He needed a long, hot shower and a hard think.
From the moment he and Grace had first met, he’d been in awe of her ability to be so together, so sure and positive. Max had admitted a few weeks ago that he enjoyed spending time with her. Obviously, she was great to look at, but it was more than that. She eased some painful part of him with her stress-free smiles and laughter, and her enthusiasm for almost everything made Max forget the bad shit and focus on the good.
He liked her. He would be happy to call her a friend. And seeing his friend fall apart that way, to see Grace so broken, was hard to take.
Cleaned and dressed, Max headed into the boardinghouse kitchen, where the sounds of Lynyrd Skynyrd and pots clanging alerted Max to his uncle’s presence. Vince grinned when he saw Max enter and immediately offered him a freshly buttered piece of toast.
“How’s it goin’, son?” he asked, throwing a dish towel over his shoulder and stirring a pan of . . . something, which smelled spectacular.
Max spoke around his toast. “Okay. You see Grace this morning?” Vince’s face grew concerned. “She left early. I think she’s up at the house. Didn’t say much. She okay after last night?”
Max shrugged, wiping his crumby hands on his jeans. “She was pretty spooked.” He explained how he’d taken her to her room, but didn’t speak a word about her nightmare. That shit was personal. He knew Grace wouldn’t appreciate folks knowing that about her and it wasn’t for him to tell.
Vince leaned a hip against the kitchen countertop. “Buck’s tore up. He was rambling last night about sending her roses, kept asking Caleb if he was gonna get arrested or some shit.” A wry smile curved his lips. “I talked him down.”
“She knows he was just drunk,” Max assured him. “I’m gonna go and see if she’s all right.” He waved a thumb over his shoulder.
Vince’s smile stretched. He nodded. “That’s good of you. You tell her, she needs anythin’ she just has to ask, okay?”
“I will.”
Max drove up to Grace’s house, stopping on the way for coffee and muffins, and pulled up in front of what was now a beautiful, clean, freshly painted two-story property. There were still some jobs to complete, the upper-level walls needed plastering, some electrical work, and a few more licks of paint here and there, but it looked amazing.
Max knocked on the front door once before walking in. The way he saw it, until his uncle passed those keys over to Grace, it was still a work site and he was a site worker. Manners be damned. The sounds of “I Heard It Through the Grapevine” drifted from the sitting room. He found Grace sitting cross-legged on the hardwood floor, her hair pulled back, draped in a large hoodie, yoga pants, and sneakers, surrounded by bags and boxes, looking through photographs, the music coming from the cell phone at her side.
He lifted the coffee cups and muffin bag. “I come bearing sustenance.”
She raised a hand without looking up. “Shhh, you’re stepping on Marvin.”
He smiled and approached when she gestured for him to join her on the floor, which he did. He plopped the paper bag close to her.
“Thank you,” she uttered. “I knew someone was bound to hear my stomach rumbling eventually.”
He lifted the lid of his cup and sipped his mocha. “What are you doin’?” He glanced curiously at the copious amounts of packages.
She sighed and turned off her music. “I ordered some stuff for the house, decorative stuff, and it all arrived today. It completely slipped my mind after . . . well; anyway, I got a phone call at the butt crack of dawn from the deliveryman asking me where the hell I was.”
Max frowned. “I never heard your phone.”
“You sleep pretty heavy.” Grace averted her eyes and opened the muffin bag.
“Apparently.”
“Thank you, by the way,” she whispered. “For staying with me. I . . . it meant a lot.”
“Not a problem. How do you feel?”
She shrugged. “Like a moron. Embarrassed.”
Max shook his head. “Don’t be. You didn’t do anything wrong.” A small breath escaped her when she shook her head. “Do you wanna talk about it?” he asked.
She seemed to ponder the offer of a friendly ear before she looked away. “It’s a very long, very . . . hard story to tell.”
Max picked at his muffin, silently acknowledging her refusal to share. He wasn’t sure how to feel about it. He wanted to help her, he wanted to understand, and he wanted to know who the fuck Rick was and what he’d done to her. He wanted to be a friend; he wanted her to trust him.
“You know that Brooks isn’t my maiden name, right?” Her words were quiet.
Max nodded. “I heard.” Grace bit her bottom lip, fussing with one of the boxes. “Was Rick your husband?” Her head snapped around to him so fast, Max was amazed her eyes didn’t wobble out of their sockets.
“What? How do— Why would you ask that?”