Safe at Last (Slow Burn #3)

So he chose a career that gave him access—opportunities—and channels that enabled him to be more proactive in his search for Gracie. And after that last confrontation with his father, he had never gone back home. There was simply nothing for him there, and every time a body would be found, he’d die a thousand deaths wondering if it could be Gracie. It was simply too painful to go back to a place that was so integral, such an important part of his life, his past. Where he and Gracie met, fell in love and shared their hopes and dreams for the future.

He hadn’t lost his virginity until he reached the pros because it never felt right in college, though there was certainly no lack of opportunities. And the memory of that night was still a source of humiliation for him because it had made him sick to his soul. So sick that he’d stumbled out of bed and went into the bathroom and heaved the contents of his stomach into the toilet. Because that part of him was supposed to be for Gracie. They’d waited. It had been important for him to wait until they married. With her being four years younger, he never wanted to feel as though he’d taken advantage of her in any way. He wanted their wedding night to be special. Hell, he couldn’t even remember the name of the girl he’d lost his virginity to. What kind of ass did that make him?

Thank God she thought he’d just had too much to drink, since they’d met at a team party after a successful playoff win.

He pounded his hand against the steering wheel, anger rising, self-loathing overwhelming him. He’d dissed a perfectly good woman tonight because of his own personal hang-ups and his inability to move on and get the fuck over it.

Twelve years. Twelve goddamn years. Enough already!

This was bullshit.

Either Gracie was dead, or she’d simply chosen to disappear. Neither was a possibility he could do a damn thing about and it was time to stop existing like a fucking zombie and get on with his sorry-ass life.

This shit had to end right now. It was ending right now. Because he refused to spend another goddamn day thinking about what could have been when any sane person would have gotten it through their thick-ass head that what could have been wasn’t ever going to happen and no amount of regret or wishing would make a damn bit of difference.

He cranked the engine and curled both hands tightly around the steering wheel, resolve surrounding him like a steel case.

Let go.

Move on.

Quit being such a miserable fuck.

Be happy.

And starting tomorrow, that’s precisely what he was going to do. Tonight was about saying goodbye to old dreams and what would never be. Tomorrow?

It was going to be about embracing a future without all the fucking baggage he’d been carrying around for more than a decade.





THREE


ANNA-GRACE lifted her arms toward the wall, frowning in concentration as she tilted and turned the painting to allow the light to strike it just so.

“If only you’d ever look at me that way,” a male teased.

Instantly losing the frown—and concentration—she turned, a ready smile on her lips as she registered Wade Sterling’s presence.

“I had no idea you preferred women who scowled at you,” she said lightly.

It was a familiar repartee, one that had taken considerable effort to establish between her and the wealthy, handsome gallery owner. Most, if not all women, would consider her a fool for not returning Wade’s overtures, which had grown subtler, not bolder, with time.

He snorted. “You may scowl when the light is not quite right, but then, when it is, you gaze at your painting as one would a lover.”

She hated the faint heat that stole over her cheeks. And the fact that she instantly averted her gaze, looking away, anywhere but at him. He was no threat to her. Logically, she knew that. But logic never won over fear because fear wasn’t rational. It defied all the rules of logic.

He sighed but didn’t comment on her rejection. But then he’d grown quite used to them in their acquaintance. At first they’d been purposeful and adamant. Even forceful. Over time, however, she’d tried to relax, to soften the often unconscious rejection, but it was simply too ingrained in her to halt them all together. And her regret grew with each one rendered, unintentional or not.

“Here, let me,” he said, seemingly unruffled by the awkwardness of the moment.

He took the painting, affixed it to where she’d found the best lighting and then stood back, studying the effect.

“It’s good,” he said simply. “But you know that. You wouldn’t agree to display it otherwise and neither would I, despite our friendship. This show is going to launch you, Anna-Grace. About the last piece . . .”

He purposely trailed off, looking inquisitively at her, and she fidgeted self-consciously under his scrutiny.

“It’s done,” she hedged.