And I hate that I notice.
“So, Blane.”Mom butters her bread.“You’re the photographer?”
“And videographer.”He lays on that smooth tone like lacquer.“Gracie and I have collaborated on quite a few pieces together.Nice to be back in the field with her.”
Gracie.
I hadn’t really clocked the nickname when he first arrived, too irritated by his general existence to give it much thought.But sitting across from him now, hearing it again, it chafes in a way I don’t particularly want to examine.
My spoon hits the side of my bowl a little too hard.“Together?”
His grin widens as he glances her way.“Professionally, of course.”He takes a beat, just long enough to be deliberate, and then, because apparently he can’t help himself, he adds, “And sometimes not so professionally.”
Grace sets down her spoon with a quiet, deliberate click.“Blane.”Her voice is pleasant, even, the kind of calm that has an edge underneath it.“We’re guests in Meredith’s home.Let’s act like it.”
He only shrugs.“What?We’re among friends.”
“Exactly.So, let’s not embarrass ourselves in front of them.”
The table settles, but her words don’t.Embarrass ourselves.Notembarrass me, which suggests there’s something to be embarrassed about.Something that exists between them beyond deadlines and bylines.The thought lodges in my chest like a splinter I can’t quite reach.
I hold his gaze long enough for the message to land, and his eyes drop to his plate.
Mom, shrugging off the tension, pats his hand.“Well, you’ll find Winslow Grove a lovely place.Small, yes, but full of heart.”
“Already obvious.”He flashes that smile again.“You’ve raised quite a son, Meredith.”
“He’s sitting right here.”
Grace coughs into her napkin, and Mom smiles, unfazed.“You’ll get used to him, Blane.Mads has been this way since he could talk.”
I don’t deny it.But when I glance toward Grace, there’s a glint in her eye—dark, amused, knowing—that settles somewhere in my chest before I can redirect it.
We haven’t had a moment alone since the bathroom, and that’s a good thing.The smart thing.Yet I can’t seem to stop the memory from surfacing anyway.
I reach for my water glass, and it doesn’t help.
Blane leans back in his chair, casually draping an arm across the back of Grace’s chair.
“So, Maddox, Grace tells me you’re something of a local legend.Racing champion, hometown hero, now the big man at the high school?”
“Something like that.”
“Hell of a résumé.”He lifts his glass in a mock toast.“You must miss the thrill though—speed, adrenaline, fans screaming your name.”
“I was born and raised here.This is home.I like the quiet.”
“Really.”His dry chuckle rankles.“Because I’ve read a few of Grace’s notes.Sounds like you still like to keep control of the wheel.”
Her head shoots up, frown fixed on her pretty features.“Blane?—”
Something uncomfortable moves through me, though not quite anger.The realization prickles.All the things Grace has been writing down—observations, impressions, things I’ve said at the school, café, and across this table—and Blane Ross has read them.
I don’t like it and won’t give him the satisfaction of rising to it.So, I smile, sharp, and weighted, the kind that makes freshmen rethink their life choices.
“Control’s not a bad thing when lives depend on it.Something tells me you’d understand that.”
His grin falters, then he lifts his glass in a lazy salute.“Touché, Coach.”