Chapter 8 - The Return to the River
Two weeks later, the Tybee Island cottage was quiet under a blanket of brilliant evening stars.
The moving truck had come and gone that afternoon, hauling away the few boxes of clothes and baby supplies Jolene had accumulated during her months in hiding.
Jolene stood on the front porch, wearing a soft navy cardigan over her dress, watching the tide roll in against the distant shore. The salt air feels different tonight—not like hiding, not like waiting for the other shoe to drop, but like freedom.
Footsteps sounded on the gravel path.
She didn't need to turn around to know who it was. The heavy, measured cadence was etched into her memory.
Strong arms wrapped around her waist from behind, pulling her back against a solid, warm chest. Grant rested his chin gently on her shoulder, breathing in the scent of her hair.
"The house in Savannah is cleaned out," Grant murmured softly. "Desmond is tucked away where he can never touch you again. And Monica flew to Paris this morning."
Jolene leaned back into his embrace, placing her hands over his arms. "It feels like a dream. Five months ago, I thought I was dead to the world."
"You were never dead to me," Grant said, his voice dropping into an intense, quiet vow. "Even when I thought I was holding your ghost, I was still looking for you."
He gently turned her around so she was facing him. In the moonlight, his dark eyes were soft, stripped of all the armor he wore to face the ruthless city. He reached out, cupping her face with his large, called hand, his thumb tracing her cheekbone.
"We have three weeks before the official postponement announcement clears," Grant said quietly. "No syndicates. No boardrooms. No secrets. Just us."
May you like
Jolene smiled, a genuine, radiant smile that reached her eyes. She placed her hand over his, resting it against her protruding belly as the baby gave a gentle, reassuring kick against their palms.
"Good," she whispered. "Because we have a nursery to paint."
