Page 4 of His Saving Grace

Chapter 2

TheswayofGrace’s hips as she walked away kept Mason mesmerized.

Which was stupid, because he was so not thinking about his mother’s new assistant in any sort of sexual way. His mother would flay his skin off with a spoon. He was so not going there.

It didn’t mean he had to be a douche to her, but the words had spilled out when she’d looked up at him with those large, hazel eyes. Eyes that were framed by long, dark lashes. Eyes that looked almost gold in the bright sunshine. Eyes that had stared at his leg a little too long, watched while he limped his way toward the house, held just a hint of pity for the guy no longer whole.

Fuck, he was getting tired of that look. And the little head bob that went along with it. Where the person tilted their head slightly and nodded, as if they understood. As if they knew what it was like. As if they could somehow relate to having their life snatched out from under them in the blink of an eye and the boom of a shell.

And, dammit, he was not thinking about that right now, either.

The front door clicked closed behind her. He shook his head, trying to clear it of the image of her ass in that skirt. Man, it had been too long since he’d had sex.

“Mason?”

Her image remained, like it was branded on his brain or something. Her dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, little bits escaping. For a moment, unease had flashed bright in her eyes and he’d had the stupid urge to reach out and tuck a stray piece behind her ear. To pull her into his arms, tell her it would be alright.

Instead of giving in to those ridiculous wants, he’d snapped.

Like an asshole.

He could easily blame exhaustion and that his leg currently ached like a son-of-a-bitch, but that wasn’t the whole truth. Something about her fascinated him. And his unexpected physical reaction to her scared the shit out of him. Instead of going on the offensive, which was his usual, he’d gotten all protective. Of her.

What the hell was with that?

But something niggled at him. Sending his senses and suspicions into overdrive. Hair that dark didn’t quite match the rest of her coloring. She’d obviously dyed it. Sure, it may be a fashion choice, but he wouldn’t bet on it. Because the look in her golden eyes told a different story.

“Mason?”

A healthy dose of fear and something else had been buried deep in her gaze. Something he couldn’t decipher. And then, she’d gotten all stubborn, her golden eyes darkening to green, her chin raised at an almost defiant angle. She’d looked both fierce and fragile. It was a strange combination, one that gave him a weird feeling in his gut. He rubbed his stomach absently.

You’re just hungry, is all. Some good food and a soft bed and you’ll be back to normal.

Not that he knew what normal was these days. He scratched at his chin, his fingers rubbing through a couple of days-worth of scruff. A shower and a shave wouldn’t go amiss, either.

“Mason, honey, are you okay?”

He looked at his mother. Jesus, he’d been staring at the closed door like a lunatic. He needed to get his shit together. “Yeah, sorry, I just spaced out there for a minute. I need to apologize to her, don’t I?”

Eloise smiled and took his hand. “That would be a good start.” She led him to the swing hanging at the far end of the porch. Tank followed them, eyeing the swing. Like that was happening.

“Go lay down.” He followed the command with a finger pointed to the other end of the porch. Tank’s head drooped, but she ambled over to the specified location and dropped to the ground with a huff.

Eloise sat and pulled him down beside her. The chain holding the swing squeaked under the additional weight, but it held.

It seemed like forever since he last sat here. This was where he kissed Ginny Thompson for the first time. And the last. His heart had been shattered that day, and at the time, he hadn’t thought it would ever be whole again. So young. So foolish. So naïve.

But that wasn’t his last memory of this spot.

The memories of that particular night flooded his mind, seeping down into the empty spaces in his chest and squeezing his lungs. He drew in a deep breath, trying to dislodge them, to push them out of the way, back where they belonged. But they stuck there, like tar, inky and dark, forcing him to remember.

“I don’t want your goddamn farm!”

His words had echoed through the open door, across the porch and out into the twilight. He’d heaved his bag through the screen door, taking a sick pleasure in the way the door slammed against the house.

It was the night of his high school graduation.

Anger and frustration churned inside him. He wanted to scream and shout. He wanted to punch something. He wanted to shake his dad until he finally realized what an honor it was to get accepted to West Point.