CHAPTER 10

Ella had been joking, or trying to, but the way Grady said that, so seriously and with his eyes intent on her face, sent a shiver of awareness skating over her skin.

She could actually feel herself getting pink in the cheeks, so she dipped her head and got busy with her own breakfast. “Okay. Well, thank you, anyway. This is really…” She paused to take a big bite, and had to close her eyes as the rich taste of smoky ham and intense salt exploded across her tongue. “Oh. Wow.”

She tried not to be warmed by the glint of approval in his smile, but it was hopeless.

“Real country ham, fried up nice and crisp,” Grady said, tearing into his breakfast while Ella did the same. “Then you take the hot drippings, add some strong black coffee, and boil it down until it’s the saltiest, most perfect flavor on the planet. Soak it up with good buttermilk biscuits, and you’ve got yourself a slice of heaven, right there.”

She popped the last bite in her mouth and contemplated copying Grady as he reached for a second biscuit with a brown-leather-gloved hand.

Without meaning to, she tracked his movements while her mind clicked through the possibilities, the reasons a man like Grady might have to keep his hands covered at all times. He was pretty covered up, in general, she noted. Her eyes skimmed the broad shoulders under layers of cotton undershirt and unbuttoned flannel shirt. The soft, forest-green-sleeves were buttoned tightly at his wrists, leaving not even an inch of bare skin to peep out between the edge of his gloves and the shirt cuff.

“Noticed the gloves, huh?” His mouth twisted in a crooked smile, as if her answer didn’t matter much, but Ella had the sense that if she said the wrong thing, he’d be out of his chair, maybe even out of the house, in the blink of an eye.

Even though she was embarrassed to be caught staring, Ella knew the worst possible reaction she could give him would be to make a big deal out of what was so clearly a hot-button issue for him.

So she shrugged as casually as she could manage, and reached for another biscuit. “They’re nice. I like the stitching. Pass the red-eye gravy, please.”

She deliberately didn’t look at him, concentrating most of her attention on getting her ham biscuit together. But she could feel the moment the tension left his big frame, like air escaping from a tire.

Ella ate her biscuit and tried to think of something to say that wasn’t “So what are you hiding under those gloves?”

But maybe Grady could feel the question hanging in the air over their heads the same way she did, because after a minute or so of silent eating, he abruptly started talking.

“I received an injury a few years back. For a while, I had to wear gloves for protection, and I got used to it.”

Ella wondered if the injury happened during his time with Texas Task Force One. Peeking up at him, she tried to gauge whether sympathy would be welcome.

“So … your injury is all healed up now? Good as new?”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Not exactly. But as close as it’s going to get.”

There was definitely something he wasn’t saying, but Ella didn’t get a chance to dig deeper because he sat back in his chair with a determined glint in his straightforward green gaze.

“Actually, I’m as healed as I am because of your mom. I owe her a lot.”

This time, Ella was the one stiffening up. “Oh?”

“Your mom, and Sanctuary Island. When I first moved here, right after I got out of the hospital, I was kind of a mess.” He lifted one shoulder in a dismissive jerk. “I mean, I had it better than … a lot of folks. At least I’m still alive and walking around, right? It was stupid to be so screwed up about it. But I was a mess, all the same.”

“It’s not stupid,” Ella felt compelled to say. She couldn’t dial back the fierceness in her voice, so she settled for keeping it short. “Whatever happened to you, however you got hurt … Trauma is never stupid. Don’t play the game of comparing who had it worse and how much suffering earns you the right to be upset. No one wins.”

“You sound like a shrink.”

Ella lifted her chin. She hadn’t missed the way his open expression shut down. “That’s probably because I’ve been in and out of therapy since I was about fifteen.”

Staring into his wide eyes, Ella could see the moment he realized why she’d needed therapy. But if he wanted more details, he was out of luck. She’d stripped herself bare enough already—sitting in her mother’s kitchen comparing painful histories, Ella felt like a single exposed nerve.

“Anyway,” he went on, as if realizing that the topic of Ella’s therapy had been closed. “I think you’re right. I got there eventually on my own, with some help from Jo.”

“Got where?”

He shrugged, making a face like he was trying to do a complicated math problem in his head. “I guess … it is what it is, you feel how you feel, and you can’t control it. All you can really control is what you do about it—that’s what the island taught me.”

“It sounds like Jo was here for you at a time when you really needed someone,” Ella said, with some difficulty. “And I’m glad, honestly. But you have to understand—she was never there for me. For us.”

