Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
BECKETT
I wake up Sunday morning feeling like I’ve been hit by a logging truck, and it takes me a full ten seconds to remember why.
Griffin Mercer, smiling in the sunshine as we raced around Winsome.
Griffin’s lips. His eyes. His hands. His cock.
His face when I took off.
Sitting up, I drag both hands down my face. My stomach twists in a way that has nothing to do with the tumblers of whiskey I knocked back last night.
I heave myself out of bed, turn on my phone, and immediately regret it when I find three texts from my family, each one a special kind of torture.
Mom
How did the scavenger hunt go, sweetie? Did you and Interesting Griffin have fun?
Wilder
[Image attached] Look what you missed, cuz. These college boys are loving their golden gherkin trophy. Maybe next year you’ll actually FINISH the hunt instead of disappearing
Ames
Thanks for bringing Griffin by yesterday! Really enjoyed getting to know him. He’s great.
The last one stops me cold, and guilt pits my stomach.
Getting to know him? I’d assumed Griffin had cut out when I did. Did Ames interrogate Griffin after I left?
What am I talking about? Ames is Vivian Axford’s son. Of course he did. While I ran off to nurse my wounded pride and pretend I hadn’t had the best orgasm of my life with a man who’s got my company by the balls.
Christ. Dick move, Axford. Even for you.
I just keep fucking up where Griffin is concerned. From literally the first minute I met him, I’ve been thinking with the wrong head. Feeling back-footed time after time. Reacting in the worst way possible.
I keep saying I’m going to do better, but then I get within five feet of the man, start feeling things, and my good intentions go poof.
After yesterday, I don’t even have the excuse that I don’t like the guy anymore. Those rare flashes of vulnerability Griffin showed were like a backlight, and suddenly, the shape of everything he was hiding came into focus. The fear and loneliness. The mask of haughty anger.
I feel a strange kind of kinship with the guy. I know a lot about prickly shells.
I get coffee brewing and drag myself to the shower, thinking about how I could repay this debt I feel for leaving him to face Ames’s interrogation alone.
If I were Ames or my mom, I’d bring Griffin some food, but me poisoning him wouldn’t help anything.
If I were Holden, I’d do something cringey sweet like bring flowers and apologize, but I was tragically born without the ability to charm.
Then it hits me.
I pull on yesterday’s jeans and a clean henley, and before I can talk myself out of it, I grab my toolbox from my truck and march across the road to Jim’s—Griffin’s—treehouse.
The morning air is crisp and clean, carrying the scent of woodsmoke and dying leaves. Autumn’s settling over Winsome like a comfortable blanket, painting the trees gold and crimson.
Normally, I’d stop. Breathe it all in. But today, all I see is Jim’s house… and how Griffin must see it.
The house has been here since I was a teenager and I’ve been here plenty of times over the years, usually to collect Jim’s mail or check up on him after one of his longer “herbal adventures.” I’d knock on the door, Jim would answer, we’d chat for a minute on the porch or just inside his living room, and that was it.
Jim liked his privacy. I respected that.
But now, as I peer up at the house, I remember Griffin asking why… and I’m asking the same question.
Dad helped Jim design and build this place when he first came to Winsome. Studying it now, I can see Dad’s influence in the solid bones of the structure—the way the foundation hugs the natural slope of the land, how the support beams are positioned for maximum stability.
But everything else? The stained glass windows, the rounded doors, the pickle-barrel turret, the rope bridge extending from the barrel like something out of a kids’ adventure movie? Pure Jim Grange chaos. A child’s fantasy come to life.
When Dad’s brother gambled away part of our land that had been his inheritance from my grandparents, my father was pissed. I remember my parents having heated conversations behind closed doors. I remember my dad looking nearly as sad as when Grandpa Tom died.
So why did Dad then help the guy who’d won the land build this weird house? How much had it cost him, emotionally, to do that? I hate that the distance between us means I can’t just call him up and ask.
I’m climbing the steps to the front door when the whine of a saw splits the air. It cuts off abruptly, followed by Griffin screaming, “Fuuuuuuckkkk!”
For the second time, hearing Griffin yell turns my blood to ice. I drop my toolbox. Storm inside. Follow the sound to the back of the house.
“Griffin?” I bellow.
What I find isn’t bloody carnage, but it does make my chest tight.
A simple, wood-framed bed is covered with an old, paint-splattered drop cloth, and there’s a ladder set up beneath a massive wooden trapdoor in the ceiling.
