I’m clearly in full-on denial mode about the impending loss of my home. This explains why I’m standing outside the Grace mansion while my life is at risk of falling apart. Also, I’m horribly curious, and I need to know who Lucy is outside of our library encounters. In addition, I’m unreasonably eager to peel back another of Connor’s layers. And finally, being here means a delay in dealing with the shitstorm of my life, if and when I choose to acknowledge it.

I focus my attention on the property around me. This is next-level. I know this for sure, though I can barely make out the house’s peaked roofline and turrets—the place has freaking turrets—through the perfectly manicured gardens obscuring my view. Victor and Everly would be so impressed. Maybe I can sneak a few photos.

The grounds are protected by a ten-foot wrought-iron fence. I stand in front of the ornate gates like a peasant hoping to gain favor with the queen. It’s not far off the mark. Lucy is important, at least to Connor. And me.

I press the intercom button. A man who is not Connor answers. “Grace Manor, how may I be of assistance?”

“Hi, uh, I’m Dred—Mildred Reformer.” It seems more appropriate to use my given name over my preferred nickname. “I’m from the Toronto Central Library. I’m here with Lucy’s books.” It sounds utterly preposterous.

“Oh wonderful!” His voice lilts up. “She’s expecting you. I’ll meet you at the front door.”

I glance up at the camera trained on me. “Sure thing.”

The gates open. As soon as there’s enough room, I slip through. It’s another five-minute walk up the winding interlock driveway. I take pictures of the gardens lining either side. When the house—mansion—comes into view, it’s like something straight out of a fairy tale.

I don’t have a chance to sneak another photo, because a man dressed in a full suit is waiting in the open door for me as I huff my way up the steps. His gray brow furrows as he looks past me to where a Rolls-Royce and another expensive car are parked.

“Were you dropped off, Ms. Reformer?”

“No, I took the bus.”

His frown deepens. “I would have come down to pick you up.”

“It’s a nice night, and the gardens are beautiful.” I point to my feet. “Besides, these work just fine.”

He makes a sound and steps back, ushering me inside. “Come in. I’ll fetch Mr. Grace.”

“Sure.” I feel like I’ve stepped into the pages of some kind of period novel with the butler who uses words like fetch.

He rushes off. I stand in the massive foyer, taking in the sheer opulence. It feels more like a museum than somewhere a person should live. The ceilings must be twelve feet high, and the trim itself is a work of art. The whole room is. The floors are tiled in an intricate mosaic design. Each recessed wall panel tells a story with custom wallpaper. In the middle of the room is a table with scenes carved into the perimeter. A massive vase of fresh flowers sits in the center.

I knew Connor’s family was rich, but it hadn’t really computed that they were this wealthy until now. It’s difficult to process. And I understand a little better why my best friend Flip, who attended the same hockey camp as Connor when they were teens, has harbored such deep loathing for him all these years. Flip has fought for every step he’s taken up the financial ladder, whereas it seems Connor has always sat at the top.

This also reframes my feelings about Connor’s place in the hockey world. He plays not because he needs the paycheck, but because he loves the sport. And the world has twisted him into someone to regard with disdain and disapproval.

Except Callie doesn’t. She sees something else. Something good. I’m pretty sure Lexi sees it too.

Footfalls pull my gaze toward the arched doorway, and my stomach twists. Angry, guarded, covered in art, Connor Grace’s broad shoulders are rolled back, brows a dark slash, beautiful face a mask of stunning arrogance. And based on our interaction earlier today, he’s just as fragile as the rest of us.

“Cedrick said you took public transit here,” Connor snaps by way of greeting.

“Uh, yeah. I came straight from work.” It was the most logical option. Going home first so I could drive Betty, my beater of a car, which sometimes chooses not to start, would have been a waste of time.

“I would have had a car pick you up.” His brow furrows, which seems to be his standard expression.

“The bus was already going past this street anyway.” I fully expect him to take the books and send me on my way.

He tilts his head. “Does your best friend know you’re here?”

“Of course not.” Flip would have insisted on driving me and acting as my bodyguard.

Connor’s nostrils flare. He spins around, motioning for me to follow him as he strides down the hall. “Meems is waiting for you, and apparently she’s very fucking excited.”

“That makes one of you,” I mutter.

Connor isn’t particularly chatty at Callie’s hockey games, but he’s not typically this brusque, either. I can’t decide if it’s the change of location or the people involved causing it.

