Safe at Last (Slow Burn #3)

How ironic that just a couple of days earlier he had thought to himself, after a particularly bad night of tossing and turning, that perhaps it was time to let go—truly let go—and move on. Live his life and do something with it.

He didn’t have that luxury now. Because now he knew she was out there. Close. Close enough that he could have run into her at the grocery store, or gas station. God, how long had she been in such proximity to him?

“We’ll find her, Zack,” Eliza vowed. “But you need to prepare yourself for the possibility that she could run. The showing could and will likely be canceled. She obviously feels threatened by you. And, well, you need to prepare yourself for the fact that she . . . left you. Willingly. Because from my position, that’s what it’s starting to look like.”

Her words slid insidiously beneath his skin, cutting sharply to the very heart of him. Where Gracie lived, always a part of him, never leaving even if that’s exactly what she’d intended.

Grief, a very different kind of grief, welled up in his soul, suffocating, like a swollen storm cloud heralding the rain.

Never once had he even given thought to the possibility that she’d left him for the simple reason that she no longer loved him. He’d tortured himself endlessly with all the possible reasons she’d vanished, as though she’d never existed at all. Maybe he had been the only person who’d ever cared about her. So why would she reject him and everything he’d ever promised her?

What earth-shattering event had caused two lives to be permanently altered, damaged, never to truly heal?

But then she’d hardly painted a picture of someone who’d endured hell on earth as he had for the last decade. For the first time, anger, something alien to him until now welled in his chest, traced acid to his stomach.

No, she’d been pursuing her dream all the while he had been chasing his.

Gracie.

His dream.

His beautiful, sweet Anna-Grace.

The memories of her that he’d held so firmly in his heart, fearing that they’d dull with the passage of time, eluded him for the first time in twelve long years.

No, he’d never, ever felt anger toward Gracie.

Until now.

It was the bitterest taste in his mouth, one he knew he’d taste at the mere mention of her name from now on. Because now he saw the future—Gracie’s future. And nowhere was Zack a part of it.





EIGHT


ZACK stood outside the Sunshine Art Studio just a few blocks from Joie de Vivre, his fists curled tightly at his sides. He couldn’t seem to catch his breath. Each one seemed torturous through his constricted airway and chest. Had she been this close all this time?

The irony wasn’t lost on him. After he had spent a decade searching for Gracie, had she been in the same city? And for how long? Had she already lived here when he moved to Houston to take the job with DSS? After years of chasing his tail, how funny that he’d come across her in the line of his work.

As good as Eliza was, even she couldn’t make information materialize out of thin air. Information was scarce on the reclusive artist. Quite by luck Eliza had come across an obscure article in an art publication that had mentioned classes being held at the Sunshine Art Studio several blocks down on Westheimer. Three artists rotated through, teaching art to children who showed promise at a young age. One of the artists was the mysterious A.G.

And so here he was, a knot in his throat, his palms sweaty as he stared at the door. Minutes before, the studio had emptied. Smiling, laughing children had spilled from the doorway, all rushing to meet their waiting parents in the parking lot.

Now all was quiet. There were no other vehicles in the lot, which meant if Gracie was here she’d either walked to the gallery, taken public transit, or . . . someone had given her a ride. Boyfriend? Lover? Husband? Wade Sterling perhaps?

It set his teeth on edge to entertain the idea she belonged to another man and was forever out of his reach.

He huffed another breath and berated himself for being such a coward. All he had to do was walk through the goddamn door. Only a door separated him and . . . Gracie.

So why was he paralyzed with fear? Shouldn’t he be eager to confront her and find out what the hell had inspired her epic meltdown in the gallery when they’d come face-to-face for the first time since she’d disappeared from his life?

Or perhaps he was simply coming to terms with the possibility that if she was alive and doing well, working as an artist, it meant she’d chosen to leave him without a word. No breakup. No closure. While he’d been unable to move on, to get over it, she evidently hadn’t suffered the same.

He ran an agitated hand through his hair and then swore under his breath.

Get it together, dumbass. You’ve waited twelve fucking years for this. Just open the goddamn door.

He forced his legs to move, ignoring the tremble in his knees. The door loomed closer until finally his hand grasped the handle. All he had to do was . . . push.