This feels deliberate.And shit, the inn.I brace, knowing exactly where this is headed before the words even leave her mouth.
“Blane, that’s why you should’ve called.”Grace turns to Mom, then me.“I was going to ask for suggestions as to where he could stay.Maybe another resident could?—”
“Oh, that won’t do.”Mom’s maternal instincts engage without so much as a pause for my input.“We’ve got a spare room.You’ll stay here.”
“Mom—”
One sharp look slices through my protest.It’s the same look that kept Oliver, Kellen, and me in line growing up.
Blane beams.“That’s incredibly kind of you, Mrs.Hartley.”
“Meredith, please.”She steps aside to usher him in.
No.Absolutely not.I scramble for alternatives.“Actually, Oliver and Wren might have space.Or Percy and Pop, it’s just the two of them?—”
“Nonsense.”Mom waves off my words like mosquitoes.“It’s settled.Come in.”
Blane shoots Grace a grin so bright it makes my teeth hurt, then reaches for her wrist like it’s second nature, like he has any right.“Come on, Gracie.Help me grab my bags.”
She stiffens, just a fraction, and I catch it.Before either of them can move, I step forward and grab the nearest bag on the driveway.“I’ve got them.”
Blane reaches for one anyway.“Oh, I can?—”
“I’ve got them,” I say through gritted teeth.
Mom tuts approvingly while steering Blane inside.His voice fills the hallway with a story about airport delays and camera equipment, too loud for a house that’s always been my refuge.
Grace hangs back and waits until the door swings halfway shut behind them before she turns to me, voice dropping low.“I’m sorry about him.I should’ve brought it up last night, but I got caught up in work?—”
I should say it’s fine but can’t bring myself to, so I grunt instead.
“He’s a necessary evil.”She shifts awkwardly.“I need help with the footage and the art done right, and he’s good at his job.”
“Yeah, you mentioned that.”I pause to study her, wondering why she’d ask a guy like that to help her.But what do I know, he’s most probably her kind of people.
A small, careful smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes cuts through.“Look on the bright side, now I’ll definitely be out of here on time.Isn’t that what you want?”
I let that sit for a moment, then my eyes drop to the sweatshirt.“You got your suitcase back yesterday.”
She blinks, opens her mouth, then loses it.A faint flush creeps up her neck.“Some of it needed washing.”
I hold her gaze long enough to make it uncomfortable.“Keep it.”
Her mouth parts slightly like she wants to argue, or maybe say something else entirely, but nothing comes out.Picking up the bags, I move past her into the house before she can find the words.
Dinner is usually easy, predictable in the best way, like running a familiar drill that settles my nerves after a long day.Tonight, it feels like an unexpected sub showed up and started freelancing on the court, turning something simple into something I have to actively ignore.
Mom moves around the kitchen with her usual ease, setting steaming bowls of stew on the table and sliding a basket of warm bread between us.She’s glowing—happy to have guests, happy to feed people—and on any other night that would be enough to help me unwind.
Not tonight.
Because across from me sits Blane Ross, who has already charmed my mother halfway to the moon.She laughs at his jokes, accepts his compliments, and somewhere between the breadbasket and the second helping, she’s reminiscing about her mother’s shepherd’s pie.He has that effect, clearly, turning a room toward him without appearing to try.
Mom’s loving every second of it.
I’d rather be running suicides.
Grace sits beside him, shoulders a little too stiff, smile a little too tight.I’ve spent enough time with her in the last couple weeks to know the difference.She’s performing, but the shine’s too bright—the brightness of someone who’d rather be anywhere else.