Chapter 5 Griffin
GRIFFIN
Three days into this venture, and I’m regretting it with every fiber of my being. Not just because it’s stupid to think I can get what Monika wants done in two weeks. Although, yeah, that too.
When I first came to Wild Rose Point after retiring from the army, I had no place better to go. No family left and no home to speak of, but I was friends with Noah Kendrick, who runs the Salty Dog Diner in town and helps former military members get back on their feet when they need it.
I landed on my feet okay. If you don’t count the nightmares and occasional shakes and the occasional propensity to use brown whiskey as a sleep aid.
Noah offered me a job in the café when I showed up in town, but waiting tables wasn’t my vibe.
However, I’d tagged along on enough construction jobs with my grandpa growing up outside of Spokane that I figured working with my hands would be a better fit.
Mason Pierce, who runs the biggest construction outfit in town, put me to work on one of his crews.
But I took orders for way too many years to be good with that for long.
Enough is going on in and around Wild Rose Point that once I decided to hang up my own shingle, I’ve been kept plenty busy.
Hell, Mason even referred the smaller jobs he didn’t have room for in his schedule.
I managed to hire a couple of guys of my own and keep all of us busy.
Then I got lured in by fucking Daniel Peters.
The guy had been a top-notch ego stroker when he called to say he wanted me to handle the entire renovation, soup to nuts.
Like Monika’s late grandmother, I’d been fascinated with the house on the bluff, sitting empty since I moved to town.
I loved the idea of putting my stamp on it and let myself believe Daniel when he told me that he was coming to me instead of Mason because my work was the kind that might put the house and my name on the pages of some fancy architecture magazines.
Oh yeah, I liked having my ass kissed after years of being underestimated. Even when Mason gave me a gentle warning that sometimes things that seem too good to be true are, I figured I could handle it. So I went all in.
It was great until the payments stopped.
He made excuses and promises, and I had so much invested at that point—time, money, and most of all my stupid fucking pride—that I drained my own savings to cover things in the interim.
The money that I’d been saving not just for me, but for my best friend’s widow and her kids.
I made it out of the military with nightmares and a propensity to self-anesthetize, but Joey Jones, the guy who’d been my literal ride or die for decades, carried much darker demons.
Ones that turned his young wife into a young widow and left me with a case of survivor’s guilt that haunted way worse than the horrors of war ever could.
Susanna had the house she wanted picked out once I convinced her to let me help her buy it, and then I had to tell her the money was gone.
She didn’t ask why—probably assumed I drank or gambled or whored it away like Joey had with most of their savings.
And I’d been too big of a chickenshit to tell her anything different, because what did it matter?
I failed.
I’d failed to keep my best friend alive, and I’d failed at the silent promise I’d made to him at his funeral service. I probably should have taken legal action, but there’s that goddamn pride again. I wasn’t going to let it be known that I’d been suckered.
So even though Monika has a lot of self-recrimination about being taken in by her con-artist ex-boyfriend/manager, she’s not the only one.
But now that I know that she’s as much of a victim as me—and I hate thinking of myself as a victim—well, it’s hard not to notice how she throws herself into the work with a determination that catches me off guard.
She shows up every morning with her hair pulled back in a messy bun, wearing paint-splattered jeans and old t-shirts that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe but which she treats like they’re disposable.
She listens when I explain things, asks thoughtful questions, and isn’t afraid to get her hands dirty.
More than that, it’s hard not to notice how beautiful she is, especially when she’s not trying.
Yesterday, she had drywall dust in her hair and a smudge of primer on her cheek, and was laughing at herself for hammering her thumb instead of a nail.
And I had to pretend I needed something from my truck just to walk outside and get my head straight.
I made that joke about her being a diva. But she’s the opposite of everything I expected. Case in point: the shy smile she flashes as we’re packing up tools for the day.
“I should cook dinner,” she announces even as her green eyes flick to me then away again. “You’ve been feeding me for three days. It’s my turn.”
I try not to look skeptical, but clearly have a shit poker face because she laughs.
