by Hart, Hanna
Grace stared at her computer screen and clicked her mouse on the desktop several times, hoping the clicking would somehow show Mirna that she was busy-busy-busy. Too busy to talk.
“I heard,” Mirna said just above a whisper, resting her arms on the top of the cubicle wall.
“Yeah,” Grace said evenly, darting her glance up to the woman. “Well. What are you gonna do? Plenty of fish, and all that jazz.”
“Since we, you know, planned the wedding in-house, a lot of the girls were talking about it. I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah.” Grace doctored up a smile and said, “Thanks, Mirna.”
“Big fight?”
Grace’s eyes shot open at the assumption.
“No,” she said. “We weren’t working. We just happened to have the worst timing ever to figure that out.”
“That’s terrible. Did you know in the history of Crystal Beach weddings, we’ve only had two cancelations, including yours?”
“Wow. Bad odds,” Grace shrugged. “Do I get a trophy for that?”
Mirna blinked in surprise at the shrug and stammered, “N-no. Do you think there’s any chance you guys will get back together?”
Grace clenched her teeth. She knew Mirna wasn’t trying to be rude. It was just in the woman’s blood or something. Normally she was quite the maternal figure in the office.
But today it was getting irritating.
“Is there anything I can help you with, Mirna? I’m kinda busy here.”
“No, no,” Mirna said, rubbing Grace’s shoulder in a motherly fashion. “Stay strong.”
“Yep, thanks, bye now,” Grace said with a big grin, waving the woman off.
Slowly but surely, the office piled in with people and the phones began to ring incessantly. Grace was happy to have the distraction, but she knew it would mean more questions and looks of sympathy.
It was the pitying looks she couldn’t take. She wanted to be seen as a professional here, not an object of awkward watercooler gossip.
"Holy moly, she's back," said Jack, a PR specialist who worked in one of the smaller offices in the building. Not quite a cubicle, but not quite a corner office.
"Yep, that's me," Grace said, not looking up.
"Sorry," Jack said with a polite, somewhat whimsical shrug. "I heard."
"Okay," Grace said, setting both of her palms flat on her desk. "Why don't we just go ahead and get this over with. Yes. I got dumped. Publicly. Yes, it sucked. Yes, we broke up. Yes, it was the worst day ever. Any other personal tragedy you would like to delve into? Otherwise, please give me your condolences and get lost."
Jack's mouth gaped, and he blinked in surprise before he burst into a throaty laugh. "He burned you bad."
Grace was too charmed by Jack to be angry. He was universally liked in the office and, no matter how much he pried into your personal life, the levity with which he did it made it entirely forgivable.
"Do you think it's possible to go the entire day without anyone else bringing it up to me?"
Jack made a face that said she must be dreaming.
"I mean... it just happened, and you're not even supposed to be in for the next week so. I'm pretty sure people are going to bring it up."
"Plus, it's total office gossip?" she asked and quickly bit her lip.
"Sorry," he winced. “But, in other news, the regatta is only a few weeks away now so soon everyone will be flipping their lids over stupid sailing and people will have forgotten all about you.”
“Goodie,” she whined.
“Yep.” He smirked at her. "Good luck today."
With that, Jack smacked the top of her cubicle with his hand and walked away.
As ten o’clock rolled around, Grace could finally feel the effects of her less than five hours of sleep. She was sure she looked like a wreck. Bags under her eyes, frazzled expression. The works.
She looked down at her fourth cup of cold coffee, tipping the soft pink mug on its bottom rim to inspect the liquid. Thinking better of it, she set it down and pushed it away from her. She snapped back to attention as she saw Cooper Grant walk in. Finally.
Grace walked to the kitchen commons and grabbed a blueberry muffin off the top of the pile and fixed a coffee with cream for her boss. With baked goods in hand and a folder and a tablet under her arm, she knocked on the floor to ceiling glass door to his office and waited for him to raise a finger and signal her inside.
Mr. Grant looked up at her in surprise. He gave her a 'come hither' motion with his fingers, and she stepped into the room and set his coffee on the desk.
"Thanks," he said, sipping the still burning liquid without a reaction to the temperature. "You have no idea how much I needed this."
Grace walked over to the other side of his desk and opened the file in her lap, staring down at it, ready to read off the bullet points for the day. This was the basis of their daily interactions. A simple routine where she would bring him coffee and he would say, 'Shoot!' and she would give him the schedule for the day.
She stared down at her papers and waited for his signal. When it didn't come, she winced inwardly. Did he have something to say about her would-be-wedding, too? Was he going to give her his sympathies, professionally and politely ignore her personal problems?
Maybe he would tell her it was unacceptable that she caused such a scene at his resort. That her abandoned wedding gave them bad press that wouldn't be tolerated.
But no, she thought, shaking her head. That couldn't be it. She knew as well as anyone that Mr. Grant's motto about media was often: any press is good press!
So then... why wasn't he saying anything?
