Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Griffin unpacked the groceries in the kitchen alongside Savanna, his mind replaying their exchange in his father’s office an hour ago. So help him, he’d almost pinned her to the wall and kissed that sassy mouth when she’d whispered, Roger that .
“You really like this coffee, huh? Bought three bags as if we’ll be here for a lot longer than I anticipated.”
He gave her a sidelong glance as she held up a black bag of Freedom Fuel dark roast made by Black Rifle Coffee Company, an American flag on the front overlaid with the silhouette of a rifle. “It’s strong the way I like my coffee, and it’s also a veteran-owned-and-operated company, and I try to support vets whenever possible.”
“Oh, I love that.” She busied herself with setting out the ingredients she’d insisted on buying during their somewhat rushed shopping trip. “I hope you love my biscuits.”
Why did that sound dirty?
He spied her hand hovering over the bag of flour she’d just opened and wondered if she’d had the same thought.
“You don’t need to cook for me.” He set his palms on the expansive kitchen island and looked over his shoulder at her.
“It’s therapeutic and distracting,” she reiterated her reason for filling their shopping cart almost to the brim.
For someone whose last two days had been pretty much hell, she in no way appeared as if the weight of the world sat on her shoulders. Griffin figured she’d had less than five hours of sleep, yet her hazel eyes were clear and bright, and her olive skin looked freshly kissed by the sun. And she’d waltzed through the grocery store happily chattering away about baking and ingredients. Savanna seemed surprisingly unphased. Well, for the most part. When he’d unexpectedly greeted her that morning bare-chested, she’d grown quiet and awkward.
He sure as hell hoped she wasn’t attracted to him because that would just make his efforts to behave himself a hell of a lot more difficult. But the way she looked at him, touched him . . .
Her eyes were fixed on his hands, so he lowered his focus to see why she was staring. “What?”
“Veiny. Your arms. Hands. Just, um, lots of veins.”
He smiled and lifted his eyes to hers. “I feel like veins are vital to life. Am I missing something?”
The adorable smile playing across her lips created an unexpected response inside him. His chest tightened, and he nearly drew a hand there in disbelief.
“Nurses must love you is all I meant.”
Are we really talking about nurses and my veins? “I do my best to avoid getting jabbed with needles when possible.”
What was she really thinking about?
Maybe he didn’t want to know.
The awkward moment disappeared when she began opening cabinets in search of whatever she needed to bake her biscuits. Once upon a time ago, his mom cooked and baked in this kitchen, so he knew everything she’d need would be there. But where? Hell if he knew. And he was enjoying the view of her bending over and searching. A little too much.
The sight of her heart-shaped ass in those skinny jeans had him turning away and adjusting his crotch.
“You’re going to help me, so wash your hands,” Savanna announced from behind him.
Crap, had she seen him readjusting his dick in his pants? He quickly turned and smacked right into her, knocking the silver bowl in her hand to the ground. They both froze and watched it do a little spin on the pine floor before simultaneously crouching and reaching for it. Then, in a seemingly choreographed move, they each grabbed on to one side of the bowl as if they both desperately needed the damn thing.
Like a surprised little rabbit, Savanna’s eyes grew wide. And when her pink tongue slipped out to wet her lips right before catching the bottom one between her teeth, all he could do was stare.
“Sorry,” she mouthed and released the bowl, surrendering to him.
What am I doing? He blinked away the lust-filled haze and stood, setting the bowl on the counter, then he followed her command to wash his hands. He also needed a moment to figure out why his chest hurt again and how this woman managed to constantly throw his focus.
“When was the last time you had homemade biscuits?” She was trying to chase away the awkwardness, and he was grateful.
He dried his hands and swapped places with her at the sink so she could wash up next.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve had homemade anything,” he admitted.
“Ah, that’s not true.” She tossed the towel over one shoulder. “I saw you eat one of my cookies last night.”
Fuck, I want to eat a lot more than one of your cookies. And he almost sputtered the dirty thought aloud as his focus dipped to her jeans.
“Um, so, anyways.” She was doing it again—dragging out the word in that suggestive way of hers.
When he forced his eyes back up, he saw she was blushing. Had she read his thoughts?
“A few key things when making biscuits. Keep the butter as cold as possible by not overworking the dough, and um.” More ums. More pauses. She was getting as worked up as him, wasn’t she? “If you touch the dough too much,” she said as her eyes fell to his hands, “you’ll wind up warming the butter. You know?”
He stepped closer, her breathy tone making him itch to set his palm on her cheek and ask if his hand was too warm. “No, I’m afraid I don’t know.” Doing his best to behave, he lifted his calloused palms in the air. “I know bullets. Not biscuits.”
When her mouth fell open with a gorgeous laugh, his heart thwacked hard in his chest. So, it’s not a heart attack. It was her eliciting the strange sensation he wasn’t used to experiencing unless running with a rucksack in the heat under enemy fire.
“Okay, well, I’ll teach you how to do it.” More color appeared on her cheeks, and her eyebrows rose as her gaze slipped down to the crotch of his jeans. Griffin almost laughed when she slapped a hand over her heart. And, of course, his dick woke up at the sight of her checking it out. But was he noticeably hard yet? “Well, you already know how to do that . You don’t need teaching there. I’m sure.”
He frowned, worried he wasn’t going to last another hour with this woman without pulling her into his arms. “Maybe I should just let you do it without me?”
“I’ve been doing it alone for a long time,” she said, sounding wistful. But as though realizing what she’d just said, Savanna looked to the floor and turned away. Was she embarrassed she’d steered the conversation from biscuits to sex? And that was the case, right?