“Okay, I’m not exactly a domestic goddess. But I can manage something simple. How does pasta sound?”
Domesticity aside, she’s a goddess in every other sense of the word. The kind I’d give anything for a chance to worship. I clear my throat, and turn partially away before she realizes the effect she has on certain parts of my anatomy. “Pasta is my favorite.”
An hour later, I walk into the kitchen after a shower and change of clothes, and discover that my Hollywood goddess has turned making spaghetti into a slight natural disaster.
Tomato sauce is splattered on the backsplash, she’s got three burners on for unexplained reasons, and there’s water sizzling on the stovetop under one of the pots where the water’s boiled over.
“Tell me about the decision to go with three pots,” I say, surveying the damage.
She waves her wooden spoon at them, accidentally flicking more sauce onto the tile backsplash. “One for pasta, one for sauce, and one for...”
She pauses, then turns off the third burner. “I was testing whether a watched pot actually boils. You know, one watched, one unwatched. For science.”
I nod as if I’m following her logic, which is the least logical thing I’ve heard in a while. “And?”
“I forgot to watch either of them, so the experiment’s compromised.” She shrugs, completely unbothered by the absurdity of it. “I also forgot to turn the third one off.”
I can’t help laughing. “So maybe science isn’t your thing?”
“I once played a nuclear physicist, but they killed off the character in the opening scene.” When she grins at me, there’s a tiny splash of sauce on her cheek that I have to resist the urge to wipe off.
“This is why my daughter insists on cooking when she’s with me. My specialty is making reservations.”
“Smart kid,” I mutter and lean over to slide the experiment pot off the burner.
She bumps me with her hip as I reach past her. “Maybe I need better supervision.”
“You’re doing just fine.”
She bites down on her lower lip as the simple compliment hangs between us. It seems to spark with things neither of us is willing to say, and not for the first time, I wonder how someone as famous as Monika Graham can think so little of herself.
“I would have thought you’d have a personal chef to handle meal planning,” I say, making my tone light as I stir the sauce she’s somehow managed to both burn and leave cold in the middle.
“I did for a while when I needed to get in better shape for the first Revstar movie. But Riva and I liked having the house to ourselves during my longer breaks. She’d make grilled cheese or quesadillas, and we’d eat at the counter and talk about everything and nothing.
” Her voice goes soft. “Those nights were better than eating out at any LA hotspot. Just us. No photographers or industry types. No having to be ‘on’ for anyone.”
I add a few extra spices to the sauce while she drains the pasta—sucking in a harsh breath when she steam-burns the edge of her hand in the process.
My stomach lurches in response, and I grab her fingers to hold them under the cold tap even though she’s perfectly capable of managing that on her own.
Her skin is impossibly soft, and when she winces at the cold water, she steps back against me slightly.
The move puts her close enough that I can smell her shampoo—something floral and expensive that shouldn’t smell this good mixed with drywall dust.
“It’s fine,” she protests, but doesn’t pull her hand away from mine.
“Just a few more seconds under the water.”
“How’d you learn to cook?” she asks, and I’m guessing the reason she sounds breathless isn’t because of the burn or the cold water. I’d like to think it has something to do with my hand wrapped around hers, but I’m not that delusional.
“I had the strong urge for home-cooked meals after my last tour.” I turn off the water but don’t let go of her hand yet, checking the red mark on her palm like it’s not an excuse to keep touching her.
“I started with YouTube videos and a lot of trial and error. Turns out I’m better at following recipes than I ever was at following orders. ”
She laughs at that, and I realize I’m still holding her hand. I let go, stepping back before I do something stupid like press my mouth to hers.
We eat at the small dining table, both of us ignoring the clumpy, overcooked pasta and the fact that the sauce tastes slightly burned despite my efforts to salvage it.
She rolls her eyes when I go back for a second helping. “You’re trying to make me feel better, which I appreciate, but isn’t necessary.”
“It’s…good,” I say, managing to keep a straight face. Barely.