I try to take in the details in the woodwork as I follow Connor through the expansive mansion, but the guy has long legs, and he’s in quite the hurry to get to Meems. Or away from me. He’s wound tight, body tense, hands flexing and releasing with each step. It’s like he’s uncomfortable with my presence, but these are the instructions he’s been given. For someone who is often pegged as not a team player, he seems able to put his own needs aside for the sake of others when it matters.

I follow him up a huge spiral staircase, trying—and failing—not to stare at his ass. In my defense, it’s fucking spectacular. He turns right and stops at the first door.

His eyes find mine, flaring briefly with unease as he taps the door with a single knuckle. “Meems? Can I come in?”

“Of course!” she calls.

He opens the door. “I brought you your librarian.” Connor steps aside and motions for me to go ahead of him.

“And I have your books,” I add as I move past him.

Connor watches me, like he’s cataloging my reactions.

The space has cathedral ceilings, ornate woodwork, lush carpets, and high-backed chairs that make it feel like it belongs in another era. But it’s the tiny spitfire of a woman seated regally in a deep green velvet chair that inspires a shocking wave of relief and puts a smile on my face.

Lucy grips both arms of the chair and pushes to stand.

Connor rushes across the room to help her. “You’re supposed to be resting.”

She brushes away his offer of assistance. “Resting is all I’ve done for the past week.” She turns her bright smile on me. “Dred, I’m so thrilled you’re here.”

“I’m glad I could come see you.” And put to rest my churning worry that she would be too ill to handle a visit. “You have a beautiful home.”

“My late husband liked grand things, may he rest in peace.” She makes the sign of the cross, then reaches for me.

I curve my hand gently around hers, feeling her grandson’s eyes on me. “Connor told me you’ve been sick. Are you feeling better?” I scan her face; she looks tired, and smaller than I remember, but I can’t decide if it’s because this space is huge, or if she’s shrunk since I last saw her.

“I’m fine. Just old, and little things are bigger when you get to be my age.” She squeezes my hand. “Come sit.” She nods to the chair across from her. “Connor, dear, please have Cedrick bring us tea, will you?”

He tucks a hand in his pocket. “It’s already on the way.”

“Of course it is.” She smiles up at him with clear adoration.

A gentle grin tugs the corner of his mouth, as though this small praise is a gift he cherishes. Someone loves Connor Grace, and based on his behavior today, he loves her back just as fiercely. This is the other person Connor is soft for. Hard, angry, baleful Connor is sweet for Callie and his Meems. The dichotomy is dangerously alluring.

Beyond the tattoos hidden under his long-sleeved shirt, the aggressive ice play, and the I-don’t-fucking-care attitude is a man who cares very, very much. So much that he invited me inside his world for the person who means more to him than his privacy.

Meems smiles impishly. “Now that you’ve visited Dred at the library, you can ask her on a date.”

I’m glad the tea hasn’t arrived yet, because I would have sprayed it all over Lucy. As it is, I nearly choke on my spit.

Connor jumps in before I can splutter out a response, his cheeks flushing pink as he rubs the back of his neck. “Meems, don’t meddle.”

“I’ve told him all about you.” Meems winks.

“You’re not playing matchmaker,” Connor grumbles.

Lucy makes a clucking sound. “You need a partner before I pass to the other side.”

“Well, it looks like you’ll have to live forever then, since that’s unlikely to happen,” he grumbles while inspecting his fingernails. It sounds more like a plea than defiance.

Every time she visits the library, Lucy talks about how wonderful her grandson is. I hadn’t realized until now that she’s never mentioned his name, or what he does for a living. But she’s always promised to bring him with her one day so she could introduce us. How ironic that he happens to be my best friend’s most-loathed teammate.

A woman arrives carrying a tray with a silver tea set, and a man follows with a tray of food. They pour tea, then leave with a bow.

This feels a lot like The Twilight Zone.

I pull the new books out, passing them to Lucy.

Her eyes light up. “Is this the one with the highland warriors who travel back in time?”

“It is. It came back this afternoon. It’s very steamy.” I wink. “I think you’ll love it.”

“I’m sure I will.”

“I’m sure I won’t,” Connor mutters.

“It’s educational, dear,” Lucy quips.

“You mean it’s embarrassing,” he counters.

“Connor reads to me at night sometimes,” Meems explains.

I bite back a smile. I would pay good money to see broody Connor reading spicy romance to his posh grandma. “Some of them have audiobooks,” I offer.

