Show Me the Way (Fight for Me #1)(46)

Two steps away from the small dressing table on the far side of the room, my ankle rolled.

All the way to the side.

Pain splintered up the outside of my leg.

“Shit,” I yelped as I tried to rebound and stop my fall. The only thing I managed to do was to propel myself forward. Falling fast. My hands shot out, and my fingertips just snagged the edge of the stool a split second before my face slammed against the floor.

My knees weren’t so lucky.

They dug into the worn carpet, pantyhose shredded.

Awesome.

My head dropped between my shoulders, and I fought the sting of tears that rushed to my eyes.

Tears of frustration. Tears of worry. Tears of this heartache that had grown every day since Rex Gunner had walked out my door two weeks ago without another word.

I’d told myself I was just being stupid. Foolish. Chasing a man who obviously wanted nothing to do with me. Just because I told myself those things didn’t mean I could so easily convince myself of them. Not when they felt like a lie.

God. Why did life have to be so complicated? I had enough to worry about without the gorgeous man and his adorable daughter who lived across the street. And somehow, they had become the center of every thought.

Laughter jutted from my mouth.

The maniacal kind.

The kind that could have been sobbing. It all depended on how you heard it. Or maybe on the way you looked at it.

If you aren’t laughing, you’re crying. Now, which would you rather be doing?

My grandmother’s soft encouragement prodded at my consciousness, and I could almost feel the pad of her thumb brushing across my cheek.

I drew in a deep breath, hoping it might give me clarity, guidance, the words a chorus of convoluted whispers that tumbled from my tongue. “I don’t know if I know the difference anymore, Gramma. Things are getting complicated. So complicated, and I don’t know how to handle them all. I don’t know if I can do this. It feels like I’m going to fail.”

God. What if I failed?

The thought made that gulp of air in my lungs throb and threaten to burst. It was a complete rejection of the idea.

Needing to pull myself together, I lifted my head and started to climb to my feet. A frown pulled across my brow when my sight latched on an envelope I’d never noticed before. It was tucked in a small cubby on the dressing table.

“Oh, Gramma.”

I sat up on my knees, fingers trembling with affection and grief. I reached out and pulled the envelope free. I was quick to turn it over, rip open the flap, and tear out the card.

I devoured the words.



Obstacles are everywhere. They often feel insurmountable. Impossible. Sometimes they are nothing but stepping-stones. Other times, they are a diversion. A distraction. More often than not, they are there with the simple purpose of showing you that you can.



But every now and again, they are a redirection. A deviation. A repurposing. And this detour? It will guide you to a destination you never imagined you’d go but where you belonged the whole time.





“What are you trying to tell me, Gramma?” I whispered into the nothingness. That nothingness echoed back. Crushing me with affection. With loss. With the memories of her voice and her reason and everything she’d given up for me.

I clutched the letter to my chest. Cherishing her words. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t decipher them. All that mattered was that they were meant for me. Given in a moment I needed them most.

My grandmother always had that way about her. Insight. The uncanny ability to know when I needed a kind word or a soft prod.

Resolved, I pushed to my feet, tore off the ruined pantyhose, and shoved my feet back into the shoes. I dusted a little powder on my nose and ran some shimmery nude gloss across my lips.

I looked at myself in the mirror. “You can do this, Rynna Dayne. You wanted this. Now, go and get it.”

I rushed downstairs and through the living room, grabbing my leather bag and the portfolio I’d prepared that waited inside. Silently, I went through the details in my head. The things I would say, employing some of the strategy tools I’d learned back in San Francisco.

Maybe I was supposed to have gone there. Maybe that experience had been preparing me for this day all along.

I didn’t mean to falter a step when I strode outside and into the morning light.

But I did.

Because Rex Gunner was there, just backing out of the backseat of his truck where I knew he had just gotten done strapping his daughter into her booster seat. His care for her was nearly as breathtaking as his presence.

Regretful eyes moved my direction. I thought maybe he didn’t have the power to stop them. Just the same way as I couldn’t stop my own. My gaze drank him in as if he were forbidden fruit. Something—someone—I wanted so desperately I was willing to try to pluck him free from all the thorny barbs and spindly spines that kept him bound.

That destination perilous.

Hazardous to my health.

Sucking in a stealing breath, I shook off the reaction and forced myself to walk down the steps and to my SUV, barely glancing back when I pulled out of my drive and headed down the road.

But in that barest glimpse I saw him.

I saw his pain. I saw his fear. I saw his regret. And I swore I saw him standing there, held back by that gnarl of branches, wishing I could reach him, too.