She looks toward me again, and I offer a reassuring nod. “They’re spectacular, Marigold. You’ll like it.”

Then, with a brief nod, they stroll up the driveway together, leaving a trail of romantic magic behind them.

25. Grady

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Grady

I pound on Marina’s door, unable to hide my irritation that it’s after midnight, Marigold’s still here, and neither bothers answering their phone. Meanwhile, my phone’s been pinging for nearly an hour. When the texts started, I’d just finished suturing a pissed-off thoroughbred’s eight-inch gash at Adkin’s horse farm. The long drive back to Seagrove felt ten times longer, with my phone continuously lighting up from Mom, Dad, and Gil, all worried about Marigold. She’s twenty-two; she doesn’t have a curfew, and they know she’s with Marina. But she’s also skittish about nighttime driving and never stays out later than nine. So, perhaps their concerns are valid.

I pound again.

The door swings open, ruffling the silk fabric of her robe. Her short, white robe. Her long hair is soaking wet. Bare legs, bare feet, the v-neck dipping dangerously low on her chest. The hard tips of her breasts peeking under her wet hair and damp fabric. Fucking hell.

I can’t form words.

“Grady, what’s wrong?”

I shut my eyes. “Why are you, um…” I motion to her get-up.

“I was in the shower. What’s wrong?”

“Where’s Marigold?”

She edges by me, brushing against my shoulder with her dampness. “Oh, her car’s still here. She’s with Peter Pike. Oh, my gosh, I wish you could’ve seen it. So…”

She launches into a story about a desk and trains that I honestly can’t listen to because focusing on her means, well, focusing on her. I try locking my attention on her face, but inevitably my eyes drift down—I can’t fucking help it. She’s wet, soft, and so alluring, like a castle, and I want to explore every room, floor by floor, top to bottom. My hand practically twitches to pull the robe strings that barely hold her together.

“… She probably lost track of time. Get it? Train pun.”

She laughs, stirring me from the thoughts I shouldn’t be having. What’s my mantra again? Something about her age or, shit, I can’t remember.

I clear my throat, still diverting my eyes. “She came here for a game night, and you set her up with some dude?”

“No, not some dude. Peter Pike, my landlord. They already knew each other. It was unintentional on my part, but it’s so cute, Grady.”

Before she launches into an excited explanation about the evening’s cuteness, I put a shaking hand between us, stopping her. “Why isn’t she answering her phone?”

“Don’t know.” She smirks coyly. “Maybe she’s in the shower, too.”