Chapter 4 Monika
MONIKA
Blinking at the unfamiliar ceiling the following morning, it takes me a moment to remember where I am. Thanks to Daniel’s betrayal, I’m far away from my life. But instead of the familiar knot of anxiety that usually greets me upon waking, I feel rested.
Pale December light filters through the windows, casting everything in soft silver tones. It’s not sunny—this is winter at the Oregon coast—after all. But it feels fresh and clean in a way that Los Angeles doesn’t anymore.
The smell of coffee drifts from the kitchen, and I realize Griffin must already be up. I wipe the back of my hand over my face—no dried drool, a plus—then throw off the sheet and blanket before standing.
The house feels quiet, like I’m the only one here. I find a note propped against the coffee maker in a bold, no-nonsense script that fits the man.
Had to take care of a few things. Meet you at the house around 10. Help yourself to whatever. -G
I take a ceramic mug from the cabinet, pour myself a large cup and open the fridge. Instead of the beer, leftovers, and expired condiments I expect to find, there’s fresh fruit, Greek yogurt, actual vegetables, and what looks like homemade soup in a glass container.
Either Griffin Meyer is the most domestically responsible single man in the history of the world or there’s a woman in his life.
That thought bothers me more than it should.
Along with the memory of his broad shoulders, which look strong enough to handle any challenge, his chiseled jaw, and clear eyes. Eyes that see too much.
I grab a yogurt and eat it standing at the kitchen window, staring at the slice of ocean visible past the dunes across the street.
This is the kind of quiet morning I pictured on the drive up.
Except in my version, I’m in a renovated house that belongs to me, not camped out on a virtual stranger’s sofa.
This cabin isn’t my home, but I like how I feel here.
I could go all woo-woo and claim it’s the energy.
A few years ago, I paid a ridiculous amount of money for an expert to Feng Shui my house in the Hollywood hills.
I’d bet money Griffin doesn’t give a rat’s ass about his wealth corner or the five elements, but there’s no denying the flow and balance of the space he’s created.
Although my response might be more about the man than the cabin’s chi.
After a quick shower and change of clothes, I drive back to the house. In daylight, it looks less like a haunted set piece and more like a heartbreaking disaster. Despite the air of neglect surrounding it, the house has potential. It’s special, just like Grammy told me.
But God, there’s so much work. So much money spent on renovations that didn’t happen. Money I’ll never recover. Daniel stole so much from me. I still have plenty of money and the ability to make more, but the betrayal won’t be so easy to replace.
I unlock the front door and step inside, half expecting to be greeted by my masked friends from last night. But raccoons are nocturnal, so the space is blessedly quiet.
I walk toward the far end of the living room, sneakers crunching over construction debris, and pause in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows.
From here, the view is postcard-perfect.
The house sits high above the rocky beach, tucked far enough back to feel hidden, yet close enough that I can almost taste the salt in the air.
Jagged rock formations rise from the water just offshore, not quite Cannon Beach-famous, but still spectacular.
The Pacific is different here than in California, moodier and untamed, like the waves are determined to keep their secrets hidden.
Exactly what I need right now.
I head upstairs, which is no better. The bedrooms are stripped to their bones—bare walls, subfloors, two en-suite bathrooms gutted to their studs. No tile or fixtures or hope of a functioning toilet.
Rolling up my sleeves, I start with the obvious. I pick up debris and sort through the scattered tools left behind, trying to create some semblance of order. It’s mindless work, which gives my brain too much time to catalog everything that needs to be done.
Flooring. Walls. Electrical. Plumbing. The primary bath and powder room. The list goes on and on, each item representing weeks of work under normal circumstances. And I want it finished before Christmas.
The kitchen is a little further along, but still the magnitude of what I’m asking Griffin to do hits me like a physical blow. I sink onto an upturned bucket and lower my head to my hands.
What was I thinking? This isn’t a movie where everything magically comes together in a montage. This is real life, messy and complicated and full of things that can’t be fixed with enough determination and a great soundtrack.
Daniel believed money could solve every problem, but the fact that he helped himself to most of mine created way more. And maybe money can’t fix everything. Maybe some things are just too broken.
I walk out onto the deck, and the world opens up again. The view is spectacular even on an overcast morning. The ocean stretches to the horizon, waves rolling in with hypnotic rhythm. This is what Grammy dreamed about.
Houses like that aren’t for people like us.
But they are. They’re for women who refuse to stay broken.
I breathe in deeply and lean back against the railing. One second I’m standing upright, the next there’s an awful creak and I’m falling. My arms windmill, and I land hard on my ass in the soft sand below the deck.
For a moment, I just lay there, stunned. I’m not really hurt, and my pride aches almost as much as my ass.
Then I start laughing. Because, of course, the deck would try to kill me. I can’t decide whether the movie of my current life would be slapstick comedy or campy horror. Either way, I wouldn’t pay money to watch it.
“Monika!”
Griffin’s voice cracks like a whip. Before I can even register where he came from, he’s running across the sand toward me.
He’s wearing work boots, jeans, and a thick flannel shirt rolled up to the elbows.
The version of Paul Bunyan who knows his way around a power tool.
