"Well, you're the one who said I should be the welcoming committee, right? Let's go say hi."
Chapter 35 Grace
Mine.
He is mine.
I heard the voice in my head like someone cupped their hand to my ear and screamed it at the top of their lungs.
Nothing about it made sense. Not the buzzing in my head, or the clamoring of my heart, or the way everything except him went a little blurry and out of focus. My dad's voice was still rumbling next to me, but I couldn't make out the words anymore.
Tucker’s face was the same as when I'd seen it earlier, same strong jaw, deep set eyes, and proud, straight nose. The beard was the same, as were his shoulders and arms and lips. But the simple addition of the beautiful woman holding his arm, the one I knew I'd heard on the other end of the phone, triggered the same kind of visceral reflex, the same irrational reaction that his voice had when I first heard it.
But this line of dominoes fell in an entirely new pattern, because everything inside of me untangled, smoothed out, then tied back up into a new arrangement. Straight and true, easy to see, instead of impossible to understand.
Tucker Haywood is mine, was what I heard. Clear as day and twice as loud.
"Gracey B?" my dad asked, laying his hand on my back.
I blinked, focused in on him again. "Sorry. What?"
"You okay, honey?" Concern deepened the lines on his face.
I nodded. "Yeah, just … got distracted."
"You still want the twist cone, miss?" the pimply-faced teenager asked through the window.
"Sure."
The two approached us as my dad handed some wadded-up cash to the worker, and I felt the nerves tingle in my fingers and twitch in my toes.
I didn't want to meet her. For no other reason than she was standing next to him.
This made no sense.
None of it.
I couldn't run, because my ankle was still sore, even after icing it and resting it for the evening at my dad's, while we ate takeout pizza.
When I couldn't ignore the fact that Tucker and whatever the frick her name was—Bluebell, or Petunia, something like that—were almost next to us, I pulled in a deep breath and grabbed the reins on what precious little sanity I had left. Fixing a polite smile on my face, I turned toward them, ice cream firmly in hand.
Tucker's girlfriend was stunning with a capital S.
When you live in a place like LA, you learn to recognize when someone came by their beauty naturally. It wasn’t in the way they dressed, how they made up their face. It was how they carried themselves.
This woman, Miss Magnolia Whatever was that kind of beautiful. Somewhere along the line in her genetic lineup, she hit the freaking lottery, all flawless skin and perfectly carved bone structure.
A couple of years back, Meghan Markle was booked for a photoshoot at the studio where I worked. Long before she got herself a prince, there was still something about her that made me want to stare at her all freaking day. Her smile and eyes had this mesmerizing quality, and everything about her had looked effortless. She hadn't been someone trying to look gorgeous, she just was gorgeous.
And Tucker's girlfriend looked like Meghan's prettier, younger sister.
She wore a pink dress that draped over a sleek torso and fell modestly to the knees, and on her face was the practiced smile of every southern belle debutante I'd ever met. But the part of her face that transfixed me most were her eyes. I'd never seen eyes like that, bright and vivid in her deeply tanned face, a mix of gold and brown and hints of green, surrounded by thick, dark lashes.
I didn't want to stare at her. Truly.
But my eyes finished the study of her face and fell straight to where her pink-tipped fingers curled possessively around Tucker's thick bicep.
"Why, you must be Grace Buchanan," she said, her voice honey-smooth and low, her accent curling around the words in the same way that Tucker's did. "I've heard so much about you."
My palm was sticky from the ice cream, so I smiled helplessly. "I'd shake your hand, but I'm a mess."
His face was carefully blank as his girlfriend leaned in to press her cheek to mine for an air kiss. I saw the twitch of his jaw, and it made my ribs squeeze.
"I'm Magnolia," she said as she pulled back. "Magnolia MacIntyre."
Right. The pretty southern name for the pretty southern girl.
"Grace," I said. Quite needlessly, given she already said my name. "Which you already know."
My dad slid his arm around my shoulder, and I breathed out slowly at the much-needed support.
"Miss MacIntyre," my dad greeted. "I haven't seen you in a long time. Tucker." He nodded.
This was not the kind of small-town conversation I'd noted at the meeting. This was stilted and uncomfortable, probably for different reasons, depending on the person talking.
Magnolia smiled prettily at my dad, and I couldn't help but notice that she wasn't nearly as bothered meeting me as I apparently was meeting her. "You work for my momma, don't you, Mr. Buchanan?"
My eyes darted to my dad, who was smiling proudly. "I do. She's a good boss, your mom is. Knows more about fishing than anyone I've ever met in my life."
"That she does." She smiled again, a bit more subdued. "And how long have you been there?"
He scratched the side of his face. "Oh, just shy of a year now, I think. My tired old body couldn't handle the lumber yard anymore, so her store is a perfect place for me."
While they made small talk, I processed that little nugget of information and tucked it away. There was no reason for me to feel like it was important, that my dad worked
