Saving Grace

38

I woke up the next morning feeling as if I hadn't slept. My heart was still racing, palms still sweating, mind still reeling. There was no way that this was real.

Yet, when I rolled over, there she was – Grace, sleeping soundly beside me. Her makeup was smeared; dark rings under her eyes and lipstick on her teeth. Her hair was tangled into mattered knots from where I'd dug my fingers in and pulled her close. Her skin was bare, her neck and collarbones illuminated by the glow of the morning sun. I scoffed as a small, warm smile tugged at the corners of my lips. Holy crap. It had really happened.

I snuggled in under the hotel covers, felt the rough material on my bare chest. I couldn't take my eyes off her. I reached forward, brushed a wayward strand of hair behind her ear and she stirred, squeezed her eyes shut and groaned. I pulled back, pressed my lips together nervously. She opened her eyes.

And she smiled.

"Hey," she said.

She reached up, traced my jawline with her fingertips.

"Hi," I murmured, eyes wandering to her cheekbones, to her lips.

Her fingers brushed against my chin, down my Adams apple, over my racing heart. I leaned in, my forehead against her forehead. The scent of rich smoke and sweet vanilla filled my senses, spreading along my warm skin and resting on my parted lips. I sucked in a hurried breath, kissed her.

I felt her smile in that kiss, felt her joy. I fell in deeper, took her hand off my chest and pinned it to the pillows. Her leg, bare and smooth, slid around my waist and pulled me down. My mouth moved from hers to her cheek, down her neck, her collarbone. She arched her back under me, gasped.

And the phone rang.

"Ignore it," she breathed.

I looked up at the bedside table, saw the phone buzzing.

"But what if it's important?"

Grace reached up, pulled my face to hers.

"It's not," she promised.

Drunkenly, I looked down at her lovely face, kissed her again. The phone kept ringing, and even when it stopped, it only took a second for it to start again. I broke the kiss, rolled off of her.

"What?"

"Richard," Godric snapped. "Where are you?"

"Um," I looked around the cheap hotel room. "The, uh, the Locus Raddison."

"Get some clothes on and meet me at Jack Russo's beach house."

I straightened my back, eyes wide.

"Did you find him?"

"Yes, I did." Godric paused. "He's dead."

© A.G. Travers 2018