Mercy Growing up, I’d had a mean old neighbor with a mean old dog who liked to chase little kids when they passed in front of their home. His bark was vicious—all snarly and slobbery and loud. I had nightmares about that dog for years. We’d all ke ep our distance because he scared the shit out of us. But until I was twelve, we’d never known him to actually bite anyone. Connor was there that day—my parents still allowed him to visit me as long as they weren’t around. Given that I was smack in the middle of my softball obsession, he was helping me with my batting stance. I’d already worked up a bit of sweat, and he went into the house to get us a drink. So I waited, adjusting my feet, ke eping my elbow at the correct angle and swinging that bat like I was about to win a gold medal. A little girl down the street was taking her brand-new bike for its inaugural ride, the paint job purple and pink, with white streamers coming out the handlebars, and when I saw it, I was wild with jealousy, the bat slowly falling to my side as she floated down the street, a big smile on her face. It must have been the streamers that distracted her from her proximity to the forbidden front yard, because she got a bit too close, and for the first time, that dog crossed the threshold of the property, darting into the street with his teeth bared and his hackles raised. He went straight for her furiously pumping legs, and I’d never forget the sound of her terrified scream as she pitched forward off her bike with his jaws tight around her shoe. Another kid might have run scared. And if I thought about it now, maybe I should have too. Should have called for my brother and let him handle it. But I didn’t. Before I knew what I was doing, I had that bat in my hand and charged across the street with a yell channeling Buffy the Vampire Slayer. More than anything, I wanted to be her. Wanted to be strong and save the world and have perfect hair and instill fear in anyone who dared cross me. That dog raised his head, took one look at me, and fucking ran. I didn’t even have to hit him, but with the screaming adrenaline going through my veins, I would have. Kinda wanted to, actually. No matter how much we think we’ll react one way or another, there’s no predicting whether our nervous system will kick into fight, flight, or the dreaded freeze. As a gangly, slightly feral preteen, I could face down a rabid asshole of a dog without blinking. But shift me into adulthood and show me a beautiful home that was allegedly mine?
Frozen as fuck. I sat in that car for fifteen minutes, then another fifteen, studying each and every stone that made up the timeless facade. I wanted it to be cold and uptight, the way I’d always viewed Grant, but it wasn’t. It was perfect. God, I hoped it was ugly and pretentious and fussy on the inside, because the alternative was terrifying. Grant gave me time, and somehow that made it even worse. He’d already brought my bags inside and was now waiting patiently in one of the two stained Adirondacks flanking the door. He wasn’t watching me. Wasn’t staring through the windshield like he could will me to movement with only the power of his piercing gray eyes and sublime bone structure. He answered three phone calls while I sat in the car. More texts than I could count. What a busy man he was. And now, as he held a leather-bound journal in his lap and his undoubtedly expensive pen flew across the pages, Grant seemed entirely unbothered. And maybe he was. Questions—no matter how much they intimidated me, no matter how tightly they caused the panic to spiral in my gut—would not be suppressed much longer. But neither could I pry the answers from his non-holey brain. They were locked away, no matter how badly I wished it otherwise. Where was the girl who’d taken her bat and charged a violent dog? Instead of a fictional warrior with shiny hair and a quick wit, I wanted to channel myself. Burst through the door and demand answers. All of them. Force him to flood me with information because I needed to know. But what if those answers rocked me even further than I’d already been rocked? I could feel the cre eping need to rip the car keys from Grant, leave tire tracks in the very nice driveway, and travel across town to the place that felt like home. With the black door and the dented red siding and the small kitchen that smelled like garlic. I’d always had such a strong sense of what defined me. The foundation of Mercy Kincaid was unshakable. The girl with the bat would be horrified at what she was seeing now. I was shaken. And I was scared. My hands clenched into fists as I counted the stones on the columns that held up that inviting front porch. There was something inherently discomforting about the shame I felt for hiding this way. It was a pulsing, writhing presence in the car with me. You’re pathetic. When did you become weak, Mercy? Can’t handle it?
