Chapter 2 #2
Carlos whistles low. Hussein shakes his head sadly and murmurs something under his breath that sounds like, “Ah, shit.” Freddy glances at me with a wary look I’ve seen before, usually when I start grinding my back molars so hard the noise carries.
“Died,” I repeat, though I can barely hear myself over the blood roaring in my ears. “How? When?” I ponder, then add, “Where?”
I know it can’t have been here in Winsome. The town gossips, led by my mother and my brother Holden, would’ve spread the news in a heartbeat because they can’t help themselves… which is why I always try to avoid doing or saying anything where they can see, or hear, it.
“I… I don’t know,” Griffin admits, dropping the racket to his side. “Uncle Jim’s lawyer’s out on medical leave, so I don’t have a lot of details yet.” He frowns. “You didn’t know?”
My guys exchange looks. Each shakes his head.
“Back up,” I say. “You don’t know when your own uncle died? And since when does Jim have a nephew? I thought he didn’t have family.”
“We weren’t blood related. Jim was an old family friend. A neighbor. N-not that it’s any of your b-business.” He shivers but ignores it and crosses his arms over his chest.
My jaw goes so tight my body vibrates.
He’s right. It isn’t my business.
Just like it’s not my business that it’s unseasonably chilly this morning, and this mostly naked idiot’s turning himself into a popsicle.
Except it literally is my business—the part about the inheritance, anyway—because there are Swiss-cheese holes in this guy’s story, and I really need him to be lying.
If he’s not, Axford Lumber’s fucked. And since the family business is my responsibility now, I’m fucked too.
“Jim and I have an agreement where I can use this road to access my family’s land back there.” I nod past the guy’s car to where the Grange Cut disappears into the trees. “As his quasi-nephew, I’d think you’d know that.”
Uncertainty flickers on his face for half a second before he lifts the damn racket again.
“I have no record of that, Mr. Axford. There’s not a word about your supposed agreement in the paperwork I received from Jim’s attorney’s office.
My map of the property line shows this road is absolutely within the boundaries of my land. ”
Fuck.
“It was a gentleman’s agreement,” I snap. “That’s how things are done in Winsome.”
Now I’m the one lying, sort of.
Handshake deals were how my father and his contemporaries did business, which is why Axford Lumber has an amazing reputation and a very shaky bottom line.
That was the past, though. Nowadays, we have access to the internet just like everyone else and plenty of unscrupulous people in town ready to take advantage of the unwary… which is why I’d insisted on the formal easement.
Or tried to.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“Griffin!” a voice calls from back near Jim’s house. “Are you okay? I called the sheriff, and they’re sending someone out, so whoever’s bothering you had better—ohhhh.”
The man who steps off the path is shorter than Griffin with a head of wild curls. He’s dressed head to toe in slouchy black clothes that are probably trendy and holding a cell phone like a weapon.
He sidles over to Griffin, clutches his forearm, and whispers like he’s trying not to move his lips, “Is this some kind of Vermont-induced psychosis, or are we being invaded by lumberjacks? Holy fuck, and it’s not even my birthday!”
The way Griffin shakes off his hand makes it pretty clear that the two men aren’t together.
I mean, not that I noticed. Or care either way.
“Jesus, Milo. Focus. Did you actually call the sheriff?” Griffin demands.
“Uh, yes. Obvi. I told the dispatcher my best friend’s home was under siege.” Milo tosses back blond curls. “She promised the sheriff himself would be here in five, which—honestly? Kind of impressive. I assumed a small-town cop would be kicking up his feet, eating donuts.”
I huff out a breath. He is. The sheriff’s right now eating my fucking donuts. And probably my portion of sausage casserole too. And no wonder he’s coming fast, since he’s half a mile down the road at our parents’ house.
Sure enough, moments later, the crunch of gravel announces the arrival of a familiar black-and-gold sheriff’s SUV. The middle of my three younger brothers climbs out, wearing his full uniform and the same damn sunshine smile he’s had since birth.
“Morning, boys!” Holden calls, and at the sound of his voice, every person in our little group—Winsomefolk and New Yorkers alike—relaxes a little.
Holden’s always been this way. A friend to all, a golden boy, a high school quarterback, a helper of old ladies who need groceries carried.
Yes, it is highly annoying, thank you for asking.
He claps me on the shoulder just a little too hard and strides forward to shake hands with the newcomers. “Welcome to Winsome!”
But Milo seems immediately wary. He stares at Holden’s outstretched hand like it’s a crusty sock.
