Chapter 3 Griffin
GRIFFIN
I’m starting to think I’ve lost my damn mind.
That’s the only explanation for why I’m leading Hollywood royalty across the gravel driveway to my cabin at eleven o’clock at night.
Monika Graham trails behind me, wheeling her giant monogrammed suitcase over the uneven ground like it weighs a thousand pounds.
Every few steps, the bulky piece of luggage catches on a rut, and she has to wrestle it free.
Her soft curses shouldn’t make me want to smile, but they do.
I offered to carry her luggage, of course. I’m not a total dick. But she reacted with as much aggression as if I’d gotten between one of those raccoons and a garbage can after pizza night, so I backed off fast.
My place sits on a quarter-acre lot across the coastal highway from the beach.
The one-bedroom cabin isn’t anything special, but I got it for a steal when I moved to town a couple of years ago after my twenty-year stint in the Army came to an end.
The exterior still needs work, but the inside is solid.
Clean lines, exposed beams, and enough rustic touches to make it clear a guy lives here.
When I got hired to handle the beach house reno, I checked out a glossy spread in an architectural magazine that featured Monika’s LA house. My cabin is approximately the size of her walk-in closet.
I unlock the front door and step aside to let her pass. “Home sweet home.”
She pauses in the doorway, and I watch her take in the open-concept living space that combines kitchen, dining, and living room into one modest area.
Her gaze travels over my overstuffed wool couch, the reclaimed wood coffee table I made last winter, and the stone fireplace that dominates the far wall.
“It’s lovely,” she says, and the genuine warmth in her voice catches me off guard.
Lovely. Yeah, right.
She wheels that suitcase over the threshold, and I can’t help but notice how out of place she looks.
Even rumpled from hours in the car and rattled by the raccoon encounter, she’s stunning in an effortless way that also probably costs a fortune to maintain.
Her honey-brown hair gleams as her green eyes seem to take in every detail of my simple life.
She doesn’t belong here. Not even for one night.
“Bathroom’s down the hall.” I nod toward the narrow corridor that leads to the bedroom and bath. “Kitchen’s obviously right here. Help yourself to the stuff in the fridge.”
“Thanks.” She’s standing in the middle of my living room like she’s not sure what to do with herself. That makes two of us. “This is really generous of you, considering...”
“Considering you cost me three months' income and I had to let half my crew go?”
I don’t mean for the words to come out as harsh as they do, but it’s been a long night all the way around. Her shoulders curl forward like she’s bracing for more, and regret twists in my chest.
“Sorry,” I say, running a hand through my hair. “I get now that this wasn’t your—”
“No, you’re right. I did cost you that. I’m the one who trusted Daniel. Ultimately, it’s on me.”
She sounds more defeated than resigned. It pisses me off, though I’m not sure why. It could be her willingness to accept blame for things that aren’t entirely her fault, or maybe it’s because seeing someone so clearly beaten down goes against the protective instincts I spent years honing.
“You want a glass of water?” I ask, mostly because I need something to do with my hands.
“Water sounds perfect.”
I head to the kitchen and hear her settling onto the couch, followed by a soft sigh that makes me glance over my shoulder.
She’s kicked off her ridiculously fuzzy boots and tucked her feet under her, looking smaller as she sinks into the cushions and gazes at the fireplace surround.
The tough facade she wore in the torn-apart house slips, revealing something raw and vulnerable underneath.
I have the sneaking suspicion that she doesn’t drop that mask often and definitely not in front of other people.
I lean against the counter as I wait for the tap water to turn cold. Even exhausted and emotionally wrung out, Monika Graham is beautiful. Not the overdone, untouchable glossy perfection of magazine covers and red carpets, but something real and natural that appeals to me at a soul-deep level.
Which is exactly the problem.
“So,” I say, clearing my throat as she catches me staring. “How long were you planning to stay in Wild Rose Point?”
“I’m staying through Christmas,” she says, her tone and suddenly stiff posture defiant.
“In the house with a raccoon infestation and no heat?”
