Chapter 8 #3
“Yeah, well. Him selling the land’s not exactly a secret.
Derek’s been jawing about it since the minute he bought it, claiming Axford Lumber’s blocking him from being able to pull a logging permit.
Which we’re not,” I add, before Griffin can ask.
“If I had that kind of power, I sure as fuck wouldn’t be tossing my name in the ring for Big Dill. ”
He nods.
“Anyway, I’m not calling my dad because I don’t want to hear what he’d say about how I’m handling… any of this.” I wave a hand to indicate the land, Griffin, the business… my life in general. “Okay?”
Silence follows. For a moment, we stand there listening to the wind rustling the trees, making the boughs creak.
“Huh,” Griffin says at length.
“What?”
“Nothing, nothing. Just… thinking about how different it was having two moms. We had to talk everything out to the bitter end. No secrets, no hiding your feelings. Just unconditional support and acceptance. It was sweet, but I was utterly unprepared for real life.” He offers a wry smile.
“Had to learn to be an asshole on my own later.”
I grunt in acknowledgment. Yep, that’s familiar.
Looking up, I find that the rope bridge is tied off to a red oak.
Its trunk is easily three feet in diameter, and it looks to be a hundred years old based on the furrows in its bark.
The canopy’s so thick, I can’t see through it to get an idea of how the bridge is attached, so I shift around the tree for a better angle.
“For what it’s worth,” Griffin offers, “it’s obvious you care about your business. Shit, even I can see that, and I’ve known you two minutes. And Ames looks up to you—not that he said that out loud or anything. So, whatever your dad thinks… seems like you’re doing okay.”
I frown at Griffin, surprised to find that hearing this does help, a little.
I suppose I’ve come to accept that people see me as the least-friendly Axford. Maybe I even see myself that way since I haven’t exactly made time for my siblings or friends since taking over the business.
Whereas my dad is a good man, a paragon of the community, so I need to defend myself ten times harder—even in my own mind—when I disagree with him.
Griffin’s not my friend, but he also has no reason to lie.
This easy rhythm between us keeps happening—the feeling that Griffin gets me, though he’s my polar opposite in so many ways, the feeling that we’re on the same team. It’s hard to remember that we’re not. That I’m here because I fucked up yesterday, and I want to make things right. That’s all.
“Thanks,” I say, refocusing my attention on the tree. And that’s when I spot something embedded in the oak’s trunk a few feet up.
“There we go,” I murmur. “Griffin. Look.”
He follows my gaze and sees them too—metal handholds, nailed into the back side of the massive tree like climbing spikes in a neat ascending pattern.
“Oh my god.” He laughs wonderingly. “You know, when I was a kid, I was obsessed with this book about a kid who lives in a hollowed-out tree and has all these ingenious ways of getting around the forest—”
“My Side of the Mountain?”
Griffin’s head whips toward me. “You