Chapter 6
MONIKA
I’m practically vibrating with anticipation as I wait for Griffin by his truck at seven in the morning. I’ve walked dozens of red carpets in the past decade, but the idea of doing something as simple as grocery shopping feels like the event of the year.
I can’t wait to pick out my own berries. Buy two different types of sugary cereal just because I can.
Griffin emerges from his cabin looking like he needs at least two more hours of sleep and a gallon of coffee.
His dark hair is sticking up in several directions, and he’s wearing the same flannel shirt from yesterday under a thick canvas jacket that hugs his broad shoulders in ways I’m trying not to notice.
“Morning, sunshine,” he grumbles, squinting at me like he’s taking umbrage at my excitement. It’s cold but not cloudy, almost like the sun might make a showing before the forecasted rain rolls in later this afternoon.
“Such a good morning!” My voice comes out way too chipper, and his wince tells me I need to dial it back. “Ready for our adventure?”
He stops mid-stride and stares at me. “It’s grocery shopping, Monika. Not a safari.”
“I’ve been on multiple safaris. This is way better.” I’m bouncing on my toes, not quite able to switch that dial.
He shakes his head and hands me a well-worn baseball cap with an Oregon Ducks logo. “You can tuck your hair up under this.”
I take the cap, trying not to think about how it smells clean and woodsy, just like Griffin. “Thanks. It’ll add to the disguise.” I slide my sunglasses on, despite the dim morning light.
Griffin makes a show of studying me, and I try not to fidget under his whiskey-hued gaze. Eyes that piercing should come with a warning label. “Those are definitely designer and probably cost more than my monthly truck payment.”
“They’re just sunglasses, and your truck is nice.” But he’s not wrong. They’re Tom Ford and ridiculously expensive.
“My truck is fucking awesome, and those glasses scream I’m famous and trying to hide it.” But there’s amusement in his voice now. “You look cute, though.”
The compliment catches me off guard, and heat creeps up my neck. When’s the last time someone called me cute instead of stunning, gorgeous, or one of the other over-the-top terms thrown around in my industry?
“Should we go?” Standing here imagining that Griffin is flirting with me won’t help my already frazzled state.
Twenty minutes later, we’re walking through the automatic doors of Wild Rose Point Market, and I have to resist the urge to throw my arms wide and declare my love for fluorescent lighting.
“Okay, what’s our plan of attack?” I grab a cart but can’t get it unstuck from the one in front of it.
Griffin watches me struggle, clearly fighting back a smile, and finally takes pity on me and frees the cart like it’s no big deal. “We should start with a list.”
“I have a mental list.”
“Let me guess.” He pulls out his phone and flashes me some wicked side eye. “Organic everything, gluten-free, locally sourced?”
“I’ve been craving enchiladas,” I say with an exaggerated eye roll that I doubt he notices behind my sunglasses. “And I want to make cookies for Riva.”
His expression softens, and my heart does a silly little flutter. “What kind of cookies?”
“Sugar.” My voice sounds as squeaky as the old cart. “Grammy and I made them when I visited.” The memory hits me without warning, and I swallow around the sudden tightness in my throat. “She let me roll out the dough and cut them into shapes, and use way too much frosting.”
“Sounds like a good tradition to continue.”
“Yeah.” I clear my throat and start pushing the cart toward the produce section. “I’m sure Riva will be baking with her stepmom, but I thought I could send her some. So she knows I’m thinking about her.”
Even though we talk and text daily, it kills me to be away from her during the holidays. But Ian and Sadie, who is admittedly amazing, can give my daughter the kind of Christmas I can’t right now. Normal traditions that don’t involve paparazzi or work obligations.
The produce section is small but well-stocked, and I grin as I pick through the bell peppers. “We used to come in here during my visits. I remember thinking the store was huge back then.”
“How many summers did you spend here?”
“Just that one. My parents were going through a rough patch, and Grammy offered to take me for a month.” I select a carton of strawberries and examine them for blemishes. “Still the best month of my childhood.”
“And the market made that big of an impression?” Griffin leans against the cart, but instead of looking bored, he seems genuinely interested.
“More than I realized, I guess.” I reach for onions and then cilantro. “It’s all part of why the house means so much to me. This town was special to her, so it’s special to me.”
“She’d be proud of what you’re doing,” he says quietly.
The straightforward words hit me hard. “I hope so. I’ve screwed up so much lately.”
“Hey.” His hand covers mine on the cart handle. “You’re here now. That’s what matters.”
We move through the store like we don’t have another long day of remodeling in front of us, and I find myself relaxing into the simple rhythm of it.
Griffin suggests a local salsa brand, and we argue over whether round tortilla chips or strips are better for scooping.
Once again, I’m blown away by how underrated normal is.
The cashier, who looks to be in her mid-fifties, does a double-take when Griffin smiles and barely spares me a glance, even though I’ve tucked my sunglasses into my jacket pocket.
Maybe I can be normal in Wild Rose Point.
The thought sends a thrill through me, although not as much as I feel when Griffin places a hand on the small of my back as we exit the store.
“It’s still quiet,” he says as we load bags into the trunk. “Might be a good time for a downtown stroll.”
