A smile spread before I could stop it. "Since when have you been jealous of anyone a day in your entire life?"
Her chin lifted a notch, like I knew it would. "I haven't. I said you were trying."
Something she said hit me, and a chuckle escaped my mouth.
She glanced up at me. "What?"
I clucked my tongue. "Magnolia Marie MacIntyre, how'd you know she wears black boots?"
Instead of laughing, or admitting that she'd pried the information out of someone, Magnolia slowed to a stop and let out a measured breath. "Because she's getting ice cream with her daddy, right in front of us."
My head jerked over to the small white building where we were headed, and sure enough, underneath the red and white striped awning, in line behind a family, was Grace and her father.
He was taller than her, with a stocky build and thinning hair, grease stains on his dark jeans, and wearing a T-shirt from the Bait and Tackle. He wrapped his arm around her, and she leaned into him when he said something, that smile on her face that she seemed to reserve for her family, the one that was wide and bright and happy.
Until she looked over and saw us, and her face morphed into something else entirely.
When I was younger, I used to watch this cartoon on Saturday mornings about a group of superheroes. One of the bad guys had a weapon, a gun of some sort, that blasted the good guys with a pulse of energy so strong that their powers were knocked straight from their bodies.
Catching Grace's eyes right then, with Magnolia's hand locked around my arm, felt like getting hit with that blast. Except it didn't knock me backward or strip me of anything vital that I couldn't recover.
Something filled me, slipped quietly into my veins, and pushed through my muscles, something dangerous and strong that I wanted to rip out with my bare hands because of how it made me feel.
I wanted to back away, pretend like we hadn't seen her. I wanted to rewind the clock and stay right in front of the restaurant. Hell, I'd go back to watching Magnolia talk endlessly about her day if I could.
I wanted to be anywhere else, with Grace Buchanan looking at me like she was, with Magnolia at my side.
My girlfriend tightened her grip on my arm and looked up at me. There was no malice in her eyes, no panic over what she was about to say. Maybe I'd gotten through to her, or maybe Magnolia just felt such security in the state of her life, that meeting Grace didn't feel like a threat. Either way, before she so much as opened her mouth, I knew what was about to come out of it.
"Well, you're the one who said I should be the welcoming committee, right? Let's go say hi."
Chapter 35
Grace
Mine.
He is mine.
I heard the voice in my head like someone cupped their hand to my ear and screamed it at the top of their lungs.
Nothing about it made sense. Not the buzzing in my head, or the clamoring of my heart, or the way everything except him went a little blurry and out of focus. My dad's voice was still rumbling next to me, but I couldn't make out the words anymore.
Tucker’s face was the same as when I'd seen it earlier, same strong jaw, deep set eyes, and proud, straight nose. The beard was the same, as were his shoulders and arms and lips. But the simple addition of the beautiful woman holding his arm, the one I knew I'd heard on the other end of the phone, triggered the same kind of visceral reflex, the same irrational reaction that his voice had when I first heard it.
But this line of dominoes fell in an entirely new pattern, because everything inside of me untangled, smoothed out, then tied back up into a new arrangement. Straight and true, easy to see, instead of impossible to understand.
Tucker Haywood is mine, was what I heard. Clear as day and twice as loud.
"Gracey B?" my dad asked, laying his hand on my back.
I blinked, focused in on him again. "Sorry. What?"
"You okay, honey?" Concern deepened the lines on his face.
I nodded. "Yeah, just … got distracted."
"You still want the twist cone, miss?" the pimply-faced teenager asked through the window.
"Sure."
The two approached us as my dad handed some wadded-up cash to the worker, and I felt the nerves tingle in my fingers and twitch in my toes.
I didn't want to meet her. For no other reason than she was standing next to him.
This made no sense.
None of it.
I couldn't run, because my ankle was still sore, even after icing it and resting it for the evening at my dad's, while we ate takeout pizza.
When I couldn't ignore the fact that Tucker and whatever the frick her name was—Bluebell, or Petunia, something like that—were almost next to us, I pulled in a deep breath and grabbed the reins on what precious little sanity I had left. Fixing a polite smile on my face, I turned toward them, ice cream firmly in hand.
Tucker's girlfriend was stunning with a capital S.
When you live in a place like LA, you learn to recognize when someone came by their beauty naturally. It wasn’t in the way they dressed, how they made up their face. It was how they carried themselves.
This woman, Miss Magnolia Whatever was that kind of beautiful. Somewhere along the line in her genetic lineup, she hit the freaking lottery, all flawless skin and perfectly carved bone structure.
A couple of years back, Meghan Markle was booked for a photoshoot at the studio where I worked. Long before she got herself a prince, there was still something about her that made me want to stare at her all freaking day. Her smile and eyes had this mesmerizing quality, and everything about her had looked effortless. She hadn't been someone trying to look gorgeous, she just was gorgeous.
And Tucker's girlfriend looked like Meghan's prettier, younger sister.
She wore a pink dress that draped over a sleek torso and fell modestly to the knees, and on her face was the practiced smile of every southern belle debutante I'd ever met. But the part of her face that transfixed me most were her eyes. I'd never seen eyes like that, bright and vivid in her deeply tanned face, a mix of gold and brown and hints of green, surrounded by thick, dark lashes.
