It was a well-known fact that Grace Simon had a habit of diving into situations without thinking. Literally. She’d nearly drowned when she was four after jumping into the lake in order to save a small duck that had become separated from its mother.

The duck could swim. Grace could not.

Sure it was scary because her feet didn’t reach the bottom, but she was determined to shoo the duckling toward its mother. In the end, the mother duck returned for her baby, and Grace’s older brother Jack pulled her out of the water.

All was right in her world. She was saved and so was the duckling. That’s what Grace did. She saved people. She wore her heart on her sleeve and said to hell with the consequences. Of course she’d been hurt in the past, but who went through life without at least a few scrapes and bruises?

All that it meant was that you were alive. Hurting meant you were alive. Plain and simple. It meant that you were willing to jump into the deep end and possibly drown. To some folks, that thought was scary. But to Grace, it was a part of her genetic code. It was how she was wired. As far as she was concerned, you couldn’t have joy or love or anything good without hurt.

Grace was used to falling. Used to brushing off those scrapes and bruises. She was used to picking herself back up and moving on.

And right now? Right now she was standing on the edge of something. But what that something was, she couldn’t say. The only thing she did know, was that she wasn’t drowning. At least, not yet.

“What am I doing here?” she asked quietly, stroking the back of Rosie’s neck. The dog’s eyes were half closed, clearly enjoying her attentions. It was early afternoon and with the roads finally passable, Matt had taken Dory back to her place. He wouldn’t be long and her stomach was in knots anticipating his return.

They hadn’t talked about what had happened, mainly because they hadn’t had the chance. She’d woken up alone hours after they’d had sex, and Matt was out clearing snow from his driveway. He’d come in for a quick bowl of chili and then headed back out without more than a few words.

Was he avoiding her? For sure.

The only question was, what was she going to do about it?

Grace got up, ignored Rosie’s protests, and with one more pat on the head moved into the kitchen. She was bored and the house was spotless, so there wasn’t much for her to do. She wandered back to the front of the house and entered what must have been a library or office at one time. The bookshelves were full of dusty volumes and she fingered them absently, searching for anything that would give her some insight into Matt Hawkins.

She grabbed a hardcover, The Doors of Perception by Aldous Huxley, and paged through it, noting the name Whitwell signed in cursive with a date from the early seventies. She grabbed another book and had a look. Same deal. The things in this room didn’t belong to Matt.

She crossed over to the window and peered out into the sunlight. She spied a barn off to the left and noted that the path had been cleared. Before she could stop herself—the whole jumping in thing again—Grace grabbed hoodie from the cupboard in the hall and slipped into her boots. Pulling the hood over her head, she dashed out into the cold and didn’t stop running until she made it to the side door of the barn.

The sunlight felt wonderful, as did the fresh air, and giggling like an idiot Grace let herself into the barn. She fell silent as she gazed around the large open area. It was not what she’d expected—not at all.

“So, this is who you are,” she murmured.

The area to her immediate right boasted some pretty impressive gym equipment—both weights and cardio, while the area to her left had a couple of sofas and a bar. The walls were filled with posters of bands the likes of Led Zepplin, The Who, Foo Fighters and Pearl Jam. There were also several jerseys hung and framed—Gretzky, Crosby, Manning.

“So you like hockey and football.” She smiled at that. It was such a simple thing, yet it made her happy to know it.

Grace turned in a full circle, eyes moving everywhere. The bulk of this space was taken up by three cars. All of them antiques and worth a small fortune. Her Papa Simon had always had a passion for North American cars and as a little girl she used to love hanging out in his garage, sitting in his cars, pretending she was driving all over the world.

He’d be impressed with the finery on display here. She walked closer, eyeing them up appreciatively. Two Fords, a Thunderbird and a Mustang convertible had been restored to their former glory in painstaking detail. The third, a Chevy by the looks of it, was badly in need of restoration and Grace guessed that Matt would be the guy for the job.

She opened the door of the cherry red Mustang and slipped into the driver’s seat. Her Papa had had one nearly the same—he’d kept it up at their summer place in Canada. She closed her eyes, leaned her head back, and envisioned the two of them barreling down the twisting road that led to the lake, wind in their ears and sunlight on their faces.

Her papa had caught hell from her mother when they’d finally pulled into the driveway, but it had been so worth it. “I miss you,” she whispered, eyes slowly opening as a wave of melancholy rolled over her. He’d been dead for nearly ten years and the ache was still just as strong.

She wasn’t sure how long she sat in the car, lost in thought, but it was long enough for the chill to take hold once more. With a shiver Grace exited the car and carefully shut the door. She caressed the chrome handle one last time and turned, her intention to head back to the house before Matt got back.

She took exactly two steps before the door to the barn flew open. Matt stepped inside and she froze, unsure if she’d just crossed some invisible line that shouldn’t be crossed. Her heart took off like a rocket and she had to take a moment because she wasn’t so sure she could speak without sounding like a babbling idiot.

Matt closed the door behind him and then headed toward the bar. “You wanna beer?” His tone was casual—not at all pissed off—and relieved, Grace relaxed a bit.

“Sure.” She hated beer, but she wasn’t about to tell him that. She wasn’t about to say anything at the moment, thinking that Matt needed to lead them down whatever path they were headed for.

This was his space and it was his call on how to proceed. Of course that didn’t mean she would agree with whatever path he chose, but the least she could do was let him choose one.

He doffed his hat and gloves along with his jacket and Grace took a moment to appreciate the man in front of her. He wore a thick blue turtleneck, faded jeans that fit just right, and kick-ass work boots. With his dark hair curling over the collar, more than a few days’ worth of stubble on his chin, and a smile that wouldn’t quit, he was the entire package.

And he was smiling at her right now. Holding out a beer.

Grace walked to him and accepted the bottle, her heart leaping a little when his fingers brushed over hers.

Tags: Juliana Stone The Family Simon Romance
Source: readsnovelonline.net