Maybe you don’t deserve to know what you’re missing. “Fuck off,” I whispered firmly. Like he’d heard me, Grant’s face turned in my direction, and for the first time since he’d left the vehicle and its sex seats, his eyes locked with mine. The increase of my heart rate meant nothing outside this strange situation. Meant nothing about him—the holder of all the knowledge I needed. A perfectly dressed executioner, just waiting for me to join him on the platform of my own demise. I blew out a harsh breath and yanked on the car door’s shiny handle, treating it more roughly than it deserved. As I got out of the car with my chin raised, Grant unfolded his tall, lean frame, face unreadable as I marched up the curved brick path toward the front porch. “I’m no fucking coward,” I said. If he chose to comment on my thirty-minute freak-out in the car, I’d know that his sense of self-preservation was flimsy. “Trust me, Kincaid, I am more certain of that than just about anything else.” My jaw tightened. He held his hand toward the front door—warm and inviting, with a beautiful old-fashioned door knocker mounted in the center. “Shall we?” I paused, eyeing him. Honest to God, where did he buy his clothes? I’d never seen a man wear a shirt that fit so perfectly. It was so much more irritating than it had any right to be. “If I freak out, don’t . . . don’t take it personally.” The slightest glint of humor lit his eyes and disappeared a moment later. “Rest assured, my monstrous ego would never allow it.” I crossed my arms and scoffed—a sound that came a bit too close to a shocked laugh, for my taste. “If you’re going to throw my previous words back in my face, this house tour is off to a rocky start, Hastings.” “It’s how we operate best, my dear.” “That, I believe.” “You’ll find that you can believe everything I say to you.” It wasn’t the way he said it—his voice was as smooth and cultured as always. But the eye contact was brutal. The distance between us was less than a foot, close enough that it was impossible to breathe without filling my lungs with sandalwood and something else, and close enough that the look in his eye was impossible to ignore. He meant it. He meant every fucking word. I pinched my eyes shut and fought the torrential swarm of nerves that rose in the wake of what he’d said so easily.
Can I, though? I wanted to ask. I wasn’t sure that I could. Not only because it would require the kind of trust I’d only ever put in one person, but because it would be so easy to lie to me. I had no choice but to take his words at face value. “Let’s do this,” I said, opening my eyes again, ke eping them trained on the door instead of him. As he reached out to open the door for me, I held up my hand. “Wait.” He glanced back, brow raised in question. “There’s not, like, giant wedding pictures framed on the wall and I’m going to walk in to see myself dressed in some puffy monstrosity with Live, Laugh, Love painted above the frames?” “That’s what you’re most afraid of?” “Most is subjective, because my list is incredibly long at the moment. There are no less than eighteen things currently fighting for the top spot. Plus, I’ve always had a healthy amount of vanity.” I chewed on my bottom lip and studied his expression—not that I got much from it. “Was the dress puffy?” His lips twitched. “No.” “Okay.” My eyes found his again. “No Living, Laughing, Loving?” “Nowhere to be found.” “That’s comforting.” “You’re stalling.” I arched an eyebrow, ruthlessly ignoring the way that the back-andforth between us—a glimpse into the way it used to be—unlocked some of the pressure in my chest. “Open the door, Hastings.” “After you, Kincaid.” Chivalry was not dead, at least not in the Kincaid-Hastings house, because even though I was perfectly capable of opening that door myself, Grant did the honors, setting his hand on my lower back, and, with the heat of his palm se eping through the soft material of my shirt, gave a gentle nudge. There was a moment—pure madness was the only explanation— where I wanted to reach back and clutch his hand, just to have something to hold on to. But the emptiness didn’t go away, not even when I had to look around and make peace with the fact that the inside of the house, unfortunately, was just as beautiful as the outside. The rooms were big. The furniture welcoming. High-end touches in the art framed on the walls and the herringbone pattern of the floor. Much like the man at my side, it looked expensive. Refined. Elegant. I’d been holding my breath that I’d walk in and see something precisely to my own taste—colorful materials and eclectic artwork, bookshelves stuffed to groaning. It wasn’t that. Not exactly. But it wasn’t his either—the cold, sleek, and modern vibe from his penthouse when he’d lived closer to Detroit after he and Connor graduated.
It was something different from both of those things. The ceilings were tall, the walls and trim painted a creamy white still warm enough to be inviting. There was a sitting room to the left, with a fuzzy rug underneath leather chairs and a wide circular table holding a stack of books that I recognized. Facing the door was a brick fir eplace that was clearly original to the house, but the age of the stone didn’t detract from the rest of the updates. Beyond the fir eplace was a more formal living room, where a wallmounted TV framed like artwork faced a long couch in a de ep navy color, so dark it was almost black, which was flanked by high-backed armchairs in camel-colored leather. A thick, soft blanket was draped over the arm of the couch, pillows in varying shades of white and ivory adorning the cushions. When I was ten, I used to stuff pillowcases with my clothes just to add more softness to my little bed in my little room. They were lumpy and uncomfortable and exactly what I needed at the time. In my stunned trance, I wandered over to the couch and idly ran my fingers over the first pillow I could reach. “I picked these, didn’t I?” “I learned quite early on that if you don’t have at least three extra pillows for movie-watching or sle ep, there will be dire consequences.” He cleared his throat. “It was a battle I conceded quickly.” I ran a shaky hand over my hair and wandered past the family room, turning a corner to the dining area, which led into a massive kitchen. The dining table, long and rectangular with carved pedestal legs, could fit ten. We must always host Thanksgiving and Christmas, with a table like this. Giant turkey in the middle, waiting to be carved, the kind you’d see in commercials. Candles flickering among more dishes than anyone could eat. A hungry girl used to dream about meals like that. A full table of people who loved each other. Laughter. Talking. Games. Food. Love. I’d spent my first Christmas Day after Connor died sitting on my couch with the ripped arm, watching The Grinch with a plate of leftovers that Rae had sent me home with on Christmas Eve. The far wall was a big stretch of windows overlooking the backyard, which boasted more trees. More perfectly manicured lands caping. My eyes narrowed slightly at the back corner of the property, which was bigger than I’d assumed from the front of the house. A thatched roof, de ep-green siding, two little windows on either side of a charming antique door caught my gaze. “Is that a greenhouse?” Grant joined me at the edge of the dining room. The heat from his body made me damn near sway in his direction, so I k ept my knees fucking locked. “Yours,” he said. My head snapped toward him. “What?”
