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I don’t need Drew trying to barge in or causing a scene right in front of Julian. This way he can come in properly. No drama. Plus the event’s across town and I absolutely hate driving in the city. So really, this is the smart, mature, totally practical decision.

And okay…maybe a tiny part of me likes the idea of Drew being forced to stand there in silence and watch Julian fall in love with me. Maybe then he’ll finally get the message that I’m completely, one hundred percent uninterested in him.

This is actually perfect.

I smile to myself as the confirmation email lands in my inbox.

Grace Vale.

It sounds awful.

Grace Carter had a much better ring to it.

But this will do.

8

GRACE

Everything is going according to plan.

I’ve successfully ignored Drew for days. It’s not as difficult as I expected. I stay upstairs, keep myself busy, and time my movements like a spy. Avoidance, it turns out, is just another form of discipline, and I’ve always excelled at discipline.

Still, I’m slowly going crazy. By Thursday I’d reorganized my wardrobe twice. By Friday I downloaded Julian’s book but had to put it down after three pages when he started talking about leaning into your authentic self. I actually laughed out loud in my empty bedroom.

But none of that matters. Julian isn’t supposed to be interesting. He’s supposed to be appropriate. That’s the entire point.

Now I’m sitting in the passenger seat of Drew’s car as he drives me across town to the event. He hasn’t said much, except that he’s glad I’m finally leaving the house and that he’s losing his mind in the guest house.

I steal a glance at him from the corner of my eye, and my stomach does a slow, traitorous flip.

He looks unfairly good in a navy suit, red tie and crisp white shirt. He’s clean-shaven, with that sharp jawline on full display. His dark hair is perfectly styled, not a strand out of place.

“You’re staring,” he says, without taking his eyes off the road.

My gaze snaps forward. “I told you to wear linen.”

“Do I look like the kind of man who owns linen?” Drew asks, glancing over with a lazy smile. His eyes drift down my body. “You look good in white. Real good.”

He’s not wrong. The crisp white halter top and matching skirt hug me in all the right places. It’s flattering without trying too hard. I already knew white looks great on me, but there’s something satisfying about the way Drew says it. No hesitation. No half-hearted mumble. Just pure, unfiltered appreciation.

Most guys act like giving a genuine compliment might bankrupt them. I once dated a man who went three whole months without saying a single nice thing to me.

Still, I shouldn’t encourage him. I tug at the hem of my skirt. “Eyes on the road.”

“Kind of hard when you’re sitting there looking like that.”

“Now who’s flirting?”

“I’m not flirting,” he says, amused. “I’m stating facts.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from smiling.

Do not engage.

“You never told me what you thought of my collage,” he says after a beat.

I fail miserably at hiding my grin. “Nine stinky boys and a minivan? Hard pass.”