I didn't want to stare at her. Truly.
But my eyes finished the study of her face and fell straight to where her pink-tipped fingers curled possessively around Tucker's thick bicep.
"Why, you must be Grace Buchanan," she said, her voice honey-smooth and low, her accent curling around the words in the same way that Tucker's did. "I've heard so much about you."
My palm was sticky from the ice cream, so I smiled helplessly. "I'd shake your hand, but I'm a mess."
His face was carefully blank as his girlfriend leaned in to press her cheek to mine for an air kiss. I saw the twitch of his jaw, and it made my ribs squeeze.
"I'm Magnolia," she said as she pulled back. "Magnolia MacIntyre."
Right. The pretty southern name for the pretty southern girl.
"Grace," I said. Quite needlessly, given she already said my name. "Which you already know."
My dad slid his arm around my shoulder, and I breathed out slowly at the much-needed support.
"Miss MacIntyre," my dad greeted. "I haven't seen you in a long time. Tucker." He nodded.
This was not the kind of small-town conversation I'd noted at the meeting. This was stilted and uncomfortable, probably for different reasons, depending on the person talking.
Magnolia smiled prettily at my dad, and I couldn't help but notice that she wasn't nearly as bothered meeting me as I apparently was meeting her. "You work for my momma, don't you, Mr. Buchanan?"
My eyes darted to my dad, who was smiling proudly. "I do. She's a good boss, your mom is. Knows more about fishing than anyone I've ever met in my life."
"That she does." She smiled again, a bit more subdued. "And how long have you been there?"
He scratched the side of his face. "Oh, just shy of a year now, I think. My tired old body couldn't handle the lumber yard anymore, so her store is a perfect place for me."
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While they made small talk, I processed that little nugget of information and tucked it away. There was no reason for me to feel like it was important, that my dad worked for her mom, but somewhere in the back of my head, I knew it was. Tucker did too, because he snagged my gaze with his, and smiled encouragingly.
"How's your ankle feeling?" Tucker asked.
His voice about knocked me to my knees.
"It's …" I pressed a hand to the side of my head. Maybe I was stroking out. Having an aneurysm. A heart attack. "It's better," I said weakly.
"Are you okay?" He took a step forward, pausing the conversation between my dad and Magnolia. God, I hated that name.
"Yes," I said firmly. Too firmly, because Miss Flower Garden gave me a strange look. I cleared my throat and tried again. "Yes, sorry. I think the humidity is getting to me a little bit."
Magnolia smiled, her lips a pale pink version of her dress. It shouldn't have worked, but it did. Her dark hair was tied back in a ponytail, wrapped with a pink ribbon. Everything about her worked, and I felt like a frumpy, big-haired mess. "The south takes some getting used to, doesn't it?"
I started laughing. I couldn't help it.
On a sidewalk of the ice cream shop, in front of Tucker and his perfect girlfriend and my innocent father, I was having a mental breakdown that I could only think to blame on the humidity, for fuck's sake. When I wiped helpless tears of mirth from the corner of my eye, they were all looking at me like I'd lost my damn mind.
My dad spoke first. "Maybe we should forget the ice cream and get you inside, honey."
I nodded, tossing the uneaten ice cream into the black trash can next to me. I hadn't taken a single bite. "Yeah, that's probably a good idea."
"Grace," Tucker said, and I inhaled shakily at what the sound of my name on his lips did to my heart, "would you able to meet about the festival tomorrow? I've got some free time in the morning if you do."
"Y-yeah, that works for me."
Magnolia kept her stunning eyes trained steadily on my face while I answered, and I prayed to every deity that had ever existed that my face wasn't bright red.
"Great. I got your brother's number earlier, I'll uh, I'll just get your info from him."
I nodded frantically. "Ready, Dad?"
"Sure thing." He looked at Tucker and Magnolia. "Good to see you both."
If they said anything to him, I didn't hear it, because I made a sharp pivot and hobbled my ass over to my dad's rusted, red truck. Both Tucker and Magnolia were watching me, with varying degrees of curiosity on their faces, as I slammed the truck door shut and yanked the seatbelt over my chest.
My dad climbed in. "Are you all right?"
"Just start the truck, please," I whispered. My heart was pounding as he did what I asked, and slowly back the vehicle out of the spot. Through the bug-splattered windshield, Tucker's eyes never left my face. Not for a second.
Mine.
Mine.
Mine mine mine mineminemine.
He is mine.
A terrible, impossible, horrifying realization yawned dangerously in my head and I pressed a hand to my chest to keep my heart from bailing out of its safe spot behind my ribs.
"Can you take me back to Aunt Fran and Uncle Robert's? I need to talk to them about something."
My dad grimaced. "Aren't they gone until tomorrow morning? He had some conference in Nashville, and she went with him, I thought."
"Shit," I hissed, dropping my head back onto the seat. "I forgot."
"You're scaring me a little bit, Gracey B."
"Pops," I sighed. "I'm scaring myself if that makes a difference."