“Believe it or not, you’ve developed quite a passion for gardening. You find it soothing.” “Oh God,” I moaned. “I pull weeds for fun? How much worse can this get?” Grant didn’t answer, merely tucked his hands into his pants pockets and rocked back on the heels of his leather shoes. I could hardly catalog all the stunning details of this place I called home. It was like someone had pried into the recesses of my brain—the parts that were still accessible—and torn a page from young Mercy’s scrapbook of impossible dreams. Pictures clipped from catalogs and magazines and glued to the pages. I rubbed my fingers together like I could still feel the residue from the glue stick. Because amid the designer finishes, I saw glimpses of me. The pillows. The color of the couch, and the curved arms I’d always wanted. On the dining room wall, a collage of massive prints by Yayoi Kusama, one of my favorite artists. I walked closer, breath catching in my lungs as I touched the edge of the frame—something I’d had a postcard of in college, pinned to my dorm room corkboard because that little postcard was the only fucking way I could afford something of hers at the time. “You let me put these up?” I asked, and fuck, I hated the tremble in my voice too. “Let is a rather weak word for the badgering I took when I tried to insert my opinion on the art in this house.” I glanced sideways. “You called them garish when I said she was my favorite.” “That wasn’t very friendly of me.” Grant’s gaze stayed on mine just long enough that the hair on my arms lifted with goose bumps. “Maybe you could allow that opinions, no matter how long held, have the ability to change.” I tore my gaze away from his and willed my thundering heart to calm while I stared at the vibrant red mosaic print closest to me. Not the wisest choice, maybe. Red was the color of passion. Ravenous appetite. And anger. All those things existed in a different universe from where I resided with Grant, and they needed to fucking stay that way. “Bedrooms?” I asked, fixing my expression into something Grant-like. Very I don’t care and nothing bothers me because I’m Teflon Man. His gaze traced over my face, narrowing a touch before he tilted his head toward a hallway. “Three that way. The primary bedroom and our offices. Downstairs, there are two guest rooms, two bathrooms, and a gym.” I pursed my lips. “A gym. That’s . . . a choice that I’d never make for myself, but okay.” He opened his mouth to say something, and I jammed my finger right into his firm, muscly chest. “If you say that I’ve developed a taste for working out in the last year,” I said, mimicking his posh accent, “I will punch you in the throat.” “First, that’s not how I sound. And two, no, you haven’t. You’ve threatened to remove it from the house on no less than five occasions.” He raised an eyebrow. “Six, now that I think about it.”
