Page 28

Chapter

Twenty-Eight

Grace

The bar was humming when they walked in. Musicians warmed up in the corner, and the air was thick with the scent of wood shavings and whiskey. She’d only been to The Dusty Rose a few times since landing in Calgary. It was a dive, but the place had major heart.

Grace pulled her coat tighter as they slipped past the host, heading for the long high-top their group had reserved near the stage. Country music played at a low pulse, but it was early still. The real chaos would start when the house band kicked off.

She gaped when she saw Delia. Her disguise was shockingly good. A dark auburn wig—soft bangs, layered waves. Oversized rose-tinted sunglasses. A denim jacket pulled over a vintage Johnny Cash tee, tucked into slouchy black trousers and paired with boots, she looked like someone who drank mezcal and wrote moody lyrics in leatherbound journals.

Grace leaned over to Jenna. “How the hell did you pull this off?”

Jenna laughed. “This is all her.”

Delia leaned in and whispered, “I’m regretting the wig. It itches.”

The waitress dropped off a pitcher of beer and glasses. Grace didn’t anticipate drinking tonight, so she asked for a pitcher of water as well. The last thing she needed was a migraine in the morning.

She slung her coat over the chair and adjusted her halter top. She’d gone through ten outfits before landing on this one, then figured what the hell? She was out with the girls, so why not be a little slutty?

If she was being honest, a small part of that decision was catalyzed by dropping through the tube of death on that waterslide. That moment had unlocked something within her. It was as if she hadn’t understood all the possibilities before that robotic voice counted down.

She could break the rules and do something reckless, and the world wouldn’t end because of it. Grace had put butter and jam on her English muffin that morning. She’d left the dishes in the sink, not loading them as she typically would. And now she wore a halter top with high-waisted jeans like she was twenty-eight instead of in her mid-thirties.

And the world kept on spinning.

“Damn, girl! You look—” Jenna froze, her brow pinching as she looked past her shoulder. “Oh, I am going to kill him.”

Grace turned toward the entrance. The Snowballs filed in one after the other, not even trying to be subtle. Brett first, already waving. Then Tyler, Sean, Ryan, and?—

Her hands tensed.

André.

He wore a heather-grey T-shirt that clung to his chest and a backward ball cap. Casual. Effortless. Unfair.

He clocked her instantly. His eyes took a long, low sweep of her, causing a record-breaking temperature increase beneath her skin. Grace felt a strange surge of power then.

Let him look. Let him want. Because she sure as hell still did.

André nodded toward the bar, then peeled off from the group to grab drinks. He didn’t come straight over. Didn’t make a beeline for her like he used to. No casual graze of her waist. No whisper in her ear.

Grace pasted on a smile and turned back to the table, but the sound of her pulse thrumming in her ears combined with the music made it impossible to hear the conversation. She leaned in, feigning complete and total interest in Delia and Penny’s intense discussion on favourite lubes. Aelin, Ryan’s fiancée jumped in with her take—one brand for the shower, one for the nightstand—and Grace was glad to ride the wave of conversation.

After an hour, she took a quick break to hit the bathroom. When she returned the house band was starting their second set. André was two stools away from Sean, shoulder to shoulder with Brett, tossing back a shot and shaking his head with a grimace. His grin flashed quick and wide.

He looked happy. Relaxed. Like he’d up and gotten over everything that happened between them in Edmonton.

Grace stood abruptly.

“Where are you going?” Rhonda asked.

Grace pointed to the flashing lights on their right and mouthed, “Dance floor.”

She didn’t wait for a response. She just headed to the centre of the floor, shouldering past a group of girls in denim skirts and cowboy boots until she hit the open space.

Her shoulders curled inward as she realized the situation. She stood alone. And yet if she didn’t move, she was going to split at the seams.

The music was loud—twangy guitar over a driving bass—but it didn’t matter. Her body remembered the basics of how to do this. She'd taken a dozen dance classes as a kid, everything from jazz to contemporary to Latin ballroom. Back then, she’d danced because she didn’t want to play soccer, and her parents required her to participate in a sport.

Now?

Her hips caught the beat, and her arms lifted instinctively. She let herself forget about the legal briefs waiting in her inbox. About the court date and therapists and what-if scenarios and the panic clawing at her throat anytime she thought of Jenna handing over Hope.

And then?—

Hands.

Strong. Familiar. Settling low on her hips.

She didn’t have to look to know who it was.

Grace exhaled, allowing André to press in behind her, waiting for him to match her movements. His chest grazed her back, his thighs brushing hers. The rhythm between them shifted and synced.

He leaned in, breath hot against her ear. “You’re trying to kill me.”

Heat flooded her middle. “Is dancing a crime?”

He laughed, low and rough. “The way you do it, it is.”

They moved together, his hand sliding over her thigh, shameless and slow. Grace felt him hard against her, his hand sliding to her waist, guiding her hips as the tempo climbed.

“You’re drunk,” she murmured, leaning back against his chest.

“Just a little buzzed.”

“I don’t think you’d be standing here if you were just a little buzzed.”

“Why is that?” he drawled.

Grace swallowed. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

His hand tensed on her hip. “Self-preservation.”

She closed her eyes, the beat humming through her. “André, my permits came through. I’m leaving in a couple of weeks?—”

“Then why haven’t we been spending time together?”

Grace laughed. André sounded so sappy, it was comical. “You haven’t texted.”

“Neither have you.” His voice wasn’t playful anymore. “Don’t think that night doesn’t run through my head every damn second.”

Grace’s ribs cinched. André tugged at her waist, turning her around to face him. He slid his hands into the hollow of her back and leaned in, exhaling near her temple. “I’m trying, Grace. To be what you want.”

She pulled back to look at him, but he kept her pinned to his chest. “I don’t want you to be something different?—”

“Bullshit. You want me to be everything different. You want me to be like you.” Grace opened her mouth, then closed it. André wasn’t finished. “Country found out he was a dad overnight. One minute, the most important thing in his life was hockey and his ranch, the next minute a baby lay in a bassinet with his name on her paperwork.”

She blinked, her throat thick as something clicked in her chest, and everything else in the room fell away. A name. A detail. A line from a case file she hadn’t thought about in days.

He found out he was a dad overnight.

Holy shit. Amey never told the birth father.

Grace’s eyes widened. There’d been a note from the adoption agency. A letter that was sent. But no follow-up. And a text from Amey weeks later—something vague about her husband being overseas. It had been nothing then, but hadn’t there been a date?

“He grew up fast,” André concluded. “Maybe that’s all it takes. Someone in your life that makes you want to be something more. And then you’re not just looking for fun anymore.”

What if he hadn’t seen the letter? What if he got back and ? —

Grace gasped, reaching for André’s arm like she needed it to stay upright. “I have to go,” she whispered.

He pulled back, his expression annoyed. “What?”

She turned, her fingers gripping his shirt. “I’m so sorry, I have to go. Now.”

And then she was gone—racing toward her bag, digging out her phone, fingers flying as her brain tore through timelines and conversations.

She had a call to make. And if she was right? Everything in this case could change.