Not sure it’s the fall that has me lightheaded at the moment.
“Jesus Christ, are you hurt?” He drops to his knees, those bourbon eyes scanning me with an intensity that makes my breath catch. His hands reach out like he’s ready to personally check for damage, but he doesn’t touch me.
“Only my pride,” I manage as I sit up. “And maybe my ass. I’ll live.”
His concern does something dangerous to my insides. When’s the last time someone looked at me like that? Someone who wasn’t invested in Monika Graham, the actress, anyway.
“Fuck.” His jaw clenches as he looks up at the broken railing. “I should have checked everything when we paused the project.”
“This isn’t on—”
“You could have been seriously hurt. Or killed.” He sits back and rubs a trembling hand over his jaw. Trembling over worry for me. “It’s my fault.”
I’ve gotten used to blaming myself for everything that’s gone wrong in my life.
My break-up with Ian all those years ago, the missteps as a mother, and in my career.
I assume everything is my fault for trusting the wrong people, making the wrong choices, being too naive.
Now Griffin is beating himself up over an accident that wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t trusted a lying, cheating asshole, but his willingness to take responsibility causes an unfamiliar warmth to spread through my chest.
I reach out without thinking, my fingers brushing against his wrist. The contact sends electricity shooting up my arm, and from the way his eyes flare, he feels it too. “You didn’t know I’d be here, and you sure didn’t expect me to lean against a railing that’s clearly seen better days.”
“Don’t.” His voice is rough, but he doesn’t pull back from my touch. “Don’t make excuses. I left a job site in bad shape because I was angry. That’s on me.”
The intensity in his gaze makes my pulse race. He’s looking at me like he’s already decided I’m his responsibility. It should be offensive. I’ve had enough of controlling men to last a lifetime. But this feels different. It feels like I matter to him.
“The deck definitely failed its structural integrity test.” I stand and brush sand off my jeans, hyperaware of how his eyes track the movement of my hands. “Did you think about my offer?”
We lock eyes, and the air between us thickens. I can practically see him weighing pros and cons, but there’s something else between us now that wasn’t there yesterday.
“I’ve got conditions.”
“Name them.”
“Triple rate, like we discussed. Half up front, half when it’s done.”
“Fine.”
“No crew. Just me.”
I blink. “Don’t you need help for this much work?”
“It’s the holidays. Most of my guys are booked or busy and…” He shrugs. “Just me. That’s the deal.”
His expression is guarded in a way that makes me think there’s more to the story, but I don’t push. “Just us,” I say, and somehow those two words sound more intimate than they should.
“You want to help?” He asks the question like he still can’t believe I’m not going to bolt.
“Totally.”
“We’ll be working from sunup to sundown, seven days a week until it’s done.”
“Lucky for you, my schedule’s open.”
He crosses his arms over that broad chest, and I try not to notice the way muscles flex in his forearms. “No diva moments.”
Heat flashes through me at the insinuation. “I’m not a diva.”
When he raises a brow, I realize he’s teasing me. And even more of a surprise, I kind of like being teased.
“Okay, maybe some diva tendencies. But I want to be a part of fixing this. And before you ask, I know the difference between a Phillips head and a flathead screwdriver.”
His mouth curves up at one corner, the first real smile I’ve seen from him. Griffin is hot when he’s brooding, but the smile makes him even more devastatingly attractive. “Fair enough.”
We stand there for a moment, the waves crashing in the background the only sound. Which is helpful because otherwise I’m afraid he’d hear my heart thundering in my chest. Then his expression grows serious again.
“Let’s talk about your accommodations for the next two weeks. If the Wild Rose Point Inn is out—”
“It’s out.” I hate the thread of panic in my voice, but I can’t handle being recognized right now. “Maybe I can find a rental house? Somewhere private?”
He studies my face, and I know he can see the desperation I’m trying to hide. “You could stay at my place.”
My stomach does this stupid fluttery thing. “I can’t ask you to—”
“You’re not asking. I’m offering.” He lowers his arms to his sides like this is no big deal, but his hands are clenched into fists.
I should say no. I should insist on finding somewhere else because my reaction to standing this close to him is dangerous in ways I’m not ready to think about.
The last thing I need is to get involved with another man who could let me down.
But the truth is, a part of me wants to pretend for just a little while that I belong in Griffin Meyer’s world.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.” His eyes hold mine, and those flutters migrate to my heart. “Besides, I need to make sure you don’t fall through anything else.”
Who knew protectiveness—even as a joke—could be such a turn on? “Deal,” I say after clearing my throat. I stick out my hand to shake on it.
When his fingers wrap around mine, that spark ignites again. His warm, calloused hand completely engulfs mine, and the word safe flits across my mind. But there’s nothing safe about the way he’s looking at me or the way my skin burns where we touch.
I reluctantly pull my hand back before I do something embarrassing like never let go. “So we’re really doing this?”
Griffin blinks several times, like he’s surfacing from the same haze that’s clouding my brain. “We’re going to work our asses off for the next two weeks, and you’ll have your Christmas miracle.”
“I could use a miracle or two,” I say softly. And for the first time since I discovered Daniel’s betrayal, I feel an emotion I’d almost forgotten. Hope.