Giving Grace (The Gilroy Clan Book 8) Read online

  Giving Grace © 2019 by Megyn Ward. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner, whatsoever, including internet usage, without written permission from the author, except in case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  FIRST EDITION 2019

  Book design by MW Designs

  Cover design by MW Designs

  Cover photo by Depositphoto

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000. If you’ve downloaded or “borrowed” this book from any site other than Amazon or without the express permission of the author, you are breaking the law and subject to these penalties.

  Warning: This book deals with sensitive subject matter and may trigger those who have dealt with or experienced trauma due to sexual assault.

  Grace and Ryan Playlist II

  1) Good Things Fall Apart – Illenium (Jon Bellion)

  2) Shadow Boxer – Fiona Apple

  3) Perfectly Wrong – Shawn Mendes

  4) Worksong – Hozier

  5) When You’re Ready – Shawn Mendes

  6) Falling – Florence + The Machine

  7) Cardiac Arrest – Bad Suns

  8) The First Taste – Fiona Apple

  9) Bishop’s Knife Trick – Fallout Boy

  10) Little Light (acoustic version) – Lewis Watson

  11) Someone I used to know – Zack Brown Band

  One

  Grace

  It’s for the best.

  That’s what I keep telling myself.

  It’s for the best.

  I don’t have time for…whatever Ryan is. I don’t have time to chase it, whatever this stupid thing between us is.

  I have a daughter.

  I’m trying build a life.

  A real life.

  Not the half-assed existence I was leading in Ohio. Still sleeping in the same bed I’ve slept in since I was barely older than Molly. Working at the post office with my mom. Picking up shifts at the local dive bar so I can afford to keep my kid in cheap shoes and crunchy peanut butter. Ignoring the whispers and pointed stares that people lob behind my back when I take Molly to the Dairy Queen or run into ALDI to pick up a loaf of bread.

  I’m trying to build something real here and the last thing I need is someone like Ryan O’Connell fucking up my efforts.

  Messing with my head.

  Giving me hope.

  Really, Grace? I think you have hope confused with orgasms. Understandable since you’ve never really had much of either one.

  Jesus.

  And the worst part?

  I mean the absolute worst—he was right.

  Last night, when he shut me down. Told me he was sleeping on the couch because he didn’t want to confuse Molly.

  He was right.

  There I was, living in Fantasy Land, build it all up in my head into something more. Something it clearly isn’t. Flying so fast and so high that Ryan had to pull the brakes and remind me that hey, dumbshit—you have a daughter to consider here. You can’t just invite a virtual stranger into your bed without consequence.

  So, in conclusion, I’m stupid and desperate.

  And a bad mother.

  So bad that it’s nearly 10AM and I’m still in bed. Not sleeping. Hiding. I’m hiding like the spineless, desperately stupid bad mom that I am because even though Molly got up hours ago, I can’t make myself even crawl out of bed to use the bathroom.

  Because he’s out there and my tail is still firmly tucked between my legs.

  Because I made it all into something it wasn’t.

  Tipped my hand.

  Asked for too much and got reminded that just because someone wants to fuck you, that doesn’t mean they necessarily want you.

  Shit.

  Now I’m crying.

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I start to remind myself of all the reasons this is a good thing. Why this is for the best. Why I—

  There’s a knock on the closed bedroom door. Too sharp and heavy to be Molly. Since Cari and Patrick are still on their spontaneous weekend getaway, it can’t be either of them.

  So that means it’s Ryan.

  Seriously? Because tearing me up last night wasn’t enough? Now he’s—

  “Just open it.” Molly’s muffled voice comes through the door, popping my eyes open. “It’s not a surprise if we wake her up.”

  “I’m not going to just open it. What if she’s…” Instead of opening the door, Ryan sighs and knocks again. “Grace.”

  I hate the way he says my name.

  Like it means something to him.

  Like I mean something.

  Which makes it a lie.

  Every time he says it.

  “It’s getting heavy.” Molly again, her declaration followed by a rattling sound and another knock. This one softer and accompanied by my other name. “Mom?”

  Because my daughter is standing in the hall with him and even though I can admit to myself that I’m a coward, that doesn’t mean I want her to know it, I sit up in bed and swipe at the tears on my face. “Come in.”

  The door opens almost immediately to show Molly standing in its wedge, Ryan behind her, holding a tray.

  “We made you breakfast,” Molly announces, bouncing on the balls of her feet a few times before tipping her head back to aim a look up at Ryan who is staring at me like I have two heads and six eyes. “Give it to her.” She loud whispers it at him as she side-steps herself out his way.

  Even though he looks like he wants to throw it at me and run, Ryan drops his gaze, focusing on the tray to keep it steady while he shuffle-limps his way across the room to the bed. “It should be safe,” he mutters, gaze still aimed down while he settles the tray on my lap before stepping back. “We both ate it and lived.”

  I look down at the tray and instantly feel those stupid tears stinging the back of my eyelids again. Trying to shove their way up my throat.

  French toast with sliced strawberries. Coffee. Orange juice. And bacon.

  The man made me bacon.

  What the fuck?

  I mean it.

  What the actual fuck?