My smile feels like it starts in my chest and expands outward. “Yeah, I’d like that.”
The whole town is decked out for the holidays. Garland wraps around every lamppost, and store windows are filled with twinkling lights and seasonal displays. It’s like a movie set designed to make an audience believe in Christmas magic.
It makes me want to believe.
“There’s a holiday art festival this weekend.” I point to one of the colorful flyers stapled to a nearby light post. “I bet that’s fun.”
Griffin runs a hand over the scruff on his strong jaw.
“Festivals are pretty common around here. Any excuse for a celebration. This weekend, local artists will be selling their stuff, wreath making, hot chocolate, and kids running around hopped up on too much sugar.” He wiggles his brows.
“And I’m sure Edgar will make an appearance. ”
“Who’s Edgar?”
“The town’s unofficial mascot.”
“You have a mascot?”
“He’s a local seagull with more personality than sense.” Griffin grins, and butterflies dance across my middle. “His favorite pastime is stealing Christmas lights. I don’t know where he keeps his hoard, but I bet it’s impressive.”
“Edgar,” I repeat with a smile of my own. “I like him already. More than raccoons anyway.”
“That’s fair.” He elbows me gently. “I’ve got no plans Friday night. You want to check it out?”
His tone is casual, but the question makes my stomach clench. “I do, but...” I trail off, not wanting to sound paranoid.
“People might recognize you.”
“Yeah.” I hate how petty that sounds. I don’t know why I care so much that Griffin doesn’t think I’m enamored of my own celebrity. Those worries seem so far away, but if I let the fame find me here…well, my stay might be temporary, but I’m not willingly giving up this feeling yet.
We both turn at the sound of footsteps behind us.
“I’ll be damned. Griffin Meyer out before the sun? This must be a special occasion.”
“You’re hilarious, Kendrick,” Griffin mutters.
The guy who approaches is Griffin’s age with kind eyes and a knowing grin. He’s wearing a Salty Dog Diner t-shirt under an open jacket has the former military vibe rolls off him in waves.
“Noah, this is Monika,” Griffin says, and I can hear the subtle warning in his voice. “Monika, Noah Kendrick. He thinks he’s funny.”
Noah’s eyes widen slightly, and I see recognition dawn on his handsome features. I want to shove the discarded sunglasses back on my face like that will make a difference. I brace myself for some sort of scene, but he extends a giant, tanned hand.
“Nice to meet you, Monika. Welcome to Wild Rose Point.”
“Thanks.” I shake his hand, surprised and grateful for how normal he’s acting. “Griffin told me The Salty Dog Diner serves the best breakfast in town.”
“You should come by sometime.” Noah grins. “I guarantee my coffee is better than Griff’s.”
I choke back a laugh at the subtle innuendo in his words.
“My coffee’s just fine,” Griffin says tightly, and I see twin spots of color bloom in his cheeks.
“It’s better than fine,” I say and…crap…why does my voice sound husky?
Noah’s jaw goes slack for a moment, and then his eyes flash with approval as he nods. “I actually need to get the pot in the diner brewing before we open. Nice meeting you, Monika. Maybe I’ll see you around again.”
“He seems nice,” I say as we start walking again.
“He is. Annoying but nice.” He places a hand on my arm before pulling back again. “He’s done a lot of good for a lot of people. And he won’t say anything about you being here. Noah knows how to keep his mouth shut when it matters.”
The tightness in his tone makes me think there’s more to that story, but I don’t push. We’ve spent the past three days together, but he knows way more about me and my past than I do his. To be fair, it only takes a quick Google search to learn about me.
Griffin holds his cards close to the vest, which makes me want him to show them to me all the more. I find myself stepping closer to him on the empty sidewalk, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
“Thank you,” I say softly. “For this morning, for…everything.”
His breath catches, and the air between us crackles with that spark I’m finding it harder and harder to ignore. “Monika...”
I don’t know who moves first, but a moment later his hands are on my waist and mine fist in his jacket.
When he presses his mouth to mine, I have to lock my knees so I don’t melt into a puddle of goo at his feet.
The kiss is soft but…god…so thorough like he’s trying to memorize the feel of my lips against his.
A horn honks somewhere in the distance, and we both step back like guilty teenagers caught making out under the bleachers. Griffin’s eyes have darkened to the color of burnt honey, and I can see my need reflected in them.
“That was...” I start, then realize I have no idea how to finish that sentence.
“Yeah,” he agrees, running a hand through his hair. “It was.”
We stand there a beat longer, like we’re the only two people in the world. I kind of wish that were true and that our time together didn’t have an expiration date. Then Griffin clears his throat and starts walking again.
“We should head back,” he says, his voice is rougher than I’m used to.
“Right.” I tuck my hands in my jacket pockets because I’m not sure what I’d do if he touched me again right now. “The house won’t renovate itself.”
“Not by Christmas,” he agrees, and maybe he’s reminding us both that this is temporary.
Gazing out at the rocky coast on the drive back, I can’t stop touching my lips or thinking about how Griffin Meyer kisses like I’m not the only one wanting things that aren’t meant to be.