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Chapter 22
Grace knew few things in life were easy. She believed in hard work, creativity, courage, and as much good luck as the universe was willing to bestow. She believed in trust and in caring for other creatures as best you could.
She believed in love, but not the kind that inspired poetry and songs. That kind of love awed her on an intellectual and abstract level. It was metaphor, cadence, imagery—“a moving sea between the shores of your soul, spread my dreams under your feet, the light of hidden flowers, sunlight clasps the earth, my river runs to thee”—but it wasn’t real to her.
Poetry didn’t convey the daily living of love. The kind of love that got her father up at four every morning to milk and feed the cows. The kind of love that made her grandmother drive three hours in scorching July heat, pulling Cupcake in a trailer, so Grace could compete in the State Fair. The kind of love that consisted of refinancing, secondhand clothes, workboots held together with duct tape. It was the hours her father took away from work to construct a tire swing over the swimming hole, to show her how to fix her bike, and to attach a basketball hoop to the garden shed.
Not even Shakespeare told you that love was infrequent but perfect rhubarb pies, a pitcher of fresh, ice-cold milk at the table every morning, and being woken up at midnight so you didn’t miss the new baby lamb emerging into the world. It was the student’s mother who made a huge batch of tamales for the teachers on Christmas, the father who traveled fifty miles looking for yet another job, the shopkeeper who conveniently forgot an owed debt but never forgot a child’s favorite flavor of penny candy.
Grace knew that kind of love down to her bones.
But it had never elicitedthiskind of feeling. Like fireflies bursting unexpectedly with enchanted light. Like bubbles fizzing through her veins. As if her heart were about to take flight.
She couldn’t believe that what she felt now was actually the romantic love of poetry—after all, she’d made it entirely clear to both herself and Lincoln that she, the practical realist, was looking for no such thing—but it felt so good.
So easy. Just being with him was easy, like unrolling a spool of thread. All week, he’d fit so comfortably into her life and routine, as if he’d always been there.
Which meant it couldn’t possibly last. It wasn’t real.
As she got breakfast ready on Saturday morning, she told herself this was the honeymoon phase. The infatuation period. Soon enough, reality would strike, and she’d find herself confronting the truth of Lincoln Atwood.
They’d start chafing against each other like coarse sandpaper. She’d get annoyed because he ate all her granola. She’d start to miss peeing with the bathroom door open. She’d long for the right to sprawl over her entire bed without bumping into a solid wall of masculinity who clamped one powerful arm around her and buried his face in the crook of her neck while sliding his hand down to—
“Morning.” His sleep-rough voice prickled her skin.
As always, she felt him come up behind her and take hold of her hips. He pressed his lips to her nape. She shivered. If she turned, she’d come right up against his gorgeous, naked chest and the cotton pajama pants that rode low on his hips, revealing the tempting V of muscle pointing straight down into the danger zone.
Don’t turn. Don’t turn. Don’t—
She turned. He gave her a warm, lazy smile. His eyes gleamed like sun-drenched honey. She went all soft and weak from the inside out.
“Morning,” she whispered.
He slid his hand beneath her chin and tilted her face up to his. Her whole body curved into him as their lips met and clung for a long, heart-stopping moment. He backed her up and flattened his hands on either side of her hips, trapping her against the counter.
Heat surged through her. She spread her fingers over his chest and forced her mouth from his.
“Um…coffee’s ready.”
He tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear and kissed her forehead. “Guess we’d better have some, then.”
After parting slowly—it felt like pulling taffy—they eased into the morning rhythm they’d established over the past week.
As he had since the beginning, Lincoln moved around her kitchen with fluid economy. He stepped aside to make room for her, took a new box of granola from a shelf she couldn’t reach, and put the cream right next to her mug. He set the table and made toast.
See? Her disillusionment was already starting. What kind of monster drank black coffee and didn’t butter his toast all the way to the edges?
And soon enough, he’d outgrow her little house. The honeymoon period was an illusion where everything and everyone fit exactly right. By next week, it would all be warped and twisted, like a version ofAlice in Wonderland.
He’d be too big. They’d start bumping into each other. He’d forget that she liked bananas and brown sugar on her cereal. He’d accidentally step on her toe.
“Here you go.” He handed her a bowl of granola with sliced bananas arranged in the shape of a flower and sprinkled with a perfect proportion of brown sugar crystals.
All right…well, maybe the honeymoon period is supposed to last just a bit longer.
Murmuring a thank you, Grace sat at the table as he pulled out the seat opposite her.
She took a bite of cereal and gazed at the way he held his cup. His long fingers curved around the body rather than the handle. Funny how he could make even a coffee cup look so…content. As if it didn’t want to be anywhere else but nestled in the palm of his hand.
