Grace (The Family Simon #5)- Juliana Stone Page 0,44
his jacket and hunched his shoulders against the cold. He hadn’t shaved in a few days because Grace liked the scruffy look, and with his dark hair curling over his collar, a small smile on his face as he glanced back at the house, she was hit in the chest. Seriously. It felt as if someone had just punched her.
Matt Hawkin was perfect for her. Absolutely perfect.
I love him, she thought. Holy. Shit. I love him.
“Grace? Are you still there?”
“Yes, I’m here. And you’re right, Mom,” she whispered into the phone.
“Just promise me something, will you?”
“I’ll try.” She barely got the words out because her throat was so damn tight from trying to stop the tears from coming.
“Promise me that you won’t be afraid to ask the questions that you want to ask, even if you’re afraid of the answer. Promise me that you won’t ever let a man dictate your tongue or stifle your voice. Because in the end, to truly love someone successfully, you have to love yourself first and sometimes that means guarding your heart. It means knowing when to stay, but more importantly it means knowing when to walk away.”
Grace couldn’t reply because she totally failed to stop the tears from slipping down her face. She wiped her hand across her face, and grabbed up the hem of her T-shirt to take care of her damp cheeks.
“Grace?”
“Uh huh?” She hoped her mother couldn’t hear her sniffling.
“I hope we see you for the holidays. And please know the invitation is for Mathew as well. If that’s what you want.”
“Okay,” she managed to say, placing the puppy back in the pen. Grace snatched a Kleenex from the table beside the sofa and dabbed the corners if her eyes.
“We’ll talk in a few days?” her mother asked.
“We will. Tell Dad I said hello and that I’ve finally convinced the chef to use the menu that I want.”
“Okay. I love you peanut.”
Grace tossed her cellphone onto the island, her thoughts jumbled. Thanksgiving was less than a week away. She needed to nail down plans. She needed to ask the questions.
“I’ll do it over dinner,” she murmured.
It got dark early this time of year and already the sun was disappearing. Matt would be in soon—he rarely worked past five. They were having leftovers—she’d pulled out one of his containers of beef stew and the fresh buns she’d bought at the bakery in town were ready to go.
Grace got busy heating up the stew and grabbed a bottle of wine from the cupboard, smiling a little when she remembered what they’d done the night before after downing only half a bottle.
It was now nearly six and she was just about to set the table when she heard the front door open. Matt strode into house and headed for the utility room off of the main floor bathroom. Grace walked out to the hallway and leaned against the wall, her body thrumming at the thought of seeing him. Pathetic? Probably. But she didn’t care.
He tossed a bag into the hall, followed by three hockey sticks, and then stepped over the mess.
“Hey,” he said, walking over to her and planting a heated kiss on her mouth.
“Hey yourself,” she replied, breathlessly.
“I’m just heading out. Not sure when I’ll be back.”
Wait. What?
He must have noticed the confusion on her face, because he dropped one more kiss on her mouth and nuzzled her neck. “It’s my Friday night men’s league. Hockey.”
“Oh, I guess I forgot.” How could she forget something she didn’t know? And why was that exactly? Dumb rhetorical question. Because of the no-talking thing.
He stared down at her, his thumb tracing her bottom lip. “I can stay if you want me to. Might hear it from the guys—Lord knows they like to chirp—but it’s nothing I can’t handle.”
“No.” She shook her head and patted his chest, before reaching up and giving him a quick peck on the cheek. She wasn’t going to be that girl. The clingy, insecure, needy girl.
“Go. Have fun with your team. I’ll just…watch a movie or something.”
“You sure?”
“Go.”
He scooped up his hockey gear and, with a lopsided smile, left her alone in his house.
She listened to the rumble of his truck until it died and then Grace wandered back to the kitchen. She stared at the stew on the stove, at the basket of buns on the table, and at the two wine glasses along with the open bottle of red. Wow. When had she gotten so domesticated?