Safe at Last (Slow Burn #3)

He shoved instead, disgusted by his hesitancy.

Then he was inside. Instantly, he was assailed by . . . hominess. Everything he’d ever imagined of a home with Gracie in it. The colors were warm and soothing and yet light and airy. He sniffed the floral-scented air. Around him papers were strewn on tables or affixed to easels. Paint was splattered over the dropcloths and smudged on the small kid-sized desks.

Nostalgia floated through him as he remembered all the times he and Gracie had talked about children. Their children. Did she have children of her own now? He didn’t think he could bear to see a miniature little Gracie knowing he wasn’t the father. That Gracie had pursued their dream without him.

He nearly turned and walked right back out of the studio. He wasn’t sure he could bear to face the truth. That she simply hadn’t wanted a life with him. But he froze when a familiar voice sounded in the distance.

“Wade? Is that you? I’m washing up, but I’ll be out in a minute.” Zack went stock-still as laughter, beautiful feminine laughter, rose. It sent a chill, a shock, straight down his spine. And only further confirmed his suspicions about her association with Sterling. “The children were rather exuberant today so I’m afraid I’ll get paint all over your seats!”

Gracie.

His Gracie.

He’d know the sound of her voice—her laughter—anywhere, such a welcome change from the tear-stained, barely choked out words of terror from their “reunion.” He stood, frozen, waiting for her to come forward when what he wanted to do was tear down the door of whatever room she was in and demand answers to all the questions tumbling out of control in his mind.

He was tempted to just turn his back and walk away. Much like she’d done twelve years ago. But unlike her, he needed closure. He needed an end to the torture he’d put himself through over the last decade imagining her hurt, dead and a hundred other dismal possibilities. Ironically, none of his imaginings had been good. And yet it appeared she was doing just fine.

“Sorry I kept you waiting,” she said breathlessly.

And then she appeared and he drank in her appearance like a man starving.

She wore a paint-splattered smock that she was in the process of untying when she lifted her gaze and saw him.

After their first confrontation, he should have been prepared for her reaction, but a small part of him had hoped that it had simply been the shock of seeing him so unexpectedly. But he wasn’t prepared, and it hurt his heart to see how she looked at him even now.

She froze. Went so still he wasn’t even sure she was breathing. And just as before, fear—honest-to-God terror—entered her wide, shocked eyes.

She backpedaled hastily, throwing her hand out behind her to find the door she’d just appeared from. She stumbled, righting herself by planting her hand against the now-closed door, leaning heavily on it while scrambling for the handle as if desperate to put that door between them again. To lock herself away from him.

She was terrified of him.

What the ever-loving fuck was going on?

“Gracie,” he said hoarsely. “It’s me, Zack. For God’s sake, I’m not going to hurt you. Do you have any idea what it’s like for me to see you? Alive? Well?”

His initial shock was quickly replaced by anger as everything welled up. All the fear and grief he’d lived with for so long. And to be greeted like this? As if she hadn’t been a major part of his life. Like he hadn’t loved her for most of his life, and she wasn’t the only woman he’d ever loved.

“My God, I thought you were dead, or hurt or somewhere out there suffering, that you needed me,” he ground out. Jesus, he felt like a complete fool for thinking she’d ever needed him. What had changed? She’d been his world and he thought he’d been hers as well. He needed to know why. Didn’t he deserve that much, at least?

“You disappeared off the face of the earth. What was I supposed to think? Didn’t I at least deserve a goodbye, have a nice life?” He nearly choked on the last part. “Not even a ‘fuck off,’ or ‘see you later’? No, you just disappeared, leaving me to think the worst. For twelve fucking years I’ve thought the worst. For twelve fucking years I’ve gone to bed every goddamn night sick at heart because I thought I had failed you in some way. That I hadn’t been there when you needed me and that some sick fuck had hurt you, kidnapped you or murdered you. And all this time you’ve been happy as a lark, painting and moving on with your life while I’ve spent the last twelve years turning the earth over looking for you?”

She was pale as death and looked as though she was going to be sick. She was actively seeking escape routes, her gaze darting quickly but never meeting his, and God, he didn’t think he could bear to see the fear in those eyes again.

Why the fuck was she afraid of him?