Grace cleared her throat. "So, you have a lawyers’ meeting at one, but just to sign a few papers. Then there's an afternoon wedding at two, which is all taken care of by Constantine, so nothing for you to worry about, but it does mean the south beach grounds will be closed off to the rest of our guests. After that, you have the homeowners’ meeting and some proposals from Regatta sponsors just before six... which will probably go until eight. Sorry, I know you hate that, but that's the only time they could come in this week. Any time after that and we would be getting too close to the event to consider their offers."
Cooper Grant stayed silent, not even making eye-contact with Grace. It unsettled her.
"Mr. Grant?" she asked, blinking curiously at him.
Her boss sat with his head in his hand, covering his eyes. He rubbed his forehead and let out a frustrated sigh.
Grace's heart sped up. Was he about to fire her?
"Sorry," he said, shaking his head. "My mind is somewhere else today." Then he paused and offered her a curious, cocked brow. "Didn't you book the week off?"
“And stay away from all this excitement?” she mocked and then offered, “Something came up and, well, here I am.”
“Good,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Heather was supposed to take your spot but…”
“She went into labor?” Grace offered. “I heard.”
“I applaud your good timing,” he said, probably completely unaware that she was supposed to have gotten married this weekend. Grace found this fact entirely refreshing from how the rest of her day had gone so far.
Grace pulled out a printed copy of Mr. Grant’s schedule for the day and slipped it in front of him before closing the folder in her lap.
She watched her boss fuss in his chair. He looked just about exhausted as she felt.
“Long night?” she asked, feeling almost uncomfortable to suggest even a remotely personal topic.
“One of the worst I’ve had in a while, actually,” he said, surprisingly candid with her.
“Oh,” was all Grace said.
Grace and her boss did not share with one another. He probably didn’t even know she had been engaged. Their relationship was so formal that she hadn’t even asked him personally about using the resort as the backdrop of her wedding—choosing to submit it in writing to the wedding planner, instead.
However, from s
pending the entire four years of her twenties working as his personal assistant, she did know that Mr. Grant had just gone through a nasty, public divorce.
This was, no doubt, the source of his unhappiness.
She’d gone from booking dates at upscale restaurants and planning romantic European getaways for him and his wife to scratching off arbitration dates and faxing legal paperwork to his personal lawyers.
Mr. Grant cleared his throat and rocked his spinning office chair briefly from side to side.
“I watched a video of a pelican eating a pigeon,” he said.
“Gross,” Grace winced. “Do they do that?”
He shrugged. “That one did. In London, somewhere. Struggled with it for twenty minutes before swallowing it whole.”
“So,” Grace paused and then laughed. “A productive night for you?”
“No,” he sighed. “A productive night for the pelican, maybe. Me?” He shook his head. “No. Just a bad one.”
“Well,” she exhaled, “You can revel in the fact that you were not alone in your bad night.”
“Yeah?” he asked with a quick exhale. “Well, my day is just about to get worse.”
Grace licked her lips and spun in her chair. Through the glass walls of Mr. Grant’s office, she could see his ex-wife, Brielle, striding across the floor.
Before Grace had a chance to excuse herself, the dark-haired woman pushed the clear door open and said, “Why aren’t you returning my calls?”
“I’ll just give you some privacy,” Grace said with wide eyes and got up to leave the room.
Chapter Four
Cooper
"Why aren't you returning my calls?" Brielle asked, nearly shouted as she entered Cooper's office
Brielle Grant.
The woman who still shared his last name. Downright refused to change it, in fact.
It was when she had asked him if she could keep his name, during arbitration, that he had decided that not only was he still in love with her, but he was still madly in love with her.
Instead of going through a nasty court battle, he and Bree had been able to come to terms through arbitration. He did this, in large part, to try and show her he was reasonable and patient. That he wanted to do anything he could to make her happy. All he wanted was for her to realize she still loved him.
Cooper swallowed hard and watched as his assistant excused herself from the room, closing the door gently behind her. Seeing her after two months of almost complete radio-silence sent a pulse of sick, hot pain through his stomach. Like bile trying to crawl its way out of him.
Brielle wore a black pencil skirt, a tight black choker necklace and a white-lace trimmed tank top that was tucked into her bottoms. It was a look she frequently dressed her mannequins in for her shop’s windows and now he could see why.
She looked stunning.
“You didn’t come down here just to say that, did you?” Cooper asked, needling his brows together.
Brielle turned her head to make sure his assistant was out of the room and then occupied the seat Grace had been sitting in.
"Well, yeah," she said, offering him a small smile. "I don't like being ignored."
"I remember," he said evenly, trying to force himself not to sway in his chair.
A stale air filled the room, and he tried his best not to look at her, but he couldn't help himself. His eyes grazed her curvy body and then held her gaze like she was some faraway relic. Something kept behind a velvet rope that wasn't meant for touching. Not for just anybody.
"How's Levi?" she asked.
He squinted at her and wanted to say that Levi had spent the whole day prior talking about how much he hated Brielle. How if Cooper ever took her back, he would petition their parents to disown him. But instead, he said, "Fine."
"I heard he's entering the regatta?" she added, presumably making polite preamble before she got down to business.
