Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
GRIFFIN
Sleepless nights provide many hours to concoct elaborate revenge schemes. They also leave you feeling ornery and strangely horny.
So after two of the longest, horniest nights of broken sleep in recorded history, I decided I needed to stop daydreaming about sexy glitter bombs and do something real. Something effective. Something reasonable.
I should have known that reasonable wouldn’t work in Winsome.
“Well, that was a waste,” I mutter as Milo and I settle in the window booth of Watchfire, the restaurant across the road from Winsome’s one and only attorney’s office.
“Not entirely,” Milo argues, sliding back his sunglasses. “The lawyer gave us a lunch rec, right? Think the butternut soup’s as life-changing as he claimed?”
I grunt.
The inside of Watchfire is all warm amber light, exposed beams, and wood floors.
It smells of bacon, butter, and maple syrup—some of my favorite things.
And the double-sided fireplace in the center of the space has an actual, honest-to-god wood fire burning in it, which I appreciate from a marketing standpoint since it really sells the theme.
But though this place practically requires you to relax and enjoy yourself when you step inside, I stubbornly refuse to get on board.
A lunch rec was about all we got from meeting with David Halloran.
He’d been kind, but he’d confirmed what Derek Sullivan told me.
Before pursuing a legal route to protect my land, I’d have to put my case before the Winsome town council, and at least four of the eight members were likely to favor Beckett, no matter how strong my case was.
“Winsomefolk are loyal, and after generations of goodwill and community service… well, the Axfords are beloved. Kind of like local royalty. You understand, right?”
Oh, I understand. Another nepo baby’s going to take something that’s mine, simply because his family has power and I don’t. My three-month fresh start is looking pretty damn similar to the bullshit I escaped in Manhattan.
Things in Jim’s treehouse aren’t going much better.
Jim cleaned out everything but a couple of boxes of books labeled Donate? and several rolls of antacids.
Jim’s attorney’s office hasn’t returned my calls about Jim’s death or about the easement situation.
I still can’t figure out how to open the trapdoor to the barrel room, and after my tree-climbing debacle the other night, every time I consider climbing up the side and smashing a window, I hear a voice in my head say, “Local idiot dies by…”
I swear I can hear Jim’s lucky racket clacking against the tree when the world goes quiet every night, and it taunts me.
And although Milo assures me the Rise billboard’s no longer trending on TikTok—I’ve been replaced by a clip of a gopher with a leaf blower, which I’m honestly not sure how to feel about—I still haven’t gotten a response to any of the resumes I’ve sent out or any calls from the former colleagues and business school classmates I’ve reached out to.
I’m feeling powerless as fuck, and I hate it.
Milo makes a triumphant noise and jabs a finger at his menu. “There it is. Butternut Soup. Now, how big do we think the bowl is, and, scale of 1-10, how weird would it be to ask for a tureen?”
I ignore him and keep my gaze on the menu, but I’m not really reading it. My brain keeps recycling David’s words.
Beloved. Generations of goodwill. Local royalty.
Fuck.
“Hey.” Milo kicks me lightly under the table, and I startle. “Stop it.”
I startle. “Stop what?”
“Making that weird whistling noise. You’ve been making it off and on since you went out to get Jim’s tennis racket the other night and came back looking like you’d been mauled by a pine tree.”
He tilts his head in silent question, and I consider how to answer.
That’s because I was mauled, Milo.
By the world’s most infuriating asshole lumberjack.
Who kissed me like he’d die if he didn’t.
And even two days later, my lips feel low-key bruised, and I hate how much I like it, m’kay?
“Mauled? Pfft.” I wave his words away, knowing I’m blushing and unable to stop it. “I tried to retrieve the racket, the tree fought back, the end.”
Look, I don’t lie often, especially to my best friend, but some things defy explanation and don’t merit discussion. What happens in the Winsome woods stays in the Winsome woods… and, yes, possibly in my shower fantasies.
I’m not proud of it.
Fortunately for me, a server with a honey-blonde bob, a floral apron, and a name tag that says Vivian hustles over before Milo can question me further.
“So sorry for the delay, guys.” She sets two glasses of ice water on the table. “The Brine Planning Committee’s having their final meeting before things kick off this weekend. They’ve been at it for hours, and they’ve kept us hopping.”
She nods her head toward the far side of the restaurant, where several tables have been pushed together to form one mega-table, and all twenty seats around it are filled by people who look like they stepped out of a decades-old L.L.Bean catalog.
