Grace

Davis, in his assigned seat on the opposite side of the bar, eyes on the overhead television, holds a Sam Adams beer bottle in one hand.

It’s been two weeks since my dad unexpectedly popped in. True to form, he never returned, but he did throw me the curveball of a text message. We’d exchanged phone numbers that night we spoke. He wanted open communication, just in case.

I’ve spoken to Candace about him. Turns out they bartended together at the Bad Penny. She’s saddened by his news in a way you would be about a distant acquaintance. I’m more saddened than she is, but my grief is similarly distant. It’s weird.

Candace has been more supportive than my mother recently. She’s been the one explaining that he still loves me even though he had better things to do for the majority of my twenties. Instead of offering platitudes, Candace listens.

In her defense, my mom has been checking in more often than usual. Mostly from her work email, and mostly asking if I’m handling everything okay or if I need anything. I reply succinctly, but I can’t bring myself to lie. Yes, I’m handling it. No, I don’t need anything. As far as her question about whether I’m still seeing “the analyst”?

I deliver a glass of wine and catch Davis watching me.

Yeah. We’re still seeing each other.

“Looking low, cowboy.” I gesture to his bottle, which is a quarter full.

“Just one tonight.”

“Really?” The disappointment in my voice is pronounced. I don’t want him to leave. “Who will banter with me when you go?”

I prop my hands on my hips and hope that shows how devil-may-care I am.

“Early morning. I’m flying to San Francisco.”

I blink, stunned. “San Francisco? In California?”

“Last I checked.”

“Oh.” He didn’t mention a trip, and I’ve seen him steadily over the last few weeks.

“My boss is based out of San Fran, so once every six to twelve months I fly out. He likes face-to-face meetings.”

“How long will you be gone?” I try to sound casual as I swipe the bar top with a towel.

“A week.”

“A week?” Okay, that sounded not-casual-at-all.

A smile spreads Davis’s perfect mouth.

“Gracie.” He squints one eye. “Are you going to miss me?”

I snort. “Your cooking, maybe.”

His cocksure smile endures.

“If I would’ve known, I could have traded my schedule.” I close tonight. I’ll be lucky to be home by two A.M.

“The week’ll go fast. And give you time to hang out with your friends instead of me.”

I try not to let that comment sting. Is he tiring of me already?

Davis swipes his phone off the bar and stands.

“You’re leaving now?” Also: When did I become so desperate?

He leans forward on the bar. “Kiss me, woman.”

“I can’t. I’m in charge,” I mumble.

“Come on.” His gray eyes sparkle.

I give in and kiss him. It’s too brief.

“Text me if you get lonely.” It’s the last thing he says to me as he walks for the door. I watch him go, liking his long-legged, confident stride. Hating how much I like it because it serves to remind me how much I’ll miss him.

Across the room, a cute blonde and her other cute blond friend give me the stink eye.

I don’t like that.

I love it.

Rox and I are at Paddington’s, a fancy wedding dress shop in South Columbus. The amount of tulle in here could filter the water for a small country.

Yikes.

“I want something slim and slinky,” she says as she makes a mortified face at a pale pink puffy dress on a mannequin.

“If you end up doing the destination wedding thing, you should go for something short and sassy,” I correct.

“Maybe. But I still want to feel bridelike. I’m not sure cocktail length is going to cut it.”

We each take a rack, sliding bagged dress after bagged dress aside before settling on a few contenders. Rox has a great figure (the bitch), so she can pull off anything. I’m kidding about the bitch thing. I have a great figure too; it’s just that hers is more on par with designer fashion than mine.

“What do you think?” She steps out of the dressing room in a floor-length, backless white gown. The front dips low to show off her generous cleavage, and lace and pearls decorate the bodice.

“Roxanne,” I breathe, my hand clasped at my heart. “You’re beautiful.”

She grins and sweeps her long dark hair to one side, viewing the back in a three-way mirror.

“Is it unreasonable to buy the first dress I try on?” she asks. I can hear in her tone she wants permission to do just that.

“Not if it’s as perfect as that one.”

“I’m doing it.” She grins, and I helpfully return the other dresses to the rack.

An hour later, we’re at an oyster bar drinking champagne and celebrating Rox’s purchase: a Vera Wang wedding dress for her to-be-determined wedding date.

“I’m so glad you’re sharing this with me!” Rox says. “My mom would have loved to see this day.” Her expression is wistful. Her mom died of cancer when Rox was in junior high. I say a silent thanks to the universe for my mom—she can be a pill, but I’m glad I have her. Rox trades wistfulness for a good-natured eye roll. “My dad and brothers are too busy hunting and fishing to wedding dress shop with me.”