Griffin couldn’t help himself now. Approaching from behind, he gently gripped the sides of her arms but held back his desire to rest his chin on top of her head and pull her against his chest. “Show me, then,” he whispered in her ear. “The biscuits. How to make them. Teach me.”
When she twisted around, he dropped his hands from her arms. She was mere inches away, but her head remained down, so he tipped up her chin with his knuckles. Yeah, she was embarrassed, but what he hadn’t expected was to find her eyes glossy with tears.
“Okay,” she said softly and took one deep pull of air in through her nose before focusing on the counter where she’d laid out everything.
Yeah, they were going to do this. Make biscuits, huh?
But as she spoke, explaining the basics of baking, all he could imagine was how badly he wanted to offer her some relief in another way. Sex was far more therapeutic than baking. Not that he could compare since he didn’t bake, but he was confident in his assumption that an orgasm was more beneficial than rolling dough.
“Ready?” She peeked at him with an arched brow.
He hadn’t heard a thing she’d said, but he smiled and nodded.
A few minutes later, and with his hands in the dough, doing his best not to heat up the butter, he asked, “Why’d you open the café? You worked for an advertising company for years before that. Was that a childhood dream of yours?”
She took a moment to consider his question, her hands still as her mind worked. “My grandmother and mom loved to bake. It was their dream to have such a place, and although my grandmother is no longer alive, and my mom is busy with her job, I thought it’d be something I could do to honor them, I guess.”
“But you love it?”
Savanna fixed her focus back on the task at hand. “I do. And I feel like my grandmother is there with me for every batch of cookies I bake.” She smiled as though remembering a special moment with her grandmother. “She was born in Cuba but married an American, and when they tried to flee Cuba in the sixties, he was killed. She became a single mother and raised my mom in America.” She paused. “Sorry, not sure why I’m telling you this. You know my story. You had a report on me.”
He did know it all, but hearing her share was a lot more impactful than words on a paper. And it crushed him to know she must have also felt the bond with her grandmother over the fact they’d both lost their husbands much too soon.
That was also the blow to the head he needed to remind himself she was off-limits. The woman didn’t need any more pain in her life. He’d never allowed himself to get close enough to any women in his past to actually break their hearts, but Savanna was . . . different.
“What’s the rest of your ancestral background?” He needed to fill the uncomfortable space that filled the air, even if it was with small talk.
“My mom said I am a little of this, and a splish-splash of that, and a sprinkle of Irish.”
He smiled. “She say what the ‘this’ or the ‘that’ was?”
“No, and for some reason, I never asked.” She reached for his forearm and set her palm there. “I think it’s ready.” When she cleared her throat and pulled her hand away, her lashes fluttering quickly, she asked, “What about you?”
He removed his hands from the bowl and washed up. He still couldn’t believe he was making biscuits. What would the guys from the Unit say about that? They’d laugh their asses off and pop off a dozen sexual jokes.
“Greek, Brazilian, and also a sprinkle of Irish.”
“Ah. So, that’s why you maintain such a golden tan year-round like me.”
“Checking out my tan, are you?” he teased, then faced her while drying his hands.
Her eyes were level at his chest as if she were thinking back to when he’d been shirtless earlier. Or damn, maybe now she was thinking about the Greek men who tried to come after her. Hm. “You okay?”
“Do you have family in Greece?”
Yup, door number two.
He’d rather go back to their sexually charged biscuit conversation, even if that were dangerous, than have her nervous or afraid. He wouldn’t let anything happen to her, and he hoped she knew that.
His shoulders dropped. Why would she? She doesn’t actually know me.
“No, I don’t,” he finally answered. “Two cousins in Brazil, though.”
She returned her attention to the biscuits. “Do you speak Portuguese?”
“Not well.” He strode back up next to her and set his clean hands on the counter. “How’s your Spanish?”
“I’m fluent.” A subtle throat clear from her before she added, “Marcus’s parents were Mexican, which I guess you know, but I had always liked the idea we’d be able to raise our kids bilingual. I felt like if they knew Spanish, it’d somehow keep my grandmother’s memory alive.”
He swallowed the lump down his throat, then resisted the ridiculous impulse to begin speaking Spanish to this woman, one of the four languages he was fluent in.
“I think we’re done.” She pivoted to the side, nearly bumping into him. The look in her eyes had his chest aching.
Memories of her late husband and her grandmother were competing for her attention, and he could see the pain prominent in the draw of her brows and lines cutting across her forehead.
“So, how’d it feel for your first time?”
He faced her and dragged a hand over his jaw—the weeks’ worth of facial hair was in that annoying itchy phase. “I don’t think I can answer that until I have a taste.” He hadn’t meant for his tone to drift back to sexual, but yup, it did.
She visibly swallowed, but before she had a chance to say anything, his phone began ringing. And the sexual tension that had risen between them faded away when he saw it was Carter calling.
“Yeah?” Griffin answered a beat later while leaving the kitchen. “Anything new? Did they talk?”
“Still working on it. They’re loyal to their boss, whoever it may be.” Carter paused. “But I need you to ask Savanna something. I need you to get the truth from her. I think she’s holding back.”
Griffin slowly turned to look at the woman who, in his mind, didn’t have a dishonest bone in her body. “Why?”
She was drying her hands with a towel when she came into the living room.
“Nick Vasquez was at her house four days ago,” Carter dropped the news on him. “And I’d like to know why she didn’t tell us and what the hell he was really doing there.”