Grace

McGreevy’s is dead. Sunday afternoons are hit-or-miss.

While I wait for someone (anyone) to come in, I scroll through the photos Davis sent me from San Francisco. My favorite one is of his feet in the sand, the sparkling Pacific Ocean in the background. His suit pants are hiked to his shins in the foreground. Suit pants. On the beach. It’s so him.

A week lasts longer when you miss someone. Time passed in excruciatingly slow, incremental chunks. I worked, went grocery shopping, cleaned my house. Not all that different from the way I spent time pre-Davis, but now something is missing.

Him.

He called on Friday, and in the background I heard chatter. He said he was in a meeting with several other people who do what he does. I finally pried out of him that the gathering was for the top earners of the company, but when I congratulated him, he shrugged it off.

“Not a big deal,” he said.

But it was a big deal. A bigger deal than he makes it.

He’s incredible. And due home today.

The door opens and I click off my phone as I call, “Welcome to McGreevy’s,” but when I turn to greet the newcomer, I’m floored by a rumpled, sexy, suited man wearing a tired smile.

“Davis!” I run from behind the bar and give in to the urge and leap into his arms. He catches me, holding me as I kiss his sleepy face. “You liar!”

He grins.

He told me his flight was a red-eye and not to expect him until very late tonight or early tomorrow morning.

“Wanted to surprise you,” he says. “Sorry if I smell like bourbon.”

I’m still holding onto him and bury my nose in his collar. He smells like sun and cologne and Davis. The best scent of all.

“You are cruel. I have to work all day and here you are.” I pout and straighten his crooked tie.

“Don’t worry, Gracie Lou, I’ll be sleeping most of the day. You won’t miss much.”

I’ll still miss him. Even sleeping.

He kisses me, minty fresh from either brushing his teeth on the plane or eating a handful of Altoids. I don’t care. He tastes amazing.

“Can I get you anything at all?” I ask. “Lunch?”

He shakes his head. “You’re the only reason I came here.”

My heart squeezes.

“Maybe after I’m done—”

“Come over,” he finishes for me. “I’ll make you dinner.”

“I can’t ask you to make dinner.”

“You didn’t.”

“Eight thirty too late?” I’m smiling like an idiot.

“Eight thirty is perfect.” Another kiss for me and Davis steps aside to allow three patrons inside.

“Shit,” I whisper.

“It’s okay, Gracie.” Davis gives me a wink.

I invite my new customers to have a seat wherever they’d like and Davis turns to leave.

I hope the rest of this day goes faster than the six days that preceded it.

After the quickest wardrobe change in history, I hustle over to Davis’s house. I’ve shelved my mini anxiety issue about hurtling toward matrimony since my day spent with Rox.

Probably because she’s snapped back to her normal self and is again super excited about getting married to Mark.

Cold feet is a real thing. Who knew?

At Davis’s place, I step from my car and force an air of cool and calm. No sense in behaving like a squealing teenager when we’re both adults. No need to draw a red glitter heart around every minute we spend together.

Speaking of hearts, mine betrays me, rat-a-tat-tating against my ribs as I knock on the door. I hear music and a muffled “Come in!” and assume Davis has his hands full at the stove.

I half-expect to be hit with a wall of fragrance—roast duck? the rich scent of tomatoes and garlic bubbling away in a homemade lasagna?

Instead I smell…nothing.

Nothing at all.

Davis arrives in the living room at the same time I crest the top step. He’s dressed in jeans and a black button-down shirt. His shoes are black leather. He looks…Damn.

Delicious.

At the look of confusion on my face, he offers an explanation.

“I changed my mind about the dinner thing. We’re going out. There’s a concert tonight at Bicentennial Park.”

“Um…” I glance down at my little black dress and heels. “I’m not dressed for a concert.”

“Are you kidding me?” He pulls me close, an arm lashed around my back, and lowers his lips to mine. My poor heart can’t beat any faster, so she settles on beating harder, each pound leaving me a bit more breathless. “Tell me you can’t dance in those shoes, Gracie Lou.”

“I can dance in these shoes,” I answer with a smile.

Bicentennial Park’s outdoor pavilion is packed when we arrive downtown at the Scioto Mile. The band has a folksy, rockabilly beat I can totally get into. The fountains, normally shooting high into the air and accompanied by fog machines and colored lights, are silent, the chilly fall weather not ideal for spraying water.

“Oh, man,” Davis says as we survey the tightly packed crowd. “I don’t see anywhere to smash in. Guess we’ll have to check in for our reservations.”

His sly smile is a look I’m growing used to.

He takes my hand and leads us to a glass-enclosed restaurant with a covered dining terrace and a drool-worthy panoramic view of the Scioto Mile, the fountain, and the downtown skyline.

“Ever been to Milestone before?” He asks, referring to Milestone 299, a restaurant I’ve long wanted to experience.

“Not yet,” I answer.

“Now’s your chance.”

Inside, the decor is regal. Napkins stand on end like the skyscrapers in the city, and formal silverware arrangements flank elegant white plates on top of smooth teak tables and rigid high-backed chairs.

“How about that?” Davis asks as we pull our napkins into our laps. “You’re dressed perfectly for tonight after all.”