It’s a sign of just how adaptable humanity can be that when a woman wearing big glasses and a T-shirt that says You could Lose Some, but Why Not Winsome? glances back at me and waves, I lift my hand in greeting too… though I cannot imagine why anyone would wave at a perfect stranger.
“Doesn’t seem to matter how much we plan for the Brine in advance, every year, there’s always a scurry at the last minute,” Vivian goes on with a sigh. “Too many people in charge, you know? But Ames called in the family as reinforcements, so we’ll have your lunch out in a jiffy.”
“It’s no problem,” I assure her, both because it’s true and because I want her to stand right there and distract Milo from his interrogation as long as possible. “I’m still looking. So many great options.”
I gesture down at the printed sheet, and now that I’m actually looking, I see things like “Relish the Brine Grilled Cheese” and “The Big Dill Pickle Burger.” I shudder a little, realizing I genuinely might need help finding something that won’t make me vomit.
I mentally shake my fist at the sky and think, Fucking Vermont.
“Do you serve anything that’s not so…” I clear my throat. “Pickle-forward?”
Vivian laughs and leans in like she’s conveying a secret. “We don’t usually lean into the pickles. This menu’s special, for the Brine. Some folks love it, but feel free to ask for substitutions.”
“Really? So I could get the, ah, Relish the Brine Grilled Cheese without any relish whatsoever?”
“Absolutely.” She pulls an order pad from her apron pocket and shoots me a wink. “We’re very pickle-flexible in Winsome.”
Despite my mood, I can’t help smiling back.
“I’d like a vat of butternut soup,” Milo says. “And the maple cornbread. And the Dill-icious Lemonade. Seems hydrating.”
I bite my tongue.
Vivian nods her approval. “It is. Ames grows the dill himself. Drink for you, sweetie?” she asks me.
“Just a Diet Coke.” But because you never know in this town, I add, “Also with no pickles.”
She laughs again and pats my shoulder maternally. “You poor thing. I take it you’re not here for the Brine, then?”
“The pickle festival? Afraid not,” I say, prepared to leave it at that.
But Milo seems to have caught whatever illness makes people in small towns overshare, because he immediately volunteers, “I’m only here for one more day, but Griffin’s going to be living here temporarily.”
I scowl at him, but Vivian gasps delightedly. “Oh, you’re Griffin! So you must be Milo!” she says, like we’re a well-known duo.
I paste on a polite smile. I can only imagine what she’s heard about us and who she’s heard it from. For the second time in just a few months, it feels like someone else is in control of my reputation, and I fucking hate it.
Milo, on the other hand, preens. “That’s us.”
“I’ve been meaning to come over with some of my apple cake and see how you’re settling in,” Vivian says. “Just remember, boys, if you need anything, you only have to speak up. You’re part of our community now, and the best part of living in Winsome is that you never have to go it alone.”
I feel my smile grow strained. I want to say, Am I really part of the community, Vivian? and Is it really so different in Winsome? Because it sure seems like the powerful people run shit here just like they do everywhere else.
But of course, I keep my mouth shut. Vivian doesn’t deserve my foul mood.
“That’s very kind, but—” I begin.
“Actually,” Milo cuts in. “Would you happen to know anyone who’s handy with carpentry things? Because there’s this trapdoor in the ceiling that leads to the barrel turret room thingy, and Griff and I have been trying for days, but we can’t—ow! Griffin!”
“Ooops. I’m so clumsy,” I say innocently, tucking my boots back under my own chair. To Vivian, I add, “We’re all set. I’ve got everything under control.”
Vivian’s lips twitch in a smile, and she murmurs something that sounds like, “That sounds familiar.”
I frown, but before I can ask her to explain, the front door to the restaurant opens with a jangle of bells.
I can’t actually see the door since Vivian’s in my way, but somehow, I swear, I immediately know who’s walked in. Maybe I’m becoming clairvoyant now that I’m thirty. Or maybe it’s just that the barometric pressure drops when the giant storm cloud that is Beckett Axford gets near.
Either way, it’s no surprise whatsoever when Beckett steps into view, just as shoulder-y, scowl-y, and beard-y as I remember, his dark hair gilded copper and honey by the overhead lights. He’s beautiful enough to make me forget what I was saying mid-conversation, which is simply un-fucking-fair.