CHAPTER EIGHT

WES

Grace is on my mind for the rest of the night.

I shouldn't have touched her. The day had been perfect until I fucked it up by trying to put a move on her.

But catching her look of appreciation had short-circuited my self-control. I gladly would've laid back and let her gaze to her heart's content if it meant having her eyes on me.

And the temptation to see if there was more behind Grace's perusal was too much to resist, especially when I've been craving another kiss from her for weeks.

She'd seemed as drunk on the moment as me. The flush of desire on her skin couldn't be faked.

Hell, she licked me!

The brief touch had sent fire straight to my cock before everything ended as quickly as it began, and she fled like a hunted doe in the forests surrounding Suitor's Crossing.

Deciding to add salt to the wound, I search for the books we talked about at the laundromat because curiosity gnaws at my gut. I need to know more about that Bingley guy and why her friends think Grace belongs with someone like him.

Clicking on the first link for Jane Bennet, an article loads that describes a kind, intelligent, and beautiful girl.

Definitely Grace.

The author uses a similar description for Charles Bingley. Both characters are gentle personalities who see the best in people—a perfect fucking match.

I toss my phone on the couch, disappointment and frustration forming knots in my belly.

Of course, Grace would go for a man like that.

Gentle. Kind.

Fuck, even intelligent .

No one has ever used those words to describe a Gallagher, let alone me.

I'm a brute. Trailer trash. A dumb motherfucker who lazes around Dusty's.

I bet there's not a single character in Jane Austen's books that resembles me. I don't even warrant a mention on the page because I'm not a woman's dream hero.

Normally, that wouldn't concern me.

But I'm afraid Grace may be my dream girl, and we're as mismatched as they come.