“Happy to fill the role,” I tell her. “I don’t think dress shopping is supposed to include dads and brothers anyway.”

She smiles. “So what’s new with you and the business guy? I haven’t heard the latest.”

“Oh, nothing much. Just dating…still.”

“Still?” Her eyebrows climb her forehead.

“He’s sort of…incredible.” I bite my lip. I called her last week and filled her in on my dad showing up and how Davis sat with me while I found out more about why my dad had shown up. She listened and told me to cry if I wanted to, and I did.

We order another round of champagne when our cheese plate arrives. Rockford, Brie, cubes of mango habanero cheddar, roasted almonds and honey, and fresh fruit.

“My mouth is literally watering,” Rox says as we both go for the cheese. “So tell me more about Davis. What do you do on your dates?”

“We go out. We stay in. Mostly we sleep over at each other’s houses.” I shrug as I spread Brie on a slice of baguette. I take a bite, feeling Roxanne’s eyes on me.

“What?” I ask around a bite.

“You’re sleeping over? Often?”

“Mm-hmm.” I nod as I chew, then take a drink of champagne. Perfection.

“That’s serious, Grace. I thought he was a man whore. Man whores don’t encourage sleepovers.”

“He was. He is. I don’t know.” The description doesn’t fit what I know of Davis. Has he changed, or am I seeing another layer of him now that we’re close? “We were only going to see each other three times, but then things…changed.”

“Sounds like it.” She eats an almond and sucks the honey off her thumb. I eye her suspiciously.

“Rox.”

“What?”

“Don’t what me. Tell me. What are you thinking? Something, and it’s not good.” My hands start to sweat at the idea she might share exactly what I don’t want to hear. I don’t know what I want to hear, but I’d rather know the truth than be in the dark.

“I think you should…guard your heart.”

“My heart?” I let out a hearty laugh and lift my champagne flute again. “I’m in no danger of losing my heart.”

Said heart gives a dangerous surge at the idea of falling for Davis Price. Of losing Davis Price. At one point our having a future would’ve been a laughable fantasy. Now, though…it could happen. And if it happened, that means when it ended, heartbreak could follow.

Or worse, I think morbidly as my dad comes to mind again.

“Are you sure you’re haven’t lost your heart to him already?” Rox asks with so much concern I have to ask myself the same question. “He’s being really good to you, Grace. What if he comes back from this trip to California and pulls away? What will you do?”

My friend isn’t doing a good job of easing my nerves.

“I’ll…pull back too,” I say. I mean, duh. This isn’t my first rodeo. Rox knows that. “I’m capable of unstringing myself from a man. I’ve been doing it since I was fifteen.”

Starting with a boyfriend, followed by dad and several other boyfriends.

“I appreciate your concern.” I continue defending myself. “Honestly. But there’s no need to worry.”

“I’m not concerned. I want to make sure you don’t end up in a situation you don’t mean to get into. Cornered…” She forlornly eyes a cube of cheese in her hand. “With no way out.”

My spidey sense is tingling. “What kind of corner?”

She drops the cheese cube on her plate. “Okay, so what if you wanted to just date him? Or just have sex with him? It should be perfectly acceptable to keep things light. Staying over can turn into moving in.” Her voice takes on a slightly hysterical edge. “Moving in can turn into getting engaged!”

“Rox.” I hate to bring up the obvious, considering she just bought her wedding dress, but she’s my friend and something is amiss. “Rox, are you…regretting your engagement to Mark?”

“What! No.” She lets out a loud lough that dies a quick death. “Not every day.” Her smile turns sickly. “Sometimes?”

She drops her face into her hands before smoothing her hair behind her ears.

By the time she looks at me, she’s reclaimed her composure. “I have cold feet. I used to be the girl who dated and liked dating. I liked mixing things up. Now I’m engaged and my mixing days are over.” She gives the ring on her finger a long, somber study. “I thought buying the dress would make this more real…would make me more ready. Is this part of the process?”

“Well, parting with three grand tends to help things sink in,” I tease. I reroute when she pales. As future maid of honor, I’ve got her back.

“Roxanne. Listen to me.” I reach over the table and clasp her hand in mine. “You were a dating phenomenon. I learned most of my best moves from you. But when you met Mark—after that first date—do you remember what you said?”

Eyes wide, she shakes her head.

“Yes you do. About the way he moved toward you after class?”

Her panic melts away and her face softens. “He moved toward me like he was meant to walk toward me. Only me.”

“Does he still make you feel like the only woman he should walk toward?” I ask.