A circular saw sits abandoned on the floor, along with a lineup of tools—a rusty crowbar, a drill, a whole collection of screwdrivers and hammers.
And in the middle of it all sits Griffin, leaning against the footboard of the bed with his knees drawn up to his chest. He’s wearing his city boots, work gloves, and big safety goggles… and he looks like he’s about to cry.
“What the fuck?” I demand, falling to my knees beside him and gripping his chin firmly. My heart’s still jackhammering wildly. “Are you hurt? Are you—”
“Of course you’re here at this exact moment,” Griffin groans. He jerks away from my touch, then scrubs both hands over his face, knocking the glasses to the floor. “Of course you are.”
The relief that floods through me when I realize he’s not hurt is so intense, it makes me lightheaded. But protective anger follows close behind, surprising the hell out of me.
“What the fuck were you thinking?” I yell.
“I was thinking I was going to take care of a problem like a fucking adult.” He thrusts a hand at the ladder and the tools.
“But apparently, I can’t fix anything these days.
Not with you. Not with my inheritance. Not with the Big Dill.
Sure as hell not with my career since I’m fucking unemployable.
” His breath catches. “Not even with a goddamn trapdoor. I really think Milo had it right. Vermont is trying to kill me.”
Every instinct screams to pull him against me, but I hold myself back. He wouldn’t want that, and let’s be honest, I’d probably suck at it anyway. I’m not the guy anyone turns to for comfort.
I stick my hands in my pockets. “Vermont, as in the entire state?” I whistle low. “We’re a pretty peace-loving place. You must’ve worked hard if you made all of Vermont pissed off.”
“Go ahead and make fun of me,” he continues, lifting his chin stubbornly. “But I cannot use that saw. I tried! The second I turned it on, it freaked me out, so I shut it off.”
“Good,” I say firmly.
“No, it isn’t,” he shoots back. “Because I—”
“Don’t know what you’re doing and could have cut your fucking head off?” A shudder runs through me, imagining it. Before he can work up an angry retort, I continue. “You did the right thing.”
The fight goes out of him for a second.
But he recovers quickly and scrambles to his feet, not quite meeting my eyes.
“Glad I have your approval.” He strips off his gloves and wipes his palms on his jeans before looking down at where I’m still squatting on the floor. “What are you doing here, Beckett?”
Right. That.
“I, ah…” I push to my feet and run my fingers through my hair nervously. “I came to apologize. For yesterday.”
“Yeah?” Hands on his hips, he eyes me up and down. “Which part of yesterday? And is yelling some kind of Vermont-style apology, or was that special for me?”
“Neither.” I shoot him a rueful look. “You’re not the only one who can’t seem to get things right recently.”
Griffin makes a dismissive sound.
“I meant for yesterday when we…”
“Frotted against a fence and came our brains out?” he suggests.
His voice drops, goes sultry and teasing, and I have to squeeze my eyes shut and will myself not to react.
“Yeah,” I breathe. My eyes pop open. “I mean, no. Unless you want me to apologize for that part too?”
I honestly can’t remember how things started yesterday, just that we were suddenly in it, and I’d never wanted anything so badly.
“I was apologizing for leaving you to deal with Ames,” I explain. “I suck at making shit up, if you couldn’t tell, and I knew he’d see right through anything I said. But I shouldn’t have left a man behind.” I meet his eyes head-on. “I’m sorry about that. It won’t happen again.”
Griffin’s lips pull up on one side, and I replay my own words.
“I mean, not that I think we’ll be in that situation… or any situation… hell.” I rub at the back of my neck.
He lets out a quiet laugh. “I accept your apology, Beckett. Ames is cool. I, ah, stayed and helped him with dinner prep.” He takes a deep breath. “And you don’t owe me an apology for anything else. What happened was… insanity. Obviously. But it was mutual insanity.”
I nod once.
“If you’re in an apologetic mood, though, you could say you’re sorry for losing us the scavenger hunt.
How about something like, ‘Griffin, I apologize profusely for my failure to listen to your brilliant suggestion of going to the community center.’” He flutters his long eyelashes and it makes my stomach clench.
“Mmm…” I scratch my cheek, pretend to think about it, and purse my lips. “Nah.”
His smile makes the stomach-clenching thing worse. “I figured. Come on.”
Frowning, I follow him back to the living room.
He takes in the front door, still hanging open, and my tool bag unceremoniously dumped on the floor, but doesn’t say anything.
He leads me to a tiny pink kitchen just big enough for the two of us to stand in and gestures me to a white stool that’s sturdier than it looks.