“But she wanted to be,” Grady protested, resting his elbows on the table and leaning in as if warming to his subject.

“But she wasn’t.” Ella flinched a little at the sharpness of her own retort, but she wouldn’t take it back. Trying to moderate her tone, she said, “Look. I know you’re trying to help. But I can’t…”

He shook his head, looking pissed at himself. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to go there. What’s between you and Jo is your business. I’m not here to meddle in that.”

It took a few tries to swallow down the lump in her throat, and even Ella wasn’t sure if it was tears or relief.

Ever since they arrived on the island, she’d felt like all the stress fractures in her psyche were showing up. And Grady Wilkes seemed to have an uncanny ability to strike at them. “Then why are you here? Do you cook breakfast for my mother every morning?”

“No. And I should tell you, I can’t take credit for these biscuits. Jo made them before she left.”

“They’re pretty good,” Ella had to admit. Light, fluffy layers of buttery perfection, with the slightest hint of buttermilk tang inside to contrast with the salty richness of the golden toasty outside.

“Pretty good? Your mama makes the best biscuits on Sanctuary.”

“All right!” Ella had to laugh at Grady’s fervent declaration, grateful for the sudden lightening of tension in the air. “They’re amazing. She’d make a bundle serving these for breakfast at a B and B.”

Grady’s jaw went granite hard, and Ella threw up her hands.

Pushing back from the table and carrying her empty plate to the sink, she couldn’t help saying, “What on earth is your problem? This is Jo’s house, not yours.”

It was Ella’s great-aunt Dottie’s house. It had been in her family for generations.

The memory of that letter from the county floated in front of her eyes as she ran the faucet to wash the crumbs off her plate.

“My problem,” Grady growled, “is that you keep bringing up this damn B and B idea, and eventually Jo might decide it’s a good way to keep you and your sister on the island, helping her out with it.”

Ella froze. She hadn’t considered how Merry might react if she knew Jo was in trouble.

But Grady wasn’t done. “Your mother would die if she actually had to spend all her time cooped up in this house playing hostess to a bunch of vacationing mainlanders, no matter how much money she might make. What is it with you and money, anyway?”

The scorn in his tone raised the small hairs at the back of Ella’s neck, and she whirled to face him.

“First off, I don’t have a thing about money.” She hated the way that sounded, as if she were shallow and mercenary, or judgmental of people who didn’t wear the right clothing brands or something. That wasn’t it at all. “But I don’t think it’s somehow wrong to expect stability and security in return for hard work. What have you got against the hospitality industry, anyway?”

Shaking his head, Grady stretched his long, denim-clad legs out under the table and regarded her contemplatively. “Hospitality isn’t an industry. Around here, it’s a way of life … a dying one, maybe. But it’s how we still look at the world, down in backwater places and small towns like Sanctuary. And the last thing hospitality ought to be about is making money.”

“I still don’t get why it’s such a big deal to you,” Ella protested. “Surely the island attracts plenty of tourists. You said yourself, your family used to come for the summers!”

He tipped his head back and blew a sigh up at the ceiling. “It’s hard to explain in words.” Tilting his chin in her direction, he smiled. “But I could show you.”

Ella narrowed her eyes. “I was kidding before, but maybe I was right—you are here to babysit me. Did my mother put you up to this?”

She expected him to hedge, but instead he said, “I’ve ridden over every inch of this island, and I love it. So, yes, your mom asked me to play tour guide because she wants you to get to know Sanctuary. And she’s smart enough to accept that you’re not ready to see it with her.”

Deep down, Ella wasn’t at all sure touring the island with Grady instead would pose less of a hazard to her heart, but she had made that promise to learn about her family’s legacy on the island.

And unlike some people, Ella took her promises seriously. Plus, this would give her time to figure out what to do about the letter.

Not that she owed Jo anything, but now that she’d spent time here, she found she hated the idea of the house leaving the family. After years of convincing herself she didn’t need anything from her absent mother, the magnetic pull she felt toward her family history surprised her. This house was a part of it, and so was Sanctuary.

“Fine,” she decided. “Show me what’s so special about this island of yours.”

Surprise and delight fired Grady’s gaze with a brilliant light, and as the smile stretched across his face and crinkled at the corners of his eyes, Ella couldn’t help thinking that no matter how picturesque Sanctuary might be, it would be hard to find a more appealing view than the one right here in her mother’s kitchen.