Grip Trilogy Box Set

“She’s a foolish woman who feels too much for a man who doesn’t feel enough for her, and she can’t make herself walk away.” A hollow laugh grates in my throat. “And I’d be just like her.”

“No, you wouldn’t. You’re not.”

“I am,” I fire back, holding his eyes by sheer will. “You have me pegged so wrong, Rhyson. You always have.”

“What? I . . .” He dips his head to get a better look at my face. “What do you mean?”

“You think I’m this hard ass who doesn’t care.”

My voice wobbles, dammit. I swallow as much of the years-old weakness as I can before continuing.

“That isn’t me.” The words barely make it out, singed by the hot tears in my throat. “I’m the girl who cares too much. When you and our parents walked away from each other, who fought for our family? Who actually cared that we weren’t a family?”

“Well—”

“Me, Rhyson.” I dig my finger into my chest, pressing my point.

“And when we didn’t see each other, literally for years, who took the first step? Reached out? Called? Came here to see you?”

“Bristol, I—”

“That’s right. Me.” I can’t hold back the tears that leak over my cheeks. “Who was the idiot who hadn’t had a real conversation with you in years, but chose her college major based on your dreams? Bet the whole farm that you’d let me back into your life if I could help your career?”

“You did,” he says softly.

“Don’t you see? Can none of you see how much I care?” A sob breaks into my words. “How damn starved I am? For anything from you, from Mom, Dad.”

“From Grip?”

His question slices into the quiet like a knife through butter.

Softly. Smoothly, but it still cuts.

“It didn’t even take a week with him,” I whisper, sniffing and letting the tears roll over my chin, down my neck, and into my collar unchecked. “I knew I was in trouble after three days.”

A chuckle at my own expense vibrates in my chest.

“Maybe less. Two days.” I shrug. “We talked about everything that first night. There was nothing off limits. We were so different, but I’d never felt so . . . connected to anyone.”

“I guess I was working on that project, huh?” Guilt floods Rhyson’s eyes.

“That was the excuse you gave, yeah.” I give him a knowing look. “We both know you were avoiding me. You had no idea if I was legit. You didn’t know what to make of me after all those years apart. You always thought, and rightly so, that I was too much like Mother.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No it’s true. I am.” I smile, reminiscing about that week. “But Grip didn’t know that. He just got to know . . . me. For me. He was smart. So smart. And such a good writer. Sensitive. He wrote poetry, for God’s sake. What grown man who looks like him writes poetry? That’s just not fair.”

Rhyson and I share a smile, tinged with sadness.

“And he was so comfortable with himself,” I say. “So confident, and it didn’t come from having money or fame or anything else. Just confident in himself. It came from somewhere I couldn’t even relate to, but it was completely authentic and magnetic.”

“And?” Rhyson prompts when I stop myself.

“And I didn’t stop it.” I blow out a breath laden with my own incredulity. “For once, I decided I was going to free-fall. I was going to kiss at the top of a Ferris wheel, swim naked in the ocean—”

“Naked in the ocean?” Rhyson does a double take. “I wasn’t gone that much. I missed all that?”

“We didn’t let anyone know. It was just . . . us. I knew Grip was falling for me, and I knew for sure I was falling for him, and it felt so good. Just to let it go. To just fall felt good.”