Her chin lifts, and I imagine her in the role of a queen being challenged. And her royal highness is not having it. “I’ll figure it out.”
I highly doubt that, but I don’t say so. Instead, I finished filling the glasses. “Don’t you have a daughter? Does she have a raccoon on her Christmas wish list?”
Her eyes narrow before her expression goes blank again. “Riva is with her dad and stepmom in Colorado for the holidays. Skiing and hot chocolate and all the perfect holiday memories I can’t give her right now.”
The bitter edge in her voice tells me there’s a story there, but I don’t push. I know who Riva’s father is, and I’ve got enough problems without getting tangled up in celebrity family drama.
When I hand her the water, our fingers brush, sending a jolt of awareness zipping along my body that I absolutely do not need right now.
“Thanks.” She wraps both hands around the textured tumbler like she might drop it otherwise. “About the payments I owe—”
“We don’t need to do this tonight.”
“Yes, we do.” She meets my eyes, and I see resolve beneath the exhaustion. I respect that. “I meant what I said. I’m going to pay you everything you’re owed, with interest. I also want to hire you to finish the job. Before Christmas.”
I nearly choke on my water. “You want to what now?”
“I want to—need to—spend Christmas in the house.” Her shoulders go stiff. “It’s important.”
“Important enough to pay me double time?”
“Yes.”
“Triple?”
“Anything you want.”
The words echo in the silence that follows. I’m sure she didn’t mean for them to sound suggestive, but she doesn’t take them back or stumble over an explanation.
“Why is this house so important that you’ll pay through the nose to have it done in two weeks?” Which is impossible, by the way, but I don’t add that bit. Not yet.
I study her face, looking for signs that this is some kind of scorned-starlet whim that she’ll abandon the moment things get difficult.
“We used to walk on the beach every morning when I visited her as a kid.” She’s looking down at her hands, clasped tightly around the water glass, as she speaks. “That house was my grandmother’s dream, but she believed places like that weren’t for people like us.”
“You bought it to prove her wrong.”
“I bought it to honor her memory.” Her gaze lifts to mine, and the pain in those forest-hued eyes hits me like a sucker punch.
“But I never even saw the inside until tonight.” There’s no humor in her breath of soft laughter.
“Some tribute, right? I let my lying, cheating ex turn her dream into a disaster zone.”
Shit. This complicated situation just got more tangled because I know the feeling of letting people down far too well.
“Monika—”
“I know how it sounds. A pampered celebrity who wants to throw money at her problems. But it’s not about the money.
” She takes a sip of water, then sets the tumbler on the coffee table.
“It’s about doing the right thing for you, the house, and my grandma.
And maybe I get to feel a little vindicated, along with having a mantel to hang my Christmas stocking on. Is it so wrong if everybody wins?”
Every rational part of my brain is shouting that getting involved with her, even temporarily, is a mistake. Monika Graham and her sad eyes are a puzzle I can’t hope to solve, and exactly the kind of distraction I don’t need.
But the thought of triple pay hits me right where it hurts. That money would help me fix a lot of things that went south in my life after her project turned to shit.
“There’s no way to finish the whole house by Christmas,” I tell her. “Not even with all of Santa’s elves pitching in.”
She frowns, and I get the feeling she doesn’t hear the word no very often. “I’m willing to pay—”
“I can get the main floor livable.” I know it’s rude to interrupt, but I’m tired and too affected by her vulnerability to negotiate any longer. “It’s a busy time, and I’m not pulling guys off other job sites. But you’ll be in by Christmas.”
“I’ll help,” she offers immediately. “With the work. Whatever needs to be done.” She uncrosses her legs and sits forward on the sofa, hope and excitement replacing the pain in her gaze.
Then she smiles and…well, I’m a goner. It’s part of what made Monika Graham America’s sweetheart and holds enough wattage to power a small city. Sure, I’ve seen that smile blown up thirty feet tall on movie screens.
But this close, it feels like watching the sun break through the Oregon clouds after a week of gray skies.
