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that precious fugue state to put her back together. It didn’t happen all that often. I couldn’t say it didn’t happen, but not since my grandmother.
I hadn’t really allowed myself to fall into my work. Too much guilt, too much sadness, too much Blake. So much time wasted.
I slid my hand out from under my pillow and winced. My fingers were raw with scrapes and burns. The work had been too intense for safety gloves. I couldn’t get close enough to do the fine welding work. In the middle of a work tornado, I could lose time, and burns didn’t really register.
With blurry eyes, I studied the nicks at my knuckles, and a nasty gash along the side of my hand. Yeah, that was going to need peroxide and a butterfly bandage.
“Good job, Grace.”
I rolled up to a sitting position and barely swallowed a groan.
Definitely had passed out.
I reached for my phone. Thursday.
Holy hell, I’d worked for days. It didn’t feel like it. My stomach roared. Okay, so my stomach said it did. Thursday—Thanksgiving.
Why couldn’t I work through one more day? Then it would have been over. Today was the one day that I always unburied myself to see my grandmother. Obviously that wasn’t happening. I could go to Philomena’s. She was forever sending me texts for dinner, brunch, lunch—even breakfast. Anything to get me to come see her.
It was easier to just work. Whether in my studio or at Blake’s company, anything was better than feeling the loss.
I rolled forward to stretch out my back. The buckle of my overalls swiped over my nipple. Sometimes I was intelligent enough to shuck the overalls, but not this morning evidently. I pushed the strap up and resisted the urge to look at my worktable.
If I did, I’d be lost again.
But I definitely needed food. I needed caffeine. Hell, I needed a shower. I could still smell him on me under the sweat and madness. More like he was the madness. I’d effectively pushed him away from my subconscious with work, but now his face was screaming into my reality.
The anger and the accusation.
Did he know everything?
I padded to the window, pressing my palm to a cool pane of glass. Not like Blake’s glass. This was old with tiny flecks of color bleeding onto the crystal clear squares from years and layers of paint.
I tipped my fevered forehead to a higher square. The ocean roared outside and the sound settled my racing heart. A cold snap was heading in off the water. Today would require one of my bulky sweaters and wool socks, but right now it felt so good to let the cold inside.
The sun had long since risen and the morning had melted away in my post-work stupor. I lifted my gaze to the beach. A lone figure was jogging a few feet from the lacy tide. A long, powerful stride with a familiar determination. I wished I could find that kind of focus when working out. I had it with my art, but definitely not when it came to running.
The man slowed as he neared my property.
It was a private beach, dammit.
Not that other runners hadn’t come through, and for the most part I never cared. Today, the feral need to lash out was far too close to the surface. Whether it was because I didn’t technically own the property or I was just feeling punchy because of the day, I didn’t really care.
I just wanted him gone.
“Move on.”
I didn’t recognize my voice. Again, I needed to drink and eat. Even my voice was a growl.
The man pushed back his hoodie and stared at the sky, his shoulders heaving with exertion.
I knew that neck. He bent over at the waist and clutched his knees and stared right at me.
My nipples tightened and my feverish body betrayed me.
He couldn’t see me. He couldn’t know it was me in here, but it felt like his eyes were roaming over my entire body. Why? Why did he affect me like this?
All the hate and betrayal aside, he’d fired me. Even though I was the best damn assistant he’d ever have in his godforsaken life. Okay, so I’d lied to him and was never meant to work for him. Still.
