Chapter 5 #2
I swallow, and in my mind, I’m back in the shadowed woods.
The air’s sharp with pine and the hum of night insects.
Beckett’s hands slam against the tree on either side of my head, caging me in.
His mouth claims mine in a way that leaves no room to breathe.
The hard heat of him is pressed against me like he’s daring me to shove him away.
And he’s growling in the back of his throat while his hands clutch me possessively, and he’s saying—
“Griffin?” Vivian asks in concern. “Honey, are you alright? You’re making a kind of whistling noise—”
“He does that,” Milo says with a smirk. “I’m concerned he might be allergic to pine trees.”
I briefly debate kicking my beloved best friend again, harder this time.
But Beckett’s scanning the room like he’s looking for someone, so without even thinking about it, I sink down in the booth until Vivian’s blocking my view once again. Because if I can’t see him, he can’t see me, right?
To be clear, I’m not playing ostrich because I don’t want to go toe to toe with Beckett. Fuck, no. In my current mood, I’d like nothing more.
But I know if I see Beckett again, I will turn the color of a ripe cranberry—my pale skin hides nothing—and Milo will misinterpret it to mean that I’m actually interested in Beckett and give me another round of shit for it.
“Pine trees,” Vivian repeats, staring at me. “Interesting! You know—”
“Hey, Mom,” Beckett calls. His head appears over Vivian’s shoulder as he gets closer, and I sink further into the seat. “Ames said he needed volunteers to work—”
I know when he sees me because both of us freeze, like an oversized lion in work boots encountering a pomaded, urbane gazelle.
“Beckett!” Vivian says cheerfully. “Hi, sweetheart. Look who’s here.”
Belatedly, I process that Beckett is calling Vivian mom.
That she’s calling him sweetheart.
That she produced this giant, cranky human.
That she, herself, is an Axford.
I suck in a breath and sit up sharply, and the minute I do, Beckett’s blue eyes lock on mine. Heat rushes through me as I remember the press of that body against mine. My hand unconsciously moves to my lips before I catch myself and drop it to the table.
My whole face suffuses with heat.
The kiss didn’t happen. We agreed it didn’t happen.
“Milo.” He nods. “Mercer,” he says in a growl that sends a shiver down my back.
“Hey,” Milo says with a little wave.
I nod regally. “Axford.”
“Interesting,” Vivian says again, and I’m pretty sure this time she’s not talking about my supposed pine allergy.
Beckett’s cheeks redden. “It’s not. At all. I came by because Ames texted the family chain that he needed help.” He shoots me a glare. “And since my crew can’t start clearing brush in the Far Tract this week, I have time.”
I’m about to fire back something unwise when Vivian interrupts.
“Oh, how perfect! Griffin and Milo were just telling me they need someone to help them open a trapdoor in Jim’s treehouse. I was going to suggest True or Ames, but if you’re free—”
Beckett’s eyes widen in panic, and I nearly snort-laugh.
Until Milo, the traitor, says, “Oh, yes! Griffin would really appreciate it.”
My eyes widen too, thinking of having Beckett in my space. Especially since Milo has to leave tomorrow for a big-deal wellness retreat in Arizona.
“Nope. Not necessary! I’ve got it all under control,” I say quickly. I can feel my pulse in my cheeks now, and I’m guessing I’ve passed cranberry and turned some shade of ultra-red that the human eye cannot fully process.
“Hmm. Well, if you’re sure, honey.” Vivian shrugs. “Probably just as well since the Brine starts this weekend. Remember what we were talking about at dinner the other night, Beck?”
“Uh. No?” He swallows, and his face goes nearly as red as mine, like he does remember. “Anyway. Better go see what Ames needs.” He strides away without another word.
Vivian watches him go with a fond smile. “Poor Beckett. He’s probably the least social of my boys—”
“You don’t say,” I mutter.
“—but he’s such a lovely man. Big-hearted. Responsible. And he’s been working night and day, running the family lumber business since his father had a heart attack and retired last year.”
For a second—less than a second, a millisecond, really—I feel bad for the guy because that can’t have been easy.
Then Vivian lowers her voice and goes on, “Now, I absolutely hate spreading gossip…”
“Oh, same,” Milo breathes, leaning toward her.
“…but I heard the other night that several people in town are thinking of voting for a certain Axford to be crowned Big Dill at the Brine.” She bites her lip excitedly.
“Really,” I say with polite disinterest. “That’s… some sort of homecoming king, but with pickles? How perfect.”