“Are you getting a kick out of being this sneaky?” I ask as an attentive waiter fills our water goblets.

He holds his fingers an inch apart. “Li’l bit.”

We start with Gorgonzola-stuffed dates wrapped in bacon and, as if that weren’t orgasm-inducing enough, move to wedge salads sprinkled with blue cheese and bacon. Dinner is croquettes for me and ahi tuna for him. For dessert, Milestone has a doughnut bread pudding we admit we’re too full for but order anyway.

It’s as mouthwateringly incredible as it sounds.

“Look at this!” I gesture to my stomach as we exit the restaurant for the concert. The crowd is less packed in than before, but we choose to watch from the comfort of an abandoned bench.

“Honey, I’m looking.” Davis’s eyes don’t leave mine.

“I mean I ate too much,” I mumble, pressing on my protruding stomach. “Is that a deterrent for you?”

“Grace,” he says on a laugh. “I’ve been calculating how much of this fancy stuff we have to do before I can take you home and get you out of that dress.”

A shiver works its way up my spine and I pull my shawl around my shoulders. He notices and scoots closer, wrapping his arm around me. We listen to the band, watching couples dance and sway to a slow song.

I lean in to whisper in his ear. “I say you’ve done enough.”

His grip on my shoulder grows tighter, more desperate.

“Your place?” I ask.

“Thought you’d never ask,” he answers. “But first things first.”

Davis

There was one activity I promised myself I’d introduce Grace to, so as much as I want to have her home and under me, we can’t leave just yet. Over a bite of my seared ahi tuna, she mentioned she’d never indulged in Bicentennial Park’s premier offering.

In a fit of new construction last summer, the city of Columbus installed none other than a Ferris wheel. It rises high over the pavilion, and Grace pointed it out while we ate.

“That looks fun” was what she said.

“I have to do it” is what I heard.

When I purchase a ticket at the booth, a combination of excitement and anticipation radiates from the beautiful woman to my left. She bounces on the balls of her feet when the man running the wheel opens the gate.

I gird my loins and give her a smile, trying to hide that I’m more than a little alarmed at being high in the air in a swinging metal basket.

“A woman who loves champagne but never drinks it. Likes Ferris wheels but never rides them,” I say as the bar is lowered over our laps. “You should indulge more.”

She gives me a sideways glance as the ride takes off. I cling to the bar in front of us with a death grip.

“You okay?”

I chuff a sound that’s supposed to imply that of course I’m okay, but I’m not sure if “okay” is the best term for what I’m feeling. Airplane heights I can handle. Heights on an unstable carnival ride? Not my favorite thing.

We are swept slowly but efficiently into the air and given a supreme view of the lit buildings of downtown and the concert below. Even the quiet fountains are breathtaking at this height. Literally, in my case.

Fuck, it’s high up here.

“This is the most singularly incredible experience.” Her unblinking eyes are wide, like she doesn’t want to miss a single second of what’s around us. It’s breezier up here than on the ground. The wind lifts her hair and her curls brush her face. She pushes them behind her ear and gives me the most genuine smile.

That’s why I did this. Why I risked life and limb to sit atop the Scioto Mile with her.

She’s happy. I think I’d do just about anything to make this woman happy.

I haven’t felt like that in a long, long time. Not about anyone.

The wheel comes to a halt with us one carriage from the top, and I focus intently on Grace and the stars over her shoulder.

She leans forward and tips us enough that I open my mouth to say her name, but no sound comes out.

“The view up here is incredible!” She leans farther forward and my fingers tense around the lap bar. “Do you—” she starts, then frowns. I’m probably a sweaty, pale sight. “Davis? Are you okay? You look…not okay.” She leans back and my equilibrium returns.

“I’m okay.” I suck in a breath and nod tightly.

Her eyes narrow. “You don’t like heights, do you?”

I release a defiant laugh.

She puts her hand over mine, where I’m half certain rigor mortis has set in. “It’s romantic up here.”

“You find the potential of plummeting to our deaths romantic?”

Her laugh eases the tension in my chest. Jade green eyes lock on mine a moment before I palm her nape and tug her closer.

I kiss her, releasing the bar to hold onto Grace instead. We’re making out, the breeze cool over our heated skin. She tastes like the sweet dessert and espresso we enjoyed moments ago. She tastes like the woman I missed when I was in San Francisco, in spite of my having taken that trip four years in a row and never once coming home early.

The ride starts to move again and I latch onto the bar with one hand as we sweep backward toward the ground. She takes my other hand in hers and weaves our fingers together.

Her eyes sparkle with mischief and happiness.

“Thanks for this.” I’m not sure if it’s the cool air or the moment, but tears shimmer along her lash line.

“Anytime, Gracie.”

On the ground we lift the bar and step out, making our way to the valet.

“You could have told me you didn’t like high places, Davis.”

I hand the ticket to the valet and touch the side of her mouth with one finger. “Yeah, but I would have missed out on this. And that was worth the price of admission.”

This time when she kisses me, I don’t expect it. She jumps to her toes and slams into my mouth, and I stumble back a few steps before catching her against me.

“Now your place,” she purrs.

The valet arrives with my car and I do as the lady asks.