I didn't feel better until we turned onto a side street, out of view of the ice cream shop, out of view of Tucker and Magnolia, and every other part of Green Valley that I didn't particularly feel like seeing at the moment.
As we drove, I chewed on my lip, mind racing.
The things I was thinking … well, I couldn't believe I was thinking them. But given the current zig-zagging of my thoughts, of the strange things happening in my heart and head, there was only one possibility, and I did not like it.
"Dad, do you know where any old family things are? Like, journals and stuff."
He lifted his eyebrows. "I reckon they're in Robert and Fran's attic. They got all the boxes of stuff from Great Grandma when she passed. Couldn't tell you which ones though."
"That's okay."
"What are you looking for?"
I exhaled, glancing over at him. "Hopefully some proof that I'm wrong."
Chapter 36
Grace
After a few hours in that attic, I knew three things with utmost certainty.
1- I was, thankfully, not allergic to dust.
2- The Buchanans that settled in Green Valley were a verbose lot, when it came to journaling.
and
3- Every single one of them believed wholeheartedly in this love curse, though I’d yet to pinpoint its origin.
A wingback chair with a loose arm was my current perch, and my legs were slung over the edge as I flipped through the age-crinkled papers. The ink was smudged in some places, other pages had wet spots that made it hard to make out, but all in all, the things I found were a fascinating study of where I came from.
The first of the Buchanans were tenacious, undeterred by hardships that I couldn't fathom. They lost children, spouses, crops, homes, and filled the pages of their journals with every bit of it. And while it took some digging, and a free trial on some family tree website that I really couldn't afford until I got a job, I discovered that four generations earlier, one Buchanan male and his wife gave birth to a daughter. The only Buchanan woman born into this family, until me.
I let that sink in, because while it had always been a joke that I'd only been born because I came out hand in hand with another Buchanan male, the joke seemed to be based in an almost unbelievable grain of truth.
It took me five boxes of sifting, and one text to Aunt Fran, to find the one I was looking for.
The cover might have been red, back when it was new. And I could only imagine how decadent that must have been, a bright red book with gold-edged pages, when your family members were humble farmers. Inside the front cover, edges tattered and the binding cracked, her name was written in beautifully flowing lines and curled letters.
Rose Margaret Buchanan - Daily Thoughts and Heart's Wishes
My own heart pinched as I ran my fingers along the words. Thoughts and heart's wishes. There was pragmatism inside that one statement, right alongside a romantic soul.
Rose had a lot of daily thoughts, some with a tinge of snark that had me smiling as I read through the first couple of pages.
She didn't like the town's preacher much, nor his wife, because she felt like his sermons included too much fire and brimstone, and not enough guidance on living day to day in God's creation. Her favorite thing was school, and when she aged out, there was a marked difference in the way she wrote.
There was nothing about seeing a man that knocked her onto her ass, and struck her with a bolt of love at first sight lightning.
She had friends, she loved her family, and she struggled with not being able to learn more than what she'd already been taught in school.
I flipped ahead, until I found an entry after she turned sixteen that had me sitting up in my seat.
I hate Joseph Montgomery more than I've hated anyone in my entire life.
He's too tall. He keeps trying to invent reasons to talk to me when I'm at the store. He always buys my favorite candy and sneaks it into the pockets of my dress when I'm not looking. Maybe I'll sew them shut when I get home just so that I won't find them and think of him. I hate the way he wants to carry my bags home for me, as though I'm incapable of carrying them on my own! I hate the way he walks slow and easy, as if he has all the time in the world to get where he's going.
Every single thing about him tries my patience, until I feel as though I'll scream just from looking at
him.
Momma told me hating is a sin, but I think God will forgive me this. He probably hates Joseph too.
How very thrilling, I thought with a smile, to feel such a kinship with a girl who lived a couple hundred years earlier. But right on the tails of that smile-inducing thought, my gut sank like an anchor in clean, cold water.
Irrational, illogical hatred.
Something senseless, without any grounds in reality.
My hands shook a little when I turned the next page with utmost care. A week had passed since her last entry.
Joseph held my hand yesterday, helping me over a large puddle in the street, and the strangest thing happened. My hand felt as though it was on fire. So did my heart. He thought me strange, when I ran back home as if the devil himself were chasing me. All because he touched his fingers to mine.
I think I might be losing my head, because the first thought that came to me when he touched me was that I wondered what it felt like to be kissed by him.
I’ve never been kissed, and now, I want him to be my very first one.
Without a single thought as to why, I've begun to keep every single one of the candies he buys me, loathe to put them in my mouth, because then they'll be gone, and I'll have to wait for the next one to appear in my pocket, like a magic trick. There is a small bag tucked next to my pillow, hidden from my brothers, and I now have six peppermints inside of it.
Is this what love feels like? I don't know if I want to love him, because I did hate him with every part of my soul, but the more I think of him when I fall asleep, the more I think that I'm without a say in the matter.
"Ohhhhhhh holy shit," I whispered, scanning the next few pages with a burgeoning sense of dread.
Their first kiss.
When he told her he loved her.
When she finally said it back.
Sweet stories of courting. Of sneaking out behind the barn so they could be alone.
The Love at First Sight Box Set Page 30