SIX Honey
SIX
Honey
I probably shouldn’t have teased Gryff. OK, I definitely shouldn’t have after he came to my rescue for the second time in two days. Especially when I’d really like him to keep pretending to be my boyfriend.
To be perfectly honest, there’s a happy little flutter low in my belly whenever I get close to him that suggests I’d like it if he didn’t have to pretend at all, but I can already tell he’s not interested. I mean how else would he be able to stay coherent around me?
I drive the few blocks back to my parents’ house without really listening to the song on the radio or paying any attention to anything except the playback of our interactions in the store.
In fact, I almost take a wrong turn off main street. It’s been such a long time since I’ve been back in Mosswood. Last time I was here must have been the year I turned sixteen. Right before everything went sideways at school.
I wonder if Colton Briggs still lives in Mosswood. He seems like the type who would have stayed. I hope he’s OK. I always used to imagine him getting married young and having a whole clan of little shifters. Or is it called a herd when they’re bovine shifters?
I never meant to hurt him. Thinking of Colton is a good reminder of why I can’t afford to get carried away flirting with Gryff, even if it’s one-sided. I need to keep my guard up just in case.
I flush as Gryff’s big truck pulls up in the carport beside his place and he unfolds himself from the driver’s side. Unfolds is the right word, because even though his truck is big, the guy is built, with shoulders for days.
Shoulders which I absolutely should not be mooning over right now. I shove the sample paint pots back in the truck of my parents’ old car and hurry over. “Hey, Gryff? Listen, I just wanted to say that I’m super grateful for what you did back there.”
He shoves his hands in his pockets. “Don’t mention it.” He turns to go.
“Wait!” I dart forward, placing my hand on his arm just as he turns again.
He looks down at my hand and lifts one brow. There’s a long moment where I don’t move at all, just stand there feeling the warmth of his skin under my palm, appreciating the strong, hairy feel of his muscled forearm beneath my touch.
Then I pull my hand back with a sudden indrawn breath. What am I doing? Lucky he’s immune. I don’t normally crack and let myself touch people, especially men. Not these days when I know more about my condition.
Shaking myself, I flounder with the words I wanted to say.
Something about Gryff affects me in a way no one else does.
“I, um… I wondered… what changed your mind?” Maybe I’m playing with fire.
Maybe I should just be grateful when life cuts me a break, but I’m deadly curious about the big stoic shifter.
Gryff frowns again, and I think he’s about to tell me to mind my business, but he surprises me by scrubbing a hand over his face. “I s’pose I didn’t realize how much you could use someone looking out for you.”
I let out a puff of breath. “I really could.” I smile at him, and after a few beats his mouth curves into a matching expression. “Would you like to come in?” I gesture behind me to the house.
Gryff shakes his head. “Better if I don’t. Just holler if you need anything, alright? And let me know next time you want to run up into town. I’ll come with you.”
“Really? Thank you. I’d feel so much better if you do. I get the feeling folks around here don’t mess with you.”
“Ha!” His laugh is harsh, almost like a bark, and there’s no mirth in it. “Not if they know what’s good for them.” He gives me a lingering look, and I almost expect him to say something else. Instead he just gives me a nod of his chin. “Take care, Honey.”
I watch him until he disappears into his house, then shake myself and head inside too.
The day is heating up, and I have work to do.
After a quick lunch, I spread the tarp out on the living room floor and paint test patches of all the samples I got at the hardware store, standing back to see how they look in the light.
I have to admit, none of them is quite what I was going for.
Maybe I’d be better off with something more neutral, since it’s only to sell the place.
But my heart says blue is the right choice for the living room, a cool, calming color that will soften the harsh browns in the wooden window frames and wood paneling.
I wish I could call Bri. She has the best eye for color, but she hasn’t answered any of my messages since that night. I’m starting to accept I’ve lost a friend for good.
I guess I’ll just have to make the decision myself.
I message my parents, but they don’t answer. I guess they’re out, enjoying their retirement. I have a moment of regret, wishing I’d gone with them, but I came here because I wanted solitude. So why do I feel so restless?
I force myself to login to my work laptop and make my allocated calls for the day.