“Well, at least I’m consistent.” I crossed my arms tight over my chest and stared down the hallway. “Which door is the bedroom?” When he answered, his voice was lower than normal. “Last door on the right.” The thought of wandering into a bedroom that was ours made my pulse fucking scream, so I took a de ep breath through my nose and channeled Girl with the Bat. “I’d like to look on my own.” His jaw tightened. “Of course.” The offices only received a brief glance, and it wasn’t difficult to tell whose was whose. Grant’s was neat as a pin, hardly anything adorning his desk exc ept a small stack of papers, his laptop, and a potted succulent in the corner of the desk. Mine, on the other hand, was the first room I’d seen painted a different color. Everything in here was moody and dark and lush. The walls had been painted a de ep green, the ceiling papered with a seamlessly r epeating design of vines and flowers and trees with big green leaves. The reading chair tucked against the wall of books was a soft white color, made from a material that would make a fluffy little kitten rot with jealousy. It was filled with pillows in the same off-white shade. Tempted to sign over my soul to nap in that exact spot, I started wondering whether this entire experience was some Faustian deal with the devil. All you have to do is marry this man, and I’ll give you everything you want. The bedroom was last, and when I pushed the door open, I could practically feel Grant’s eyes searing into my back. Like the rest of the house, the style of the room was unfamiliar. But not unwelcome. A king-size bed dominated the center of the room, skinny windows on either side of its massive upholstered headboard, and a slider door led out onto a deck with two wicker chaise lounges. The bed was made up in varying shades of blue and, with the layered quilts and big pillows, looked like the softest, most inviting bed I’d ever seen. There was art on these walls, too, restful and romantic. Softer than the pieces in the rest of the house. Watercolors of green meadows and blue skies and peachy-pink sunsets. The stained nightstands held more clues, small items on each that spoke to a shared bed, and as I walked closer, my heart bowed uncomfortably in my chest at the sight of the one that must have been mine. I picked up a small jewelry dish that I’d received from one of my students in my first year of teaching, pressing my thumb into the center of the imperfect bowl he’d painted blue and green. Behind it, a framed picture of me and Connor, from his college graduation. He was wearing his gown, and I stood in front of him with his cap tilted crookedly on the top of my head. His big hands were on my shoulders, and we smiled identical smiles straight to the camera. Grant had been the one to snap the picture. My ribs threatened to turn inside out at the sight of my brother’s smile. I pressed them back, shoving everything uncomfortable into the dark corners of my mind. Sometime in
the last year, I’d found the strength to ke ep pictures of my brother out in plain view. Good for fucking Mercy, but I wasn’t that girl. Not yet. His face, his smile, was death by a thousand cuts, and I opened the top drawer of the nightstand with my free hand and shoved the picture inside. It hurt. It hurt so badly to see his face. I wanted to go home. My home. My things. My postcard on a corkboard and the hand-me-down couch from Rae with the rip on the left arm that I covered with a blanket. My bed. The one that was smaller than this and dipped in the middle. I wanted my brother to come give me a hug and sing me show tunes and pour me a glass of wine and tell me this would all be okay. But he wouldn’t, because he was gone. I screwed my eyes shut, setting the jewelry dish down with a loud clatter and walking away from the nightstand before I dropped the reins on my emotions. My shoulder bumped against a doorframe, and I opened my eyes, finding myself in an obscenely large walk-in closet. “What the fuck?” I whispered. My wardrobe, much like everything else in my life, was virtually unrecognizable. Nicer fabrics. Cleaner cuts. Yes, there were still Michigan hoodies galore, and a healthy section of T-shirts, but my fingers trailed over dresses and jackets I’d never seen. So, so many of them. Not cheap stuff either. I plucked a hanger off the rod and held out the sheath dress in a rich wine color with a de
Ep V in the back. Simple. Stunning. And when I saw the tag still attached, I felt positively ill. There was no way I could look at Grant’s clothes, which dominated the other half of the room. Before I knew it, I was on the floor, my knees tucked to my chest and my breath coming in short, choppy pants. I couldn’t feel my hands. Or my feet. Someone was pressing their full body weight onto my chest, making it almost impossible to breathe. That’s how Grant found me. “Breathe.” He rubbed his hand up and down my back. “Tell me something you see.” I pried my eyes open and focused on the first thing I could. It didn’t help, because all I could see was red soles. “Really pretty shoes,” I wailed miserably. “Are those mine too?” “Yes.” “Shit.” I dropped my head to my folded arms and took a few de ep, gulping breaths. “This is so embarrassing. Who has a panic attack over clothes?” “I’d venture a guess it’s about more than that.” “It’s still stupid.”
He clucked his tongue. “Nonsense. You’ve dealt with plenty in your life, Kincaid, but none quite so big as this.” I raised my head, even though it felt big and fuzzy as the bracing wave of anxiety passed. “Can I ask you something?” His lips flattened, his brow furrowed. “I don’t know, maybe you should rest—” “One thing,” I whispered. “Just one . . .” Grant exhaled. “Just one thing.” I licked my lips, thinking about everything I’d seen. The concrete facts that I couldn’t ignore any longer. And the one question that was burning a hole in my chest. “Did we marry for love?” Grant’s face went slack with shock, but he recovered quickly, blinking the expression away before I could study it further. He was on his knees next to me, and his hand dropped from my back as the thick line of his throat moved on a swallow. With his hand back on his own person, resting on top of his thigh, Grant finally sank back and let out a ragged exhale. He stared at the floor for a long moment, the silence in the closet pulling between us until the air was tight and uncomfortable. His eyes locked on mine, and before he uttered a single syllable, my stomach pitched inside out. “No, love had nothing to do with it.” “Then . . . why? Why did we get married?” Again, Grant didn’t answer right away, his gaze unwavering. “Money.”