"Yep," Cooper nodded.
"With Paul?"
"Yep," he said.
Brielle raised her brows and lowered them quickly. "And what about you, Coop? You entering?"
His heart lilted at the question, remembering how they had entered together. Levi could say Brielle wasn't fun all he wanted. But he didn't spend that day out on the water with her. They spent the morning in the race and the evening eating lobster dipped in flavored butter at their favorite restaurant. They ate oysters and drank champagne. And when they reached the front door of their condo, feet covered in sand, they couldn’t keep their hands off each other.
His wife had practically led the race that day, a far better sailor than he would ever be. He was at the wheel, and they were nearly at the finish line when Brielle jumped beside him and said, "A kiss from me or a trophy. Pick, quick!"
They came in second, and Brielle was elated over it for the rest of the month. Not because they'd almost won, but because he'd picked her lips over winning.
The fact that she would make such a demand when they were competing for a charity seemed ludicrous. It seemed selfish.
But he was utterly charmed.
He knew she didn’t think he would kiss her or throw the race, and at the time, he just wanted to see the look on her face when he chose her.
Because to Cooper, a kiss from Brielle back then was even better than winning.
“I don’t think I could stomach the competition,” he said with a smirk. “You were always better at that stuff than I was.”
Brielle grinned. “Well, I won’t disagree.”
"Are you okay?"
"You're so sweet, Coop. You're always worrying about me." She drew in a big breath and licked her lips, choosing her next words very carefully. "No. I'm not alright."
"What's wrong?"
"I miss you," she said.
He swallowed. "I know," he stammered. "I... got your messages."
She blinked. “And?”
“And I miss you too,” he said, almost irritated. “You know that.”
“Oh, Coop! I thought everything that was broken in our relationship would go away if there was no relationship to break. But I think I was wrong.”
She started to cry then, burying her face in her hands.
Cooper’s pulse quickened, but he knew better than to try and get his hopes up. “What do you mean?” he asked, but she just continued to cry. “Brielle, tell me exactly what you’re trying to say.”
“I don’t know!” she said in frustration. “All that I know is I miss you. I have missed you since the moment I left, and I want to fix things.”
Fix things?
He didn’t know whether to jump for joy or to be incensed.
“We signed the divorce papers two months ago!” he snapped at her, crossing his arms. “You couldn’t have figured this out before then?”
“I was going through a lot!” she hissed at him.
Their divorce had been messy. Not in a screaming, throw-your-stuff-out-the-window sort of way. It was emotionally messy because Brielle never seemed to know what she wanted.
No, he thought. She knew exactly what she wanted. She wanted to move away from Crystal Beach. She wanted to move back to Boston and work on her clothing line.
It was a subject they’d fought about for four years.
He tried to explain to her that his life was on the island. This was his livelihood and his home, and he could never feel about a place like he felt about Crystal Beach.
But she missed her family. Her friends. She missed the changing seasons and going for pizza at OTTO’s. She even told him she missed their first off-campus apartment.
She was, without a doubt, homesick.
They tried to go back for months at a time, but after two years of flip-flopping between Massachusetts and Crystal Beach, it was just too much.
Eventually, Cooper was on the island and Brielle was in Boston. They spent months apart.
Then she came home, back to the beachfront condo, and they’d lived there for six months in pure wedded bliss. It was like it was when th
ey first came to the island.
He couldn’t get enough of her.
Then she filed for divorce, out of the blue, citing irreconcilable differences.
He was devastated.
Looking back, he wondered if she’d come back to the island purposely to make him fall desperately in love with her again. To take hold of his heart and then try and twist him to go back to Boston with her.
He remembered coming home to the condo one night and finding her bags packed, set out by the front door in a deliberate pile.
This was after she had promised she was coming home for good. She'd been on Crystal Beach for half a year with zero complaints. Not even a hint of unhappiness.
Then one night they'd had an explosive argument when he refused to move to Boston.
Cooper got home from work and raced through the house looking for her, calling her name. He found her on the sprawling deck. It was two-stories up, all wood, with a giant cloth gazebo covering over it like a roof. Brielle had decorated the space with tiki torches and stylish braided handmade wicker furniture from some artist on the mainland. The six-piece set cost him over ten grand, which he thought was a bit pricey for deck furniture. But it made her smile.
She sat in her favorite piece, a loveseat glider. She was pushing herself in small strokes back and forth on it, curled up in a white sheet.
"I can't do this anymore," she had said, crying into the sheet.
He didn't fight her this time. He was all fought-out.
Instead, he crawled onto the glider with her. His body felt so heavy as he pulled her into his lap and buried her face in kisses.
They would never agree, he had realized. And as her lips pressed and danced against his in a passionate fury, he could practically feel his whole life falling apart.
He'd been a shell ever since. Barely breathing. Barely living.
He lifted a shoulder, looking across his thick desk at Brielle's fiercely tanned skin. "So, what? You left me, Bree. Divorced me, actually."
“And I think I made a mistake.”
“You dragged my entire family’s name through the mud on this island,” he argued.