I’d usually make a few extras, there’s a tidy commission rate for extra calls that convert, but today I just don’t have it in me.
It always feels slightly wrong working in sales, even when it’s over the phone and I know people aren’t being affected by my presence.
I’ve always been just a little too good at it.
When I’m done with my calls I shut down and plug the laptop in to charge, then I wander into the kitchen, feeling peckish.
I settle on getting down one of Mom’s handwritten recipe books and finding one of my favorite recipes from childhood, her chicken pot pie.
That was always the thing I asked her to make when I’d had a bad day.
She’d always laugh and say it took too long, and then somehow whip one up between running Avon catalogs to the neighbors or packing up patchwork quilts to ship to an eBay buyer.
I’d get up from doing my homework, come downstairs, and the house would be filled with the smell of warm, savory pie, and I’d just know everything was going to be OK.
She gave up all her part-time jobs when we moved to homeschool me through my final years of high school. She never stopped quilting though. By the time I moved to college the whole cabin was full of quilts in every color of the rainbow.
I find the page with the recipe for pot pie, and when I check the fridge, I have all the ingredients. It’s like Mom knew I’d want to make it when she ordered those groceries. I’m only half surprised she didn’t bake one and ship it to me pre-made.
I’m rolling out the pastry dough when a genius idea occurs to me. I’ll take it over to share with Gryff to thank him for helping me today. The recipe yields far too much for me to eat on my own, and who in their right mind would turn down a piping hot pie?
I’m still oddly nervous as I remove the pie from the oven and gingerly nudge open the door with my elbow. I didn’t really think this one through, but I figured hot, straight out of the oven would be my best chance of tempting my grouchy neighbor to let me in.
I realize that was a mistake about two seconds after I knock on the door with the toe of my shoe and the heat from the casserole dish starts leaking through my oven mitts.
When Gryff opens the door, I’m shifting from foot to foot, blowing on my hands like that will somehow cool them down. “Ouch, ouch, sorry. Can I come in? Omigod this is hot!”
His brows drop into a frown, but he holds his position squarely blocking the entrance. “What are you—?”
My scalding fingers sting, and I thrust the dish up close to his nose. “Pie! I brought pie. But it’s really hot so could I just—”
Gryff simply takes the dish from me with his bare hands, lifting a brow when my mouth drops open. I’m surprised there’s not actually a sizzling noise as his skin hits the hot material, but he just stands there staring at me. “Alright. You brought pie. Why?”
“Oh!” I suddenly realize I’m standing at the door to his house still wearing my mom’s frilly apron that says ‘kiss the cook’ with my hands covered in oven mitts, and I didn’t even prepare what to say. “I, um… I thought you might like some?”
He continues to stare at me, unmoving, until I catch a twitch of his nostrils. His gaze flicks down. “Is it Sonia’s pot pie?”
“Well technically I baked it, but yeah. It’s Mom’s recipe.
” I’m about to say something else when I finally notice my surroundings.
The room behind him is sparsely furnished with a sofa, a TV, and an overturned crate functioning as a coffee table.
There is no dining table, no chairs, not a single decoration.
I blink. “Where do you eat?”
He looks taken aback. “I… stand at the kitchen counter usually. I don’t have guests.”
Oh my goodness, I’m intruding. I knew it. I brush awkwardly at the silly apron. “OK, well, I just brought the pie round because I thought you might like some, but if you don’t like guests, that’s OK. How about if I just leave you a plate, and then I’ll go. I’m going to go.”
“Wait.”
I freeze, hoping against stupid hope.
“The pie. Don’t you want some?”
I’m beet red at this point. I’ve never felt so awkward and nervous around a guy before.
Normally they go all glassy eyed straight away, and I stop worrying about anything except how to avoid sucking out their soul.
With Gryff I’m out of my depth. “Oh. Right. Listen, that’s OK. I didn’t mean to intrude.”
He sighs. “Stay. I mean if you want to. You did cook, after all. Pull up a crate I guess.”
I grin, already hurrying toward the kitchen to search for plates and a serving spoon. He doesn't need to tell me twice. Which is stupid.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. But it doesn’t stop the flutter in my belly and the smile from permanently taking over my face.