“That’s the plan.”
She walks softly around me, perching on the edge of the desk. She’s still wearing shorts and flip-flops.
“Didn’t you have a flight this morning?” I ask her, taking another long gulp.
She shakes her head. “I did. But I’m not going to leave you now.”
I stare at her. “Uh-uh. Get on that plane, Vincent. I’m fine.”
She shakes her head again. “Nope. You nursed me through five million break-ups. I can be here for one.”
I down the beer and reach for number three.
“Nope. I honestly don’t want you here, Jace. I love you and all, but I think I need to be alone. I’m going to be an asshole for a few days. You don’t need to be here for that.”
She starts to protest, to tell me how she’s been a bitch around me before, yada, yada, yada, but I cut her short, leveling a gaze at her.
“Seriously, Jacey. I appreciate it. But go back to your husband. I need to be alone.”
She opens her mouth, then closes it. She stares at me for the longest time, before finally nodding.
“I guess. If that’s what you want.” She takes a few steps toward the door, then turns. “Brand, one of the very best things about you is your heart. You could’ve turned out to be an asshole in life, because of all the shit you dealt with as a kid, but you didn’t. You turned out to be the absolute best man I know. Don’t let any of this change that. Please.”
I snort, lifting can number three to my lips.
“Whatever, Jace. Look where it got me. Nice guys finish last. Every. Fucking. Time.”
I turn my back on her, looking out the window as I gulp the brew down. At this rate, I very well might go through a case today. And that’s fine.
I hear Jacey behind me, lingering, trying to decide what to say. It annoys the fuck out of me.
“Just go, Jacey,” I tell her firmly. “Seriously. Have a safe flight.”
She flies back to me, throwing herself at me, hugging me tight. Her arms clamp around my throat and I have to pry them off so I can breathe.
“What the hell?”
She glances up at me, her eyes watery. “I’m sorry she hurt you, Brand. It sucks. I don’t know why she left, but you deserve to be happy.”
I look away. “Yeah. I do. But you know what they say…”
“What do they say?”
A voice comes from the doorway, a voice with a French accent.
Jesus. Do people not ever knock around here?
Camille Greene stands elegantly in the woodshop, as out of place among the dust and wood shavings as Maxwell had been on the porch.
She stares from Jacey to me, curiosity in her blue eyes, at the way Jacey is drap
ed around my neck, but she doesn’t say anything else.
“It doesn’t matter what they say,” I mutter, and I gently push Jacey off my lap. I stare at her, my expression firm.
“Go back to the UK. Go be with your husband. I’ll be fine.”
She nods. “Fine. But call me if you need me.” She takes a step, then two, then turns around.