Page 37 of Graciously His

With another snap of my fingers, Shep subsides, pacing quietly behind me. I reach through the bars and take the package off the guy.

“See that it doesn’t.” I hold out a hundred-dollar note. “Don’t you want your tip?”

“No,” the guy answers, shaking his head. “No, we’re not allowed to accept tips, sir. Sorry, sir.”

“See you next time—first.”

He stumbles to his van. Shep gives a few satisfied pants as the courier truck peels out, and I put the money away.

“Good boy,” I say, walking back to the house.

The bullet journal is in my hand a second later, and I grin. Despite my warning to the courier asshole, the timing is perfect. Turquoise cover, gilded pages, and all the information I need. I check Grace’s progress on my spyware. She’s not even midway through the list, so I head to my office with the journal. A few minutes later, I’ve scanned the whole book and stored hard copies in the safe. Only then do I let myself look at its contents properly.

The journal is… beautiful. Each month has its own cover page with a unique theme. Clouds for November last year. The moon phases for April. Mushrooms for July. Each features a unique colour scheme and design. Grace has monthly trackers for most of her symptoms as well as for sleep, reading, and even gratitude. I see my name among her gratitude lists more than once, often connected with support for her degree, but sometimes just on its own. I suppress the urge to go and wrap my arms around her to show my gratitude.

The richest information lies near the front of the book. Across a few pages, Grace has mapped out her menstrual cycle for the entire year, filling in each value for each day. It’s a sophisticated graph that must have taken her quite some time. I snap a few pictures so I can create a spreadsheet later. Soon enough, I’ll have the fertility windows of the next few months.

Excellent.

I close the book against my heart. Grace’s originally; it’s mine now. Her voice calls from a few rooms away, and I realise I’ve been looking at the journal for almost twenty minutes. It felt like five. I slip it back into its packaging.

Grace is in the hallway.

“It’s done,” she says, brandishing her phone. Then her eyes widen. “Wait, is that my bullet journal?”

I hand it over, taking her phone as if in exchange. She makes a displeased sound.

“Nate,” she turns the package over, “you opened this!”

“I always check packages.”

I scroll down the checklist. She’s selected most of the clothes, a bunch of books, and a number of little keepsakes. No furniture. No pictures. She grabs my hand, forcing my attention off the phone.

“When did it get here?”

I take her wrist, pulling her close, though I keep my eyes on the screen.

“Let go of me,” she whispers.

“Just a second, little heart. I’ve got to make sure we’re both happy with this before I send it to the movers. They’ve been waiting all morning. Are you sure you don’t want any furniture? Not even the antiques?”

“What did you do with my bullet journal?”

“I admired it, Grace.” I meet her eyes with a shrug, trying to keep things light. “It’s a beautiful thing you’ve created. And useful.”

“It’s private—you had no right to look!”

“You’re half-right. It is private, but privacy doesn’t exist between you and me.”

She looks at the phone then back at my face. I try to neutralise my expression as a flicker of realisation narrows her eyes. I wait to see if she’ll voice her newfound suspicion that I’ve looked at everything in her phone, too. In tightening my grip on Grace, I’ve relied on the habitual submissiveness Constance Reid taught her. Now I get to see how it looks when she breaks away from her default. As it turns out, my girl gets very quiet as her eyes fill with a hardness I’ve never seen in her before.

Gorgeous.

“So,” she says coldly, “you want access to everything? What’s next—you’ll demand to see my phone at the end of every day?” She wrenches away from me, the journal falling to the floor between us. “I’m an idiot for even thinking about staying here with you.”

Grace turns to walk away, but I’ve got her back to the wall in a matter of seconds, her phone clattering to the floor beside the journal as I grip her shoulder in one hand, her throat in the other. I’m relieved that she didn’t ask me directly about the spyware, but I’m not about to let her walk away from me.

She breathes fast in my grip, her fury transmuting into panic.