She laughs. “It’s barely edible. Clearly, you’re back on dinner duty, and I’ll stick to the dishes.”
“Did Daniel the Dick ever cook?” Not sure why I bring him up and don’t plan to examine how much I care about her answer.
She laughs again, but there’s a sharp edge to it.
“The Dick was all about being seen at the right places with the right people.” She takes a sip of her water.
“I used to be into it, too. But somewhere along the way, I realized I couldn’t be just Monika anymore.
I was always performing, even at dinner. ”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It was. Is.” She pushes pasta around her plate. “You know something I miss? Grocery shopping. I used to love wandering the aisles, picking out my own produce, getting swayed by the end cap marketing.”
The image of Monika Graham comparison shopping for apples makes me smile. “The Wild Rose Point Market isn’t exactly Whole Foods, but I could use a grocery run tomorrow if you want to come.”
Her face lights up for half a second before reality crashes back in. “I can’t. Someone will recognize me, and then...” She trails off, wrapping her arms around herself.
“Then what?” My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to. “Who cares if someone snaps a photo of you buying bananas?”
“You don’t understand.” She stands and starts clearing plates, her movements jerky. “One photo leads to twenty. Then the paparazzi show up, asking locals about me and why I’m here and—”
“Hey.” I’m on my feet before I realize I’ve moved, my hand closing gently around her wrist as she reaches for my glass. “No one in this town is going to sell you out.”
“You can’t know that.”
“I do know.” The protectiveness edge to my voice surprises us both. When the hell did her safety become a priority for me? “Wild Rose Point takes care of its own. Right now, you’re under my roof, putting in more than your share of sweat equity to fix up the house. That makes you one of us.”
Her emerald eyes are wide and vulnerable as she meets my gaze, and I realize how close we’re standing. How easy it would be to pull her against me, promise her that I’ll keep her safe from whatever celebrity demons decide to chase her.
“Griffin—”
“We’ll go early. You can wear a baseball cap and sunglasses if it makes you feel better. But you can’t keep hiding, Monika.”
“Why do you care?” Her voice is barely a whisper.
Because you already matter to me more than is safe for either of us, I think but don’t say. Because in three days, you’ve gotten under my skin in a way I never saw coming.
“Everyone deserves to buy their own damn produce,” I answer instead, releasing her wrist.
The smile she offers is a little wobbly around the edges. “Okay, then.”
We clean up the kitchen in comfortable silence, like we both need time to shore up our emotional walls. She washes and I dry, and when she hands me the final pot, our fingers brush. But this time, neither of us pulls away.
“Thank you,” she says softly. “For the grocery store offer. For everything.”
I set the pot down and turn to face her fully.
Her sleeves are pushed up past her elbows, and there’s a strand of hair falling across her face.
Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but it looks to me like her eyes are less shadowed than they were that first night.
All I know for sure is that she’s never looked more beautiful. “Monika...”
She steps closer, or maybe I do. It could be that we both move at once. Her hand comes up to rest against my chest, right over my hammering heart, and I know she can feel how hard it’s pounding. My hand finds her waist, my thumb brushing the strip of skin where her sweatshirt has ridden up.
“This is probably a bad idea,” she whispers even as she leans in closer.
“Terrible.” I cup her face with my other hand, marveling at the softness of her skin.
Her eyes flutter closed, and those pouty lips part slightly. I’m about to close the distance when my phone buzzes on the counter, fracturing whatever this moment was about to become. We spring apart like guilty teenagers.
“I should—” She gestures vaguely toward the living room.
“Yeah. Early morning tomorrow.”
She nods, fleeing to the safety of the couch, and I grab my phone without even checking who texted. It’s not important. Not as important as how every cell in my body is screaming at me to follow her, to finish what we started.
Instead, I head to my bedroom, closing the door and leaning against it. I can hear the now-familiar sounds of her nighttime routine as she gets ready for bed and force myself not to go back out there and invite her to sleep here with me.
Where it feels like she belongs, even though I know it’s not true. Christ, I’m in so much trouble.