My need to work is paramount. To keep busy so I don’t think of Grady.
But who am I fooling? It’s been a week since I left Sunnyville—since I left him with the note on the counter and a kiss on his sleeping lips—and I feel like a piece of me has been left behind.
Emerson was right. I did leave my heart there, but hell if I’ll tell her that. And I can’t bring myself to answer her texts, either, because I miss her too.
Who knew going to Sunnyville to escape Jett would make me find a whole different life I’d want to keep?
I roll my shoulders as I stare out the conference room windows at the bustling city below. The city I had missed like crazy. The one full of broken dreams and rising stars. The one in which I thought I belonged but now feel like an imposter.
There is no pig wandering around to make me laugh.
There is no constant hammering of Grady and his brothers as they work on the playroom.
There is no scanner going off sporadically in the night.
“Dylan, love. So great to see you. I hope your trek in the country did you well.”
I rise from my seat when Callum Divish strides into the room, hair pulled back into a ponytail, and trademark tinted lenses hiding the truth in his eyes. “Good to see you again, Callum.” We air-kiss each other’s cheeks, as is his fashion, before sitting. “And it did.”
“Jett’s late. So we’ll start without him.” He shakes his head. “I’d say the country was good to you and, in turn, me. The songs you wrote . . . Dylan, they are spectacular. I’m going to have a bloody hell of a time picking which ones to put on the album. You really outdid yourself.”
“Thank you.” I nod, my pride brimming while my heart knows most of those songs are about Grady. They’re true and heartfelt.
“We’ll get the last few recorded and then meet again with Kai and the team and start deciding which ones we want to use.”
“Sounds great.”
“In the meantime . . .”
Exhausted is the only way I can describe how I feel.
Everything is draining. From Jett and his bullshit in the studio—the things I now see as complete immaturity—to my lack of sleep. The nights feel like endless bouts of tossing and turning. Grady wasn’t the only one who found solace in our sharing the same bed.
Grady.
My heart twists in my chest as I sit at the computer like I have almost every day since I left. I head to the Sunnyville Gazette and read about what’s happening in the town I’ve left. I open up a blank email, type Grady’s email address, then delete it. Then I begin to type him an email but don’t know what to say. He hasn’t reached out to me since I left. He hasn’t texted or called or sent up a smoke signal. So maybe I made this all up in my head. Maybe I was still so fresh and raw from my breakup with Jett that I saw things in Grady that weren’t there.
Maybe he came into my life just to teach me how to let go.
That’s such crap.
I know it was real. I know how I felt.
How I feel.
So then why haven’t we talked?
The cursor blinks as my email alerts my incoming messages. I tab over and scan through the new ones. My first thought? There are none from Grady.
I open the one from my brother to see the new pictures he had taken of the twins, and I contemplate flying out there when Callum gives this album the A-okay. I need some family time. A connection with someone I know won’t hurt my heart.
My computer pings again, and I hold my breath when I see the sender is Marcy Holden. I can pretend all I want that I forgot about the photo session Grady set up for me, but I didn’t. I just chose not to think about it.
But now I can’t. Now the photos are on the end of this little link.
I click it.
Hold my breath.
When the screen populates with pictures, a nervous laugh escapes from my lips. And then tears spring to my eyes.
These can’t be me. They can’t. I scroll through the pictures. One after another. I see the smile on my face. The sass in my expression. The guarded caution in my eyes.
But I don’t see the dimples in my thighs. I don’t see the fullness to my cheeks I try to contour out. I don’t see how big my arms look when they’re pressed against my sides.
I don’t see any of that. I see a woman trying to accept her sensuality. I see a woman in the chiffon robe with lace camisole underneath, a little uncomfortable in her skin but who is trying to own it. I don’t see how big her feet are in the high heels but rather the definition in her calves and the strength in her legs.
I see fit where I usually see flabby.
I see curves and sexy where I usually turn my head and cringe.
I see the beauty where I’ve always seen ugliness.
When I finish the first scan of the photos, of the four outfit changes, of the gamut of expressions she captured—flirty to feisty to shy to demure—I start all over again, trying to comprehend that these are really me. That I am her.
She must have airbrushed them.
That’s my conclusion when I go through them with a more scrutinized eye and try to pick them apart. Sure, there are little things I hate, but the big things I have hang-ups about are not there.
She must have airbrushed them.
I repeat the thought as I flip back to the text of Marcy’s email, the words and instructions I overlooked because I was too anxious to see what the pictures looked like.
Her words strike me to the core.
I hope you like them. I think they turned out beautifully. And before you refute how gorgeous you are with some smoke-and-mirrors nonsense, know that I didn’t airbrush a single one of them.
The tears that were threatening moments before escape in a single tear that slides down my cheek. I flip back to the pictures.
This is the woman Grady saw. The one he was determined to get to believe her worth. Her beauty.
This is the woman he let walk away without telling her to stay.
It’s a bittersweet feeling, and one I can’t seem to shake.
I pick up my phone, needing to say something—anything to him. My fingers shake as I dial. A soft sob escapes my lips as his voice comes over the connection.
“You’ve reached Grady. I’m probably at the station and that’s why I’m not picking up. Leave me a message and I’ll return the call when I get off shift.”
Beep.
“Hi. It’s Dylan. I just wanted to say I understand now. How you felt when you looked at your picture in the calendar. Thank you for that. I hope you’re doing well.” I love you. I miss you. Do you miss me? Stay safe. “Bye.”
I end the call and allow the tears to fall. Hearing his voice was almost worse than not hearing it at all.
Almost.
Because hearing it reminds me what we shared was real.
It was.