“Charmed,” he says, not sounding remotely charmed… and also not returning his handshake.
Griffin elbows him. He casts a sidelong glance at me, then extends his hand to Holden with a small smile. “Thank you. It’s been a journey.”
I watch Griffin’s hand disappear into Holden’s as he introduces himself and his friend. His fingers are cold, I can tell, and I have the wildly inappropriate urge to warm them myself.
“I’m really sorry to drag you out here, sir—” Griffin continues.
Pretty sure Holden gets off on the sir thing because his chest puffs up like a fucking prize rooster.
“No problem. Just doing my job,” Holden replies in his aw-shucks voice. If he had a hat on, he’d probably tip the brim like a cowboy in a spaghetti western.
It’s insufferable.
“Rachelle said we had a possible trespass situation?” Holden glances at me, one brow lifted like he already knows I’m about to explode.
“No,” I say shortly.
“Y-yes,” Griffin insists, though his delivery loses a little conviction since he’s visibly shivering in the chilly air.
Holden frowns and holds up a hand. “Hang on. You’re freezing.”
He can’t exactly give Griffin his uniform shirt, Milo’s sweater wouldn’t fit, and my guys are standing back and watching like this is an amateur drama they bought tickets to. Which means…
Holden turns to me with a meaningful cock of his head.
I sigh loudly and unbutton my flannel, peeling it off and holding it out like it pains me.
“Here,” I mutter, as though I haven’t been half wanting to offer it all along.
I can see that Griffin doesn’t want to take it. The I’d rather freeze is written all over his face. But with Holden looking on, everyone’s always on their best behavior.
“Thanks,” Griffin says, his tone pure fuck you.
“Yeah,” I say in the same tone.
He shivers again as he slips his arms into my shirt and pulls it around himself like he’s savoring the warmth of my body. It hangs halfway down his thighs, nearly swallowing him whole, and something low in my gut clenches so hard it’s nearly audible.
I am not attracted to this guy, I remind myself. Attraction is for one-nighters at the Shed. Not for anyone who might start to get ideas, and definitely not for assholes from out of town who want to get into an arbitrary territorial dispute.
It’s easier to remember all this when I notice Griffin hasn’t let go of his damn tennis racket. Does he plan to practice his backhand on me right in front of the sheriff? I almost wish he would.
“So?” Holden prompts, hands on his hips. “Trespassing?”
“Yes. As I was telling your angry lumberjack friend—” Griffin jerks his chin toward me. “—I recently inherited this land from Jim Grange.”
Holden turns to me, eyebrows raised. I give him a tight shrug. Was news to me too.
“Inherited?” Holden repeats. “Meaning… Jim passed? My condolences. He was a good man.”
Griffin looks uncomfortable, but nods.
“I assume you have proper documentation of the inheritance?” Holden goes on. His eyes narrow a little—a reminder that there’s actually a brain beneath that golden-retriever charm.
“A letter from Jim’s attorney stating that I’m the sole beneficiary of the trust that owns this land. The Griffin Mercer Trust.” Griffin swallows. “I also have a handwritten note from Jim confirming it. And a map.”
“Well. Okay, then. Easy enough to verify.” Holden shoots me a look that says this doesn’t look good. “Mr. Mercer—”
“Griffin.”
“Griffin. None of us were aware of Jim’s death or that the land had passed to a new owner. I assure you, my brother didn’t intend—”
“Hang on. Brother?” Milo narrows his eyes. “You two are related?”
He shifts his gaze back and forth between me and Holden like he’s searching for similarities. There are plenty to find, though Holden gets his coloring, love of gossip, and bizarre friendliness from our mom.
“Oh, sure,” Rocky volunteers cheerfully. “You can’t throw a stone in Winsome without hitting an Axford. They run the inn, the garage, the clinic…”
Holden shrugs, not at all embarrassed. “Side effect of our family staying in one place for generations,” he says lightly. “But as I was saying, I know my brother didn’t intend to trespass, and this was all a big misunderstanding. Beckett’s very sorry for disturbing you. Right, Beckett?”
“I wasn’t the source of the disturbance here,” I hear myself say sourly. “Which means the apology needs to come from him.”
Yeah, I know I should keep my mouth shut. I’m well aware. But something about this whole interaction… okay, fucking everything about this interaction… is getting under my skin.
Predictably, both Griffin and Holden glare at me.
“What?” I demand. “We’ve been using this road for years. I didn’t do anything different than I’ve always done. Why does Jim’s death have to change things?”