Page 8 of Book of Love


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The book had been a graduation gift from her favorite college literature teacher, Georgia Sands, whose love for both teaching and poetry had inspired Grace’s career path. Professor Sands had encouraged, admired, and challenged Grace’s writing and her thinking. In the process, Grace had discovered that she could make a difference doing what she loved.

Corrupted.

Her chest hurt. No one had ever accused her of something like that. Yes, she’d had to advocate for her curriculum, especially when it involved authors and poets most people hadn’t even heard of, but she’d never been accused of being immoral.

She skimmed the pages and paused at several quotes she’d underlined twice.

Our doubts are traitors, and make us lose the good we oft might win, by fearing to attempt.

This above all: To thine ownself be true.

Hadn’t she always tried to be true to herself, especially back when she was a bright-eyed college student? She’d wanted to be a high-school teacher, and she knew she was good at it. She’d shaped her students’ lives, introduced them to the beauty of words, listened to their problems, tried to help however she could.

Her students then went off to make their mark on the world and pursue their dreams. Many of them still kept in touch, whether they were studying at Princeton, earning their electrician certificate, or working at the family business. She was proud of them and proud of whatever influence she’d had on their lives.

But some days it was hard to hold on to thegood.

“Bad news, hon.” Nancy bustled back and set a tall glass of milk on the table. She tilted her head toward a man seated at the counter. “Handsome devil over there got the last piece of rhubarb pie.”

Grace swallowed. “Excuse me?”

“He ordered, like, a minute before you did, and Sue served him the last piece.” Nancy twisted her mouth in regret. “Sorry about that. How about a nice piece of apple or blueberry instead? Or we have an amazing peach cobbler that might change your life.”

“No, I…” A ridiculous tightness filled her throat. She reached for the dessert menu again. “Could you give me a minute, please?”

“Sure.” Nancy’s forehead furrowed with pity. “There’s plenty of other options, hon.”

Grace nodded, ducking her head to hide the tears filling her eyes.

“Take your time.” The waitress hesitated a second before going back to the counter.

Grace tried to focus on the dessert menu, but the words blurred in her vision. Her lip trembled.

Really, Grace? A lost piece of rhubarb pie is your breaking point?

Apparently so.

A fat tear plopped onto the photo of a brownie sundae. Trying to suppress a hiccup, she grabbed the paper napkin and wiped her eyes.

Okay, come on. You like pecan pie. Cherry pie. Or what about a chocolate meri—

A sob burst out of her constricted throat. She couldn’t blink fast enough to stop the tears from rolling down her cheeks in a sudden deluge. Her eyes burned. An ache spread from deep down inside her. She pressed her lips together, but another flood of tears welled up.

She had to get out of here. Gulping back another sob, she fumbled for her bag and started to scoot out of the booth.

A massive shadow fell over the table. Grace looked up sharply. She couldn’t see much through her watery vision, but she registered a tall, dark-haired man whose wide shoulders and chest blocked the view of the counter. Of the whole restaurant, actually.

“Um…” She hiccupped again.

He set a plate on the table in front of her. “I haven’t taken a bite. I was just about to, but then I noticed… well, I’d rather you eat it.”

Grace dragged her gaze from him to the plate, which bore a large piece of rhubarb pie. “But Nancy…”

“I overheard her tell the other waitress you ordered the rhubarb pie, and she said there wasn’t any left,” he explained. “Given how upset you seem by that fact, there’s no way I could eat the last piece.”

“Oh.” Grace scrubbed her eyes with the wadded-up napkin, feeling more than a bit ridiculous. “Really, you don’t have to do this. I’m just having a bad day.”

“So maybe the pie will help.” He nudged the plate toward her. “I insist. Here.” He took a roll of clean silverware from a nearby table and set it beside the plate. “Enjoy.”

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