  Like I said it out loud, Ryan’s face collapse into a frown before aiming it at Molly. “We forgot the fork.”

  “I’ll get it.” She flashes a grin at me before bolting out the door.

  As soon as she’s gone, I look up at him. “What is this?”

  “It’s French Toast.” Still frowning, Ryan leans against the bedroom wall, as far away from me as he can get before shoving his hands into the front pockets of his borrowed jeans. “We Googled it.”

  “No shit, Captain Obvious,” I hiss back at him, barely resisting the urge to shove the tray off my lap. Or throw it at him. Maybe I should throw it at him. “I mean what are you doing?” This time I practically shout it at him, the hard tone of my voice leaching the color from his face. “Why would you—”

  “Grace. About…” He sighs, pulling a hand free to swipe it over his face. “I didn’t—”

  “It was my idea.”

  We both look over to find Molly standing in the doorway, fork clenched in her fist, her little face tight with worry. “I’m sorry, Mom.” She shakes her head while her chin starts to wobble. “We do it for Gran
all the time. I just thought… I didn’t mean to make you mad.”

  “You didn’t make her mad, Moll.” Pushing himself off the wall, Ryan leans over to pluck the fork from her grasp. “I did. Last night—I said somethings I shouldn’t have.” Shuffling-stepping his way toward the bed, he slaps it into my hand before looking at her over his shoulder. “So, how about you go make your bed or something so I can apologize to your mom in private.”

  Two

  Ryan

  I woke up for the second morning in a row with the toe-headed terror standing over me and as soon as I opened my eyes, she pounced on me like a jackal.

  “Do you want to play Candyland?”

  I jog my bleary-eyed glare from her face to the box in her hands and back again. “What time is it?” I mumble while swiping a rough hand over my face. “Where’s your mom?”

  “Thirty-four o’clock,” she says like it’s a real thing. “And she’s still sleeping. So, do you?”

  “Do I what?” Jesus, it’s still dark outside.

  “Wanna play?” She says it like I’m mentally defective, which I guess I am.

  “Is Con paying you?” I grumble at her as I struggle to sit up, waking up the bag of knife that live in my leg.

  She gives me a shrug. “I don’t know what that means.” Her forehead crumples into a frown. “Do you want to play or not?”

  Not.

  Not.

  Because what grown man wants to genuinely get his ass handed to him by a four-year-old in a children’s board game. At least with Con I can delude myself into believing that I lose to him because he had a higher IQ than Einstein.

  “Well?”

  Holy shit, she’s relentless.

  “Can I take a leak first?”

  “I guess.” She instantly wrinkles her nose at me and takes a step back like I might’ve already started. “Oh—wait!” she tosses the game box onto the coffee table and dashes out of sight and I turn just in time to watch her disappear into the laundry room from my seat on the couch. A few seconds later, she’s back dragging a stick that’s twice as long as she is. “Here.” She thrusts it at me. “Uncle Patrick used it to get my Alligator balloon off the ceiling, but you can use it to walk, right? Since you lost your stick.”

  It’s a broom handle that’s had its head removed and replaced by a thick wad of duct tape.

  “It’s not a stick.” I take the broom handle from her and plant it on the floor.

  “Are you sure? It looked like a stick,” she tells me with a shrug.

  “Well it’s not,” I grumble back, using my pilfered broom handle to lever myself off the couch. With the added support, my leg merely groans instead of screams. The relief is glorious. “It’s a cane—and I didn’t lose it.”

  “Then where is it?”

  Shit.

  I just got owned by a preschooler.

  “Look,” I say to her, giving her a narrow-eyed glare. “You want to play Candyland or not?”

  She lifts the box and shakes it at me. “Duh.”

  For some reason, the way she says it, like I’m the slowest motherfucker alive, has me swallowing a laugh. “Then stop yapping at me and let me take care of business.”

  I bark it at her but instead of dissolving into tears, her face breaks into a wide grin. Probably because she knows she won. “I get to be blue.”

  “Whatever.” Trying like hell to keep myself from grinning back, I shake my head as I shuffle thump down the hall toward the guest bath. “But we’re making coffee first,” I tell her, shutting the bathroom door before she can argue.

  Three rounds of Candyland and two cups of coffee (it was a joint effort) later, Molly declares me the worst player ever.

  “Easy,” I tell her with a laugh. “I’m slow, remember?”

  “Oh, yeah—sorry. I forget.” She gives me a quick look through her lashes before she busies herself with putting the game pieces back in the box. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Traumatic Brain Injury.” Usually, when I say it out loud, I feel bitter. Angry that the words have to be a part of my vocabulary. Saying it to Molly, I don’t feel bitter at all. Maybe because she has no idea what it means. That hearing me say it is supposed to make her feel sorry for me. “It’s just a fancy way of saying my brain is broken,” I tell her when her face scrunches up in confusion.

  “Oh…” Game tucked safely in its box, she fits the lid in place and sets it aside. “Is that why you don’t know how to make French toast?”

  “No.” I shake my head at her. “I just never learned.” Thinking about it, I realize I never learned to do a lot of things. “What’s it with you and French toast?”