Her smile is impossible to look away from.
I clear my throat, then gulp down the rest of my water while I try not to simper and moon like a lovestruck fanboy.
“You have experience with construction?”
That million-dollar smile turns a little shy at the edges, which is somehow even more appealing. Ah, hell, I’m in big trouble here.
“I was in a movie a few years ago where my character inherited her dad’s construction company,” she says proudly. “I shadowed a master carpenter for a month before filming started so that I knew my way around the tools of the trade.”
She clearly takes my silence for judgment because her smile falters, and the air of excitement surrounding her a moment ago visibly deflates.
The truth is, it feels like I swallowed my damn tongue, and the only words I can think to say are the kind that gush over how fucking beautiful she is. For the record, I don’t gush.
“I’m sure you can find some way for me to be useful,” she offers.
Oh, yeah. I can think of a lot of ways, most of them involving the two of us naked in my bed. Just what a woman wants to hear when it’s nearly midnight and she’s alone in a stranger’s remote-ish cabin.
“Sure.” I stand up and grab her empty glass from the coffee table. “We can figure out the details in the morning. You look tired.”
How to wipe a smile off a starlet’s face in three words? Insult her looks. Nicely done, Meyer.
An awkward silence settles over us, and I realize we’re about to navigate the strangest part of this whole odd night—sleeping arrangements. “You can take my bedroom. I’ll crash out here on the couch.”
“No way.” She smooths a hand over one of the cushions, the shimmery peach of her manicure a direct contrast to the slate-gray fabric. “You’re doing me a favor by letting me stay. I’m not kicking you out of your own bed.”
Once again, my brain short-circuits as I think about what would happen if I invited her in with me. She’s probably kick me in the nuts, and I’d respect her for it.
“The couch isn’t exactly built for someone like you.”
“Like me how?” She raises an eyebrow. “Are you worried I’m going to drool?”
“No, I just meant…” I fumble for words as heat creeps up my neck.
Does she realize the effect she’s having, or is this just par for the course?
I brushed it off when she mentioned eliciting a reaction in people, but now I get it.
She’s like a unicorn or some other magical creature in human form.
“You’re probably used to king beds and million-thread-count sheets, not a couch that’s seen better days. ”
A hint of that smile returns. “I can manage on a couch, Griffin. I’m tougher than I look.”
Monika Graham has surprised me more than once tonight, so I believe her. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.
Still, arguing about sleeping arrangements feels too intimate for whatever this is supposed to be.
If she wants to prove she’s just a normal person, who am I to stop her?
“Okay, then. You’ll find sheets, blankets, and a pillow in the hall closet, just past the bathroom.
There’s only one bathroom, and the door locks, so take your time and whatever. ”
“Thank you,” she says as she stands, and damn if it doesn’t sound like she really means it.
I head toward the kitchen and set the two glasses in the sink. When I look back, she’s wheeling that giant suitcase toward an open space in front of the window.
“Monika?”
She turns, her posture stiff like she’s bracing for me to take back the offer or lecture her on how she got to this point in the first place. But like I said, she surprised me tonight. I might not like it, but she’s earned my respect.
“For what it’s worth, I think your grandmother would be happy that you’re here now.”
She lets out a long breath, and something soft flickers across her face as she nods. “Good night, Griffin.”
“Good night, Monika.”
I walk down the hall and close the bedroom door behind me, then lean against it, listening to the sounds of her settling in for the night.
One of the most famous actresses on the planet is sleeping on my couch.
How is this my life? It’s temporary, I remind myself, a part of me still skeptical that she’s serious about the renovation.
There’s a better than average chance she’ll wake up to the reality of the Oregon coast in December tomorrow morning and scamper right back to whatever gilded cage she came from.
But as I strip off my clothes and climb under the heavy duvet that covers my king-size bed, I can’t shake the image of her sitting on my couch, looking so determined to honor her grandmother’s dream.
And I fall asleep hoping I’m wrong about her leaving.