His tone is curt, borderline angry, but that’s how his intensity comes out. I sigh with relief, tapping my chest to calm my heart. “Oh, that’s all? You had me worried.”

“Worried?” he blanches.

“It’s a funeral home, Grady.”

His brow pinches. “Oh, right. Everyone’s fine. I’m worried about you.”

I grab Grady’s hand and pull him gently into my office. I’m embarrassed at how drab it is—it really needs more plants. I lean against the desk and offer him the chair. He doesn’t take it but stands front and center, arms folded and eyes fixed on me.

“So, I frustrate you?” I ask, smiling like always. “Was it my obsessive PBS watching or taste in music that finally did it, huh?”

His brow quirks, but his shoulders soften. Slightly.

“Marina, what are you doing here?”

“I work here now. It’s really… great,” I say, desperately holding onto my upbeat tone.

He huffs, runs a hand over his shorn head, and tries again. “You aren’t supposed to work anywhere for at least three more weeks. The doctor said⁠—”

“I’m on light duty, short shifts,” I chime in quickly. “I had cabin fever. Besides, I’m taking it easy. I spend most of the day sitting and wanted to get acclimated at my new job ASAP.”

His eyes narrow, analyzing me.

“I’m okay, Grady.”

“You’ve lost your fiancé, the job you loved, and you’re working at a fucking funeral home. You can’t possibly be okay.”

My smile retreats with his bluntness, and suddenly, our truth policy feels difficult to manage.

“We talk every day. Why didn’t you tell me?”

I manage a smile. “Tripp Grady Tripp, those shoulders are impressive but can’t carry everything.”

“When it comes to you, I’m a packhorse.” He edges closer. “Tell me what happened.”

I’ve wanted to tell him. To pepper our innocent convos with oh-by-the-way drama bombs. To latch onto the one person forced to care and gobble up the comfort in those packhorse arms of his. Whenever he asked if I needed anything, I hesitated between wanting more from him and knowing how inconvenient and unfair it would be to ask. Still, my pesky longing grows with every word we manage to share and aches now that he’s here. I’ve missed him.

But allowing feelings for Grady is an unstable rock I can’t afford to jump to in my emotional rapids. It’s not right—exploiting his guilt for my comfort. It’ll only make him feel worse about that day. How could I do that to him?

“Marina, truth,” he urges when I hesitate.

“Sounds like you’re caught up.” My arms fold over my chest. “What’s left to tell?”