  “Uncle Patrick said he’d teach me how to make it but then he and Aunt Cari left and…” She lets her explanation trail off with a shrug. “We could Google it on your phone.”

  Reaching into my pocket I pull out the cell Hen gave me. “I don’t know how to do that,” I tell her, swiping my thumb over the screen to wake it up. “I can barely make phone calls.”

  “It’s easy,” she says. “Want me to show you?”

  This time I don’t fight the grin tugging at the corners of my mouth. “So, we can make French toast?”

  She jogs her head at me, her eyes widened slightly. “Well, yeah.”

  “Fine.” I toss the phone onto the table between us with a chuckle. “We’ll take a stab at it but if we start a fire, I’m blaming you.”

  Now, standing in front of Grace I realize I shouldn’t be here.

  Last night, after I put my foot in my mouth and Grace slammed her bedroom door in my face.

  I should’ve left.

  I was going to, but I only got as far as the living room before I bitched out. Dropping my duffle on the floor before dumping myself on the couch. Sitting there, I reasoned that there was no way I could make it down the stairs. That even if I wanted to, I couldn’t leave because I didn’t have anywhere to go. No way to get there.

  All lies.

  It was Friday night and every Gilroy in Boston was downstairs, working the bar. I could’ve called my sister. I could’ve called Tess. I could’ve called any one of them and they’d have been up here and willing to take me anywhere I wanted to go.

  So, I told myself that I just didn’t want to deal with the bullshit that would accompany sending up the Bat-signal, which is closer to the truth, and dug in a little deeper. Wrestled my shoes off and stretched out on the couch and closed my eyes. Told myself I’d leave in the morning, before either of them woke up. I’d leave. Hobble my ass down the stairs and out the door. Down the block to the Vet Center and camp out until one of them showed up. It’d take me the better part of an hour and every fucking step would feel like someone what trying to saw my leg off with a rusty blade, but I’d get there. Get myself away from her. Start thinking rationally.

  Or as rationally as possible for someone with brain damage.

  That was the plan.

  What I was supposed to do.

  Why the hell I decided to stay, let her daughter whip my ass at Candyland and make her breakfast, is a goddamned mystery.

  No, it isn’t.

  You might be dumb, Ranger but you aren’t stupid. You know exactly why you stayed.

  Grace.

  “I hate the way you say my name.” I must’ve said her name out loud because she snaps it at me while trying to swipe the fork out of my hand.

  I jerk it out of reach, more out of instinct than an actual want to piss her off. “Seriously?” I can hear a hard edge creeping into my tone and even though I know I’m the one in the wrong here, that this started off as a much-deserved apology, I do nothing to temper it. “Now there’s something wrong with the way I say your name?”

  “I didn’t say there was something wrong with it,” she says, glaring up at me. “I said I didn’t like it.”

  “Nooo…” I draw the word out to piss her off even more, because now that I’ve done it, pissing her off seems like the thing to do. “Actually, you said you hated it.”r />
  “Same thing,” she snipes back, making another grab for the fork.

  “Not really.” I move the fork out of reach, twirling it between my fingers in a move that surprises me. I’m good with knives—at least I used to be. I think about what Con said about muscle memory yesterday but tuck it away for later. Muscle memory or not, I can’t focus on more than one thing at a time and a pissed off Grace trumps everything else. “Why don’t you like the way I say your name?”

  I’ve only known her for a week, but I recognize the mutinous jut of her chin instantly. She’d rather die than answer my question. On cue, she sharpens her gaze into a glare and practically stabs me with it. “Are you going to let me eat my breakfast or not?”

  “I don’t know…” Making a show of it, I give the fork another spin between my fingers. “Are you going to let me apologize or not?”

  “Not.” She pushes the word between clenched teeth. “Absolutely-fucking-not.”

  “Jesus.” I take a frustrated swipe at my face and nearly stab myself in the eye with the fork I’m holding hostage. For safety’s sake I tuck it into the back pocket of my jeans because not being blind is one of the few things I still have going for me. “You want to know where Moll gets her stubborn streak? Because I can tell you.”

  “Fuck you.” She hisses it at me, careful to keep her voice down.

  “Geez, Grace.” I say her name again on purpose and feel a smirk tug that the corners of my mouth when she starts to seethe. “You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

  Her mouth falls open for a second before it snaps shut again. It doesn’t stay that way for long though. “You’re an awful big asshole for someone who claims to be sorry.”

  “Yeah?” I lift a hand and rub it along my jawline. I haven’t shaved since Cari’s opening and rasp of stubble against my palm sounds like sandpaper. “Well, maybe I’m not as sorry as I thought, or maybe it’s the head injury—it makes me moody.”

  “Yeah.” She barks out a laugh. “A moody asshole.”

  “I’ve always been an asshole.” Looking down at her, her tight jaw and flushed cheeks, I have the same insane urge I had in her car yesterday. I want to kiss her. More than kiss her. I want to shove that fucking breakfast tray off her lap and replace it with my face. Get her naked and tongue fuck her until she’s shaking and screaming my name. Lick and suck her clit until she’s completely and utterly wrecked. Until she’s coming in my—