“Every day.” She shakes her head and closes her eyes. “I’m freaking out. It’s too soon for a freak-out.”

“No. It’s the perfect time to freak out,” I say in her defense. “The wedding dress did what you wanted it to do—your future wedding became more real. And when you set a date and send your announcements and book your destination, it’ll become even more real. Until we’re on a beach and you’re exchanging your vows. Then it’ll be real.”

“You’re right. It’s new. Change is scary no matter what, right?”

“Exactly.”

“Look at you!” She gestures to me. “Miss I-don’t-want-to-date-nobody—”

“Anybody,” I correct.

“—and you’re practically living with a stock analyst.” Rox is grinning. “We’re going to get through this.”

I guzzle down the rest of the champagne as my friend releases a happy sigh.

“First me, then you, right?” she says.

That’s…a horrifying thought.

Our waitress appears and Rox orders the salmon. I order the chicken and another glass of champagne. Then I reconsider. “Actually, can you bring the bottle?”

At Rox’s eyebrow lift, I add, “We’re celebrating your wedding dress!”

That’s an easier explanation than telling her that her panic attack transferred to me.

Davis

Ross Vancouver is in his early forties, hair sun bleached, skin a deep tan. The not-native Californian looks as if he belongs here. He even surfs.

My boss’s house, located an hour north of San Francisco, is a massive white and glass shrine facing the ocean he worships. His mansion has nine bedrooms, ten bathrooms, two kitchens, and a patio grilling area with a pool and loungers. It’s paradise. I booked a room at a nearby luxury hotel, but after a week’s worth of meetings at headquarters, Ross invited everyone at the retreat back to his place for cocktails.

This getaway is for his ten top earners of the year, and for the fifth year in a row, I’m number one.

The other nine dropped off one by one last night, but Ross and I were too engrossed in conversation to disengage. He offered a wave goodbye as his guests left, but we went back to our conversation and our bourbon. Ross is a Kentucky-born guy. I guess some habits never die.

He’s single, happily so, and I’ve been joking for years that I want to be like him when I grow up.

“Price,” he greets me, swaggering outside in a pair of board shorts and a long-sleeve swim shirt, surfboard under his arm. He leans the board on the stone wall surrounding his back patio and squints out at the ocean.

“Morning.” I had my choice of rooms last night. Ross and I were awake until three, and I wandered into one and crashed. Bourbon hangovers aren’t something I’m accustomed to, but given Ross’s alertness (and the surfboard), I’m guessing he fared better than I.

“Found the coffee, I see.” He gestures to the steaming mug in front of me. I haven’t been able to take a sip of it yet because my stomach is doing its impersonation of a Cirque du Soleil performer.

“Yeah.” The only way to describe my voice is “craggy.” He notices and chuckles.

“When’s your flight?”

“Noon.” It’s eight and traffic is going to be hell. I need to get going soon.

“Don’t bother.” He brushes the idea aside with the wave of an arm. “Take my jet.”

Ross has money to burn, but I didn’t know he had a jet.

“Stick around for lunch. My chef is coming over to fix the latest fad superfood meal.”

I smile. “California by way of Kentucky.”

“I acclimated. So could you.”

Not the first time he’s suggested as much. He’s the happiest West Coast transplant I know. “Thanks for the offer, but I have to get back sooner than later.”

He eyes me for a long moment. I test my coffee to see if it’ll stay down. It does.

“Who is she?”

His question startles me and I look up to find him grinning.

“Only one reason to go back to dreary, gray Ohio at the end of October, and that’s a woman.”

“The consummate bachelor knows about women?”

“I know more about them than you’d think.” He waggles his left hand in a gesture I assume to mean he was married at some point.

“Her name’s Grace,” I confess. I’ve been texting her all week—tame stuff. She sent me the eggplant emoji and I sent her the peach, and the next text that came through was her saying it wasn’t the same at McGreevy’s without me.

Doesn’t sound like much, but it made my day. Nay, my week.

The texts and one phone call that followed were innocuous. Pleasant. Friendly. No reason for me to feel as if my heart was scooped out and residing on her nightstand.

Save one.

“How long?” Ross asks, doing some sort of presurf stretching.

I do a quick calculation. “A month plus.”

“Sounds serious.”

I think back to her leaning on me after the run-in with her father. How much time we spend at each other’s houses. The fact that we’ve been exclusive without defining it.

“It is,” I admit.

“Well.” Ross snags the board and claps me on the shoulder as he walks by. “Don’t keep her waiting.” He jogs out to the sand.

Through my massive, brain-splitting, bourbon-induced headache, I manage a smile.

“I won’t,” I say aloud.