I’m home! Just pulled into my driveway, you psycho. Go pet your cat or something.
Jude:I’d prefer to keep my fingers, thanks.
Gracie:Your own cat won’t let you pet her? Sad.
Jude:Taco is more of a “look with your eyes, not your hands” companion.
Gracie:Like a museum exhibit?
Jude:Like a land mine.
Gracie:Aw. I’m sure it’s just you she doesn’t like.
Jude:I think you forgot the word “not” before “just.”
Gracie:Nope. Just you.
Tuesday
