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Grace held out her arm toward the elderly woman. “Don’t worry about it. We’re not on a schedule
.”
Matt did a double take. They might not be on a schedule, but Grace seemed pretty adamant they reach Gravenhurst by seven. At the latest. Those three words had come out of her mouth more than once this morning.
“I’ll get our stuff into the truck.”
They didn’t have much—one bag between the two of them—and once he was done he returned to the kitchen. The fact that he was sharing a bag—a weekender bag—was a new thing for Matt, and he thought it damn lucky none of the guys were here to witness the monumental event. A) because they’d chirp him ‘til the cows came home and, B) the damn weekender was black and, what had Grace called it? Periwinkle.
It was blue if he had anything to say about it. Or maybe purple. Either of those was better than periwinkle. What the hell kind of color was that anyway? And who the hell called a bag a weekender? Wasn’t a bag just a damn bag?
Women were complicated. Everything they touched was complicated.
Dory sat on the sofa with one of Rosie’s babies in her arms, and Grace sat cross legged on the floor beside Mama Rosie, the smallest puppy wriggling crazily and trying to lick her face. She laughed, that full-on belly laugh that made him smile, and then rolled onto her side. The puppy went with her, jumping up and down while still trying to reach her face.
She tickled his round belly and scooped him back up, snuggling against the little guy’s face.
The women didn’t know he was there and Matt was content to watch them. There was something simple and easy and sweet about these two together. If Betty Jo were here, he’d have all the women who meant anything to him, in one place.
For a lone wolf, he was surprisingly okay with that.
“Have you named any of them yet?” Dory asked Grace, chuckling as her little puppy attempted to stick its tongue in her ear.
Grace shook her head. “No. But this little guy reminds me of my papa’s dog. The one he had when I was little. We called him Rookie.”
“Rookie? That’s an interesting name.”
“I have no idea what the story was behind that dog’s name. I can only tell you that my papa was a southerner and when it comes to names, they don’t always make sense.”
“Ah, yes.” Dory set the puppy down and giggled. “Your middle name is Bluebell if I remember correctly.”
“Bluebell.” Grace got to her feet. “That name was responsible for me getting pantsed more times than I care to admit.” She spied Matt. “Oh. I didn’t see you there.”
He walked over to Grace, eyes taking in every inch of her. Dressed casually in butt-hugging denim, a white camisole, and a deep navy cardigan, her hair loose and hanging in soft waves down her back—she was everything he wanted.
“Anyone tries to pants you, has to deal with me.”
“Well, Mr. Hawkins.” She handed him the pup. “Where were you when I was in the third grade?”
A world away from you.
It was a sobering thought. A truth that she refused to see. They came from different worlds. Hell, he was in another galaxy altogether. And she didn’t know the half of it.
Just this morning he’d left forty-five minutes earlier than he’d had to in order to drive by the hotel in town before heading over to Dory’s place. He’d wanted to make sure Delilah was gone. The fact that her SUV wasn’t there didn’t make him feel as relieved as he would have liked. He just hoped she’d headed back to Arizona.
None of his past was resolved and that feeling in his gut, the one that told him something big was coming down the pike, wouldn’t let up. It was a constant reminder that everything he’d been running from was circling back. That one day the ghosts from his past would catch up to him—Delilah was proof enough of that—and when they did, the collateral damage would be substantial.
Did he really want Grace caught up in that mess? Did anyone deserve the kind of shit-storm that surrounded him?
Isn’t that why he’d always been alone? Isn’t that why he’d never bothered with putting the toilet seat down, or moving a pink toothbrush aside? Hell, the other day he’d spent ten minutes picking up underwear that was pink and frilly. And a periwinkle weekender bag? Periwinkle. Weekender. Two words a guy should never have to utter.
What the hell was happening to him?
“Hey, why are you looking so glum?” Her eyes searched his and Matt gave himself a mental smack. He shut his shit down and attempted a smile.
“I’m good.” He glanced at Dory. “We should probably get going. You know, if you want to make it there by seven.”
“You two kids go along now. I’ll look after Rosie and her babies.”
