Chapter 8
MONIKA
“That’s not a wreath. It’s a cry for help.”
I mock glare at Griffin across the craft table set up in the conference room of the Wild Rose Point History Center, where my attempt at holiday wreath-making has gone seriously sideways. “It’s rustic and charming.”
“Also a fire hazard.” He reaches over and adjusts a rogue sprig of holly that’s sticking out at a ninety-degree angle. Let’s face it, my creation looks more like a bird’s nest that survived a tornado. “Is it holding itself together through sheer force of will?”
“Nope. I used wire.” I hold up my bleeding thumb as evidence. “I’ve got the battle scar to prove it.”
His gaze shifts from teasing to concerned as he grabs my hand to examine the small cut. “How did you manage to injure yourself with crafting supplies?”
“How many Band-Aids have I needed this past week? You know my talent with sharp objects.” I make a show of examining his wreath, trying to ignore how his thumb, gently rubbing mine, makes my stomach flip. “Where have you been hiding this secret Martha Stewart vibe?”
Griffin’s wreath is right off the cover of a holiday catalog, with perfectly layered bunches of holly, velvet ribbon woven through in elegant loops, and colorful ornaments spaced with mathematical precision.
He shrugs, clearly uncomfortable with the comparison, then ruins the bashful act by winking. “What can I tell you? I’m good with my hands.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” I say, sounding like I just swallowed a frog. His answering laugh is a deep, rich sound I want to bottle and keep forever. “You can fix mine, but I’m taking credit for it.”
“Deal.” He starts deconstructing my disaster with practiced efficiency, glancing at me, one brow quirking. “Having fun?”
He’s been checking in all evening, and maybe his protectiveness should annoy me. I’ve had more than enough of men trying to manage my life. But from Griffin, it feels like care instead of control.
“I am.” I lean back in the folding chair, watching his hands work. Those strong, capable hands have been gentle over the past week in ways that make my heart pinch. “Mrs. Muldoon telling me she’s seen Two Of A Kind Heart seventeen times was actually sweet.”
“I need to check it out.”
My mouth drops open. “You haven’t seen it? That was my breakout role. The highest-grossing picture of the year it was released.”
“Sorry,” he offers with a frown, and I can tell he means it.
“I’m joking, Griffin. I like that you know the real me, not the Hollywood version.”
“I can’t imagine the Hollywood version holds a candle to the real you.” His focus is on the wreath, but the words are spoken with complete certainty. I want them to be true. “You were nice to that teenager who asked for a selfie. I know you didn’t want any—”
“I appreciate having fans, and being nice to people isn’t hard.” I shrug. “Despite what the tabloids would leave you to believe.”
“The tabloids are full of shit.”
His vehemence makes me smile. “You read tabloids?”
“I Googled you.” He sounds almost apologetic, but I would have done the same. Hell, I did do the same. Griffin doesn’t even have a Facebook account.
“Find anything interesting?” I ask, mentally reminding myself there’s more to me than what someone can find online.
“A bunch of lies.” He ties off a section of greenery with unnecessary force. “Not worth the time it took to write them.”
“Let me guess.” I tap a finger against my chin. “I’m difficult on set. High-maintenance. Impossible to please. That one has stuck the longest.”
“It’s complete crap. We’re averaging twelve-hour days at your house, and you’ve been nothing but—”
“Careful,” I warn, but I’m grinning. “You’ll ruin my reputation if you keep saying nice things.”
“Your reputation is also bullshit, but it’s unclear if I’m helping or harming in that regard. Noah saw us kissing on Main Street.”
Heat floods my cheeks at the memory. The kiss has been playing on repeat in my head since that morning, along with all the almost-moments since then.
The way he touches my lower back when we’re working.
How our fingers brush when we pass tools.
The charged silence as we try not to stare at each other.
“Hello, there!” Mary Lou Townsend appears at our table, her silver hair perfectly coiffed despite the evening breeze. “Griffin Meyer doing crafts. Will wonders never cease?”
“I’m all about the holiday season.” Griffin smiles but keeps working on my wreath. “This is Monika.”
“Oh, I know who she is.” Mary Lou studies me, and I brace myself for what might come next. It’s always hard to know—
“You look like your grandmother. Same green eyes.”
The breath whooshes out of my lungs. “You knew her?”
“We weren’t close, but she was always friendly when I’d see her around town.” Mary Lou pats my shoulder. “She’d be so pleased you’re fixing up that house. She had a soft spot for it.”
My throat tightens. “Thank you for telling me that.”
“Let me know if you need anything. We take care of our own around here.” She winks at Griffin. “Though it looks like you’re in good hands.”
After she leaves, Griffin finishes my wreath with a small bundle of holly berries. “Told you so,” he says.
“Told me what?”
“You’d have a good time.” He reaches over and places a gentle hand on my thigh, causing a shiver to rush through me. “That people here wouldn’t make it weird.”
“I wonder if someone put the word out?” A slight flush creeps up his neck at my question. “Maybe asked people to treat me like a normal person.”
The flush deepens, and holy hell, watching this mountain of a man blush might be the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Griffin Meyer, did you protect me on the down low?”
“It’s not a big deal.” He pushes back from the table and begins cleaning up our craft supplies. “I didn’t want you to have to be on for anyone.”
And that’s when I know I’m completely screwed. Because I’m not just grateful or attracted to him. I’ve fallen so deep that I can’t see the water’s surface anymore.
“Want to check out the rest of the festival?” he asks after we say goodbye to Mary Lou and walk out into the chilly night. The history center is situated at the end of Main Street, and I glance toward the center of town where the festivities are still going strong.
“Actually…” My voice sounds steadier than I feel. “I want to go home.”
He stills, and I realize I’ve called his cabin home. But I don’t take it back because it’s true, only it has more to do with Griffin than any four walls.
“Let’s go home,” he says quietly, interlacing his fingers with mine, and those butterflies multiply again and again.