I mean this sincerely. I cannot think of a more appropriate fate for a man who could out-salt and out-vinegar a vat of brine than for Beckett to be crowned Winsome’s Pickle Prince.
Vivian lets out an inelegant snort, which I have to admit is really charming.
“I suppose it is, sort of. It’s mostly a ceremonial thing—turning on the tree lights at WinterFest and things like that—but the Big Dill also advocates for important issues that can improve the town.
Fresh ideas, you know? Like, last year, Aubrey Sprague gave a speech about pollinator gardens that got us all talking, and a whole bunch of us started one this summer as a result. ”
It’s hard not to roll my eyes. I can’t imagine Beckett would find much to improve as Big Dill since the Axfords already seem to run Winsome. Unless, of course, it’s to give the town a Griffin-ectomy.
“Oh, and the Big Dill gets to cast the tiebreaking vote if the town council’s ever deadlocked on an issue.” Vivian gives an exaggerated shrug like she can’t imagine how that would be important.
I pause with my water glass halfway to my mouth, sure I’ve heard wrong.
Did she just say a tiebreaker vote on the council? It’s like a religious awakening, how suddenly the clouds in my mind part.
“And, ah, Beckett’s campaigning for this thing, you say?” I set my glass down with a click.
“Oh, not campaigning, per se.” Vivian shakes her head. “There isn’t an official ballot for Big Dill. Not like when we elect the town councilors. It’s all write-in votes, you see. But we get an idea of who’d like to serve by seeing who takes part in the Brine events. And through gossip, of course.”
“Of course,” I echo.
“Well,” she says with a satisfied grin. “I’ll just go put that order in for you boys.” She shoots Milo a friendly wink.
“Griffin,” Milo warns the second Vivian walks away. “Don’t even think about it.”
“He’s running for this thing, Milo,” I whisper hotly. “This has been his plan all along.”
“You don’t know that! Vivian specifically said—”
“I heard what she said.” I wave a hand. “But you saw how he was! All… Mercer,” I say in an impression of Beckett’s deep, growly voice. I scoff. “Like… who does that?”
“Greet someone by name?” Milo shakes his head. “You’re right. That bastard.”
“He’s smug and broad and… and… smug!”
“Boo, he really wasn’t—”
“All because the whole time, he knew he had this thing in the bag! He knew he couldn’t beat me fair and square on the merits of his case, so he’d win by scoring the tie vote! And now there’s only one way to stop him.” I jab a finger into the scarred wooden tabletop. “I need to win Big Dill.”
“How did I know you’d say that?” Milo closes his eyes and huffs. “Griffin, have you considered upping your green tea intake? There’s research that L-theanine can boost your calming neurotransmitters, and let’s be honest, you need some calming—”
Milo keeps talking, but I’ve stopped listening. I’m already making lists in my mind, planning out what I’ll need to do.
I know how to run a campaign. I know how to sell a vision, build a narrative, connect with an audience. I’ve done it for corporate clients for literally a decade. Why not for myself? Why not for Winsome?
“You know, I could actually do some good for this town,” I interrupt.
Milo stares at me. “What?”
“No, seriously. Like… like… like creating a tourism marketing plan,” I say triumphantly.
When Milo’s other eyebrow climbs to join the first, I dig deeper, selling him on my vision.
“We know they already get tourists here, but that’s for this pickle-fest thing.
I bet there’s still a huge untapped market out there, the rest of the year.
What if an outsider—” I tap my chest. “—gave them ideas about things that might draw more tourists? Like… I don’t know…
Better roads with no potholes? Adding some signage so people know where the fuck they’re going?
Adding some cell towers so people can call when they accidentally almost hit a moose or get sideswiped by a fucking truck? ”
Milo nods slowly. “Go on.”
“Then, once the infrastructure’s in place, the rest is pretty straightforward. You said yourself the town’s quaint. And fuck knows it’s quirky. And inclusive too. I don’t know if you clocked it, but there’s a rainbow flag outside the bar down the street.”
He shakes his head sadly. “It’s like you don’t even know me. It was the first thing I noticed.”
“So the real question is who wouldn’t want to come here?
We get some influencers to talk about the health benefits of the local pickles—” I lift a hand to Milo, who tips his head.
“We make a list of the places around town with beautiful views, or quirky history, or whatever. I can go to the library and research—”
“Okay, hold up.” He puts out a hand. “That’s great and all. Seriously. But babe… you don’t live here.”
I frown, considering. “You think there’s a length of residency requirement? Like I haven’t lived here long enough?”
Milo stares at me like I’ve grown three heads. “No, dumbass. I think you’re leaving in three months. That’s what you said, Griff.”