“Meems enjoys my discomfort,” Connor replies dryly.

“And Connor pretends to hate the books, but he never says no to reading them,” Lucy stage-whispers.

My heart squeezes at the fond smile that softens both their faces. This is the kind of familial love I’ve never had, and I’m shockingly, painfully jealous. Even the Terror’s villain is beloved by someone.

Lucy’s eyes light up. “Tell me all the juicy library gossip. How are those saucy twins? Did Victor get the A he was hoping for on his English essay? Is Everly staying out of trouble?”

“Who are Victor and Everly?” Connor asks, like he can’t help but involve himself in the conversation. This is probably the most I’ve heard him speak at any given time.

“They’re teens who live in the group home a few blocks from the library. They’re my favorites,” I explain before I turn back to Lucy. “Victor got his A, which isn’t a surprise, and Everly made it through last week without losing any privileges.”

This is part of our weekly routine. I always take a break when Lucy arrives, and we sit in the coffee shop, drinking weak brew while I fill her in on the library gossip before we talk books. She’s endlessly interested in the community programs I’ve developed.

Connor moves to sit in one of the empty chairs. He says nothing, just listens and observes.

I share the previous week’s adventures, and we discuss last week’s books before I tell her about the new ones I brought while we finish our tea.

I set my empty cup on the table. “I should probably head home so you can have your evening.”

“Would you mind reading me a chapter before you go? Connor tends to skip the spicy parts,” she whispers.

“Your heart is too important to tax with excessive spice, Meems,” Connor replies.

I steal a glance at him and smile at the blush coloring his cheeks. “Sure, I can read to you. Would you like me to start with the highland warriors?”

“Oh please. They sound fun.”

“So fun.” I settle in and do my best to ignore the feel of Connor’s eyes on me as I read. Lucy is fast asleep by the end of the first chapter.

I tuck her book ribbon between the pages. “Will she be out long?”

“She might be done for the evening. I’ll move her to her bed if she doesn’t wake up.” Connor carefully adjusts the footrest and reclines the chair, tucking a pillow by her cheek so she doesn’t get a neck crick. He kisses her temple and guides me out of the room.

I take one last look at her before I go. I adore Lucy. We’ve grown close—closer than I realized maybe. Our time together always feels special, and it fills a selfish need for a maternal connection.

Our conversations have mostly revolved around books, the library programs, and sometimes her late husband. Occasionally, we’ve veered into personal pieces of our lives, but neither of us has ever spoken of our connection to the Terror. I’m intensely protective of my friendship with Flip, just like she’s protective of her grandson.

I wait until Connor and I are halfway down the hall before I ask the question that’s been eating at me. “How did Lucy’s appointment go today?”

He stops just before we reach the stairs and turns to me. “She needs surgery.”

“What kind?”

“The kind that could keep her here for another decade.” He rubs his bottom lip with his manicured fingers. “But right now she’s not strong enough to survive it, and the doctor is concerned she might never be.”

Pain lances my heart. “What does that mean?”

His jaw tics, but his eyes remain on mine. “She needs a heart valve replacement. If she can’t have the surgery, I could lose her inside a year.”

The truth is sandpaper rubbed across raw skin. There’s an answer to his problem, a way to keep Lucy here, but it’s out of reach. That’s almost more than I can bear. Maybe because my world is falling apart, and I already stand to lose so much if I can’t figure out what to do about my apartment. Maybe because I sense how devastated Connor is by the prospect. Maybe because I’ve come to see Lucy like the grandmother I never had.

I reach out and cover his wide palm with mine, his fingers flex, but he doesn’t pull away. “I’m so sorry.” Emotions rain down on me, and tears well up—for making my emotions his to deal with, for his pain, for my own.

He looks at me strangely. “You didn’t make her heart weak.”

I withdraw my hand and rummage in my bag for a tissue, still on the verge of tears. This is his loss, not mine. Then why does it hurt so much?

“I should go.” I finally find the tissue I was looking for, but with it comes a piece of paper.

It unfolds as it flutters to the ground, and Connor scoops it up before I can. His brows pull together as he scans the document—the one from my landlord.

“You’re in trouble.” It’s a statement, not a question.

I grab the letter and stuff it back in my purse. “It’s a misunderstanding. I’ll figure it out.” I rush down the spiral staircase, wishing a fairy godmother would appear, wave her magic wand, and fix my problem.

It seems all gifts come with a price.

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