Chapter Three
Lila
I shut the bathroom door with perhaps more force than necessary, the solid click of the lock providing a small measure of comfort. Leaning against the cool countertop, I stared at my reflection in the mirror—flushed cheeks, slightly disheveled hair, and wide eyes that couldn't hide my panic.
"Get it together, Lila," I whispered to myself. "It's just one night."
One night. In one bed. With a man who seemed to delight in pushing every single one of my buttons.
This was not part of the plan. None of this was part of the plan.
By now, I should have been settling into a boutique hotel in Oakcrest Bay, reviewing my presentation notes for tomorrow's meeting, and perhaps enjoying a glass of their famous Cabernet.
Instead, I was locked in a motel bathroom, trying to decide if I could reasonably spend the entire night in here without Griffin noticing.
I took a deep breath and splashed cold water on my face.
The rational part of my brain reminded me that I had survived far worse than sharing a king-sized bed with an attractive man.
The irrational part, however, kept replaying the memory of his forearms flexing as he drove, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, and the deep timbre of his voice when he'd called me "pretty. "
"Stop it," I muttered, aggressively unzipping my toiletry bag. "He's infuriating, remember? Deliberately provocative. Probably thinks 'Chardonnay' is a type of cheese."
Yet he'd also stopped to help me when my car broke down. Had driven hours out of his way to make sure I got to my meeting on time. And hadn't once mentioned the scar on my neck that I knew was visible when I turned my head just so.
I went through my evening routine methodically, letting the familiar steps calm my racing mind. Cleanse, tone, moisturize. Take out contacts, put on glasses. Brush teeth. Brush hair. Each action precise, controlled, exactly as I'd done every night for years.
Control. That's what this was really about, wasn't it?
My complete and utter lack of it in this situation.
I'd spent so many years carefully constructing a life where nothing was left to chance, where every variable was accounted for.
And in the span of one day, it had all gone spectacularly off the rails.
I changed into my pajamas—a matching silk camisole and shorts set in deep burgundy. They were practical, comfortable, and completely inappropriate for sharing a bed with a virtual stranger. But they were all I had packed. Another failure of preparation on my part.
Taking one final steadying breath, I gathered my clothes, unlocked the door, and stepped back into the room.
Griffin was sitting on the edge of the bed, scrolling through his phone. He glanced up as I emerged, and I saw his eyes widen slightly before he quickly looked away.
"Bathroom's all yours," I said, trying to keep my voice casual as I folded my clothes into my suitcase.
"Thanks." He stood, grabbing a small bag from his duffel. As he passed me, I caught the faint scent of cedar and something earthy—like the forest after rain.
The bathroom door closed, and I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding.
I sat on the edge of the bed, sending a quick text to Bowie to let him know I was alive and had found accommodation for the night.
I deliberately omitted the details about sharing a room with Griffin.
My brother's protective instincts didn't need that kind of fuel.
His response was immediate: "All good here. Angie says hi. Kick ass tomorrow, sis."
I smiled, feeling a pang of homesickness.
Despite our competitive banter, Bowie had always been my rock.
After our parents fell apart, he'd stepped up, making sure I stayed in school while he worked multiple jobs.
He'd never once complained, even when it meant putting his own dreams on hold.
It was a debt I could never repay, but one I hoped to honor by succeeding at Sparkling Oak.
The bathroom door opened, interrupting my thoughts, and Griffin emerged in a cloud of steam.
He'd changed into loose gray sweatpants that hung low on his hips, but the most alarming development was his complete lack of a shirt.
Water droplets clung to his broad shoulders, and I found myself tracing the path of a particular droplet as it made its way down his chest, over a taut abdomen, and disappeared into the waistband of his sweats.
I jerked my gaze away, heat flooding my cheeks. "No shirt?" My voice came out higher than I intended.
Griffin glanced down, as if surprised to find himself half-naked. "I usually sleep shirtless. I can put one on if it makes you uncomfortable."
"No, it's fine," I said quickly—too quickly. "I mean, it's your normal routine. No need to change it on my account."
He raised an eyebrow, and I could see he was fighting a smile. "Alright then."
I busied myself with turning down the covers on my side of the bed, hyperaware of his movements as he set an alarm on his phone and placed it on the nightstand. The king-sized bed suddenly seemed much smaller than it had when the clerk first mentioned it.
"Which side do you prefer?" Griffin asked, gesturing to the bed.
"Left," I said automatically. I always slept on the left, another one of my small rituals.
He nodded and moved to the right side, sitting on the edge of the mattress. The bed dipped slightly under his weight, and I felt a momentary panic at the tangible evidence that we would indeed be sharing this space for the next eight hours.
I slipped under the covers, careful to stay firmly on my designated side. The sheets were surprisingly soft, the mattress more comfortable than I'd expected from a roadside motel. I removed my glasses and placed them on the nightstand, then reached for the lamp.
"Ready for lights out?" I asked.
"Go for it."
I switched off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness save for the faint glow of moonlight filtering through the thin curtains. I lay rigid on my back, staring at the ceiling, acutely aware of every movement Griffin made as he settled in beside me.
The silence stretched between us, thick with unspoken tension.
I could feel the heat radiating from his body, even with the careful distance we'd established between us.
It was maddening. I'd shared beds with people before—friends, ex-boyfriends—but never had I been so attuned to another person's presence.
"You okay over there?" Griffin's voice came softly through the darkness. "You're breathing like you're about to run a marathon."
I exhaled slowly, trying to relax. "I'm fine. Just... processing."
"Processing what, exactly?"
"The fact that I'm sharing a bed with a man I met less than twelve hours ago, after my car broke down, effectively destroying my meticulously planned road trip to my dream job, which I now might be unprepared for because I'm sleeping in a motel instead of reviewing my notes in a quiet hotel room with proper Wi-Fi. "
The words tumbled out in a rush, and I immediately regretted them. The last thing I needed was to appear even more uptight in Griffin's eyes.
But he didn't laugh or make a sarcastic comment. Instead, after a moment of silence, he said, "You don’t need to worry, Lila. You're going to nail it."
I turned my head to look at him, though I could only make out his silhouette in the dim light. "You don't know that."
"Actually, I do." His voice was matter-of-fact. "I've been listening to you talk about wine for hours. You know your stuff. Inside and out. That kind of knowledge doesn't disappear because your car broke down."
"It's not just about knowledge," I said quietly. "It's about preparation. Structure. Control."
"Why?" The question was simple, direct, and somehow more penetrating than if he'd asked a more complex one.
I lay there for a moment, considering whether to give him a superficial answer or the truth. Something about the darkness made honesty easier. "Because when I don't have those things, bad things happen."
"What kind of bad things?"
I swallowed hard, surprised at my own willingness to share.
"When I was six, our mom forgot to pick me up from school.
She was supposed to get me at three, but she was high again.
I waited for four hours before I finally started walking home.
It was dark, and I got lost. A police officer found me around nine, sobbing on a street corner. "
Griffin was silent, but I could feel him listening intently.
"After that, I made a plan for everything. I memorized bus routes. I kept emergency quarters taped to the inside of my shoe. I packed my own lunches. Because I learned that the only person I could count on was myself."
I paused, waiting for the judgment, the pity, or worst of all, the dismissal. But Griffin remained quiet, giving me space to continue if I wanted to.
"When you grow up with addict parents, you learn pretty quick that chaos is the enemy. Structure is survival." I turned to face the wall, suddenly feeling too exposed. "So yeah, I'm a little uptight about my schedules and my plans. But they've kept me safe."
The mattress shifted slightly as Griffin turned toward me. Not touching, but closer. "Makes sense to me."
I blinked in surprise. "It does?"
"Sure. You learned to adapt to your circumstances. You found a way to protect yourself. That's not being uptight—that's being strong."
His words washed over me, unexpected and soothing. No one had ever framed my need for control that way before. Even Bowie, who understood better than anyone, occasionally teased me about my planning obsession.
"Thank you," I said softly. "For understanding. And for not making fun of me."
"I'd never make fun of something like that," he replied, his voice equally soft. "We all have our ways of making it through the day. Yours happens to involve color-coded planners."
I found myself smiling in the darkness. "And yours involves rescuing stranded motorists and fighting fires?"
"Something like that."
We fell quiet again, but the silence was different now—comfortable rather than tense. I found myself relaxing into the mattress, my earlier anxiety melting away.
"Can I ask you something?" I said after a few minutes.
"Shoot."
"Why did you really stop today? You could have just driven past."
He was quiet for so long I thought he might not answer. Finally, he said, "My mom died because someone didn't stop."
My breath caught. "What?"
"Car accident. Middle of nowhere. She survived the initial crash but bled out waiting for help. Three cars passed by before someone finally called 911." His voice was even, but I could hear the pain underneath. "So I stop. Every time."
I reached across the space between us, finding his hand in the darkness. I squeezed it once, then let go. "I'm sorry."
"Long time ago," he said, but I could tell the wound was still raw. "But yeah, that's why I became a rescue pilot. Why I'm part of the fire crew. Because I know what it's like to need help and not get it in time."
The revelation settled over me, reshaping my understanding of the man lying beside me. His dedication to his crew, his instinct to help me despite his grumbling—they weren't just personality traits. They were born from the same place as my need for control: survival.
"We're quite the pair, aren't we?" I said softly. "Both trying to control the uncontrollable in our own ways."
"Life has a way of laughing at our plans," Griffin agreed, a hint of his usual humor returning. "But we keep making them anyway."
"We have to," I murmured, feeling sleep beginning to tug at the edges of my consciousness. "It's how we survive."
I turned onto my side, facing away from him, and felt him do the same. Back to back, not touching, but somehow connected by the confessions we'd shared in the darkness.
"Goodnight, Griffin," I said, my voice already heavy with impending sleep.
"Goodnight, Lila," he replied. "Sweet dreams."
As I drifted off, I realized something that should have terrified me but somehow didn't: for the first time in years, I wasn't in control of what tomorrow would bring. And maybe, just maybe, that wasn't entirely a bad thing.
The last thing I registered before sleep claimed me was the steady rhythm of Griffin's breathing, a soothing counterpoint to my own.
Our backs nearly touching, separated by mere inches and seemingly insurmountable differences.
Yet in that moment, those differences didn't seem quite so insurmountable after all.
We were both just trying to navigate a chaotic world the best way we knew how. His way involved rushing into danger to save others. Mine involved carefully constructed plans to save myself.
But tonight, in this unexpected detour from my perfectly planned life, I'd found something I hadn't realized I'd been missing: understanding. Not judgment or ridicule, but simple, genuine understanding.
And as I surrendered to sleep, I couldn't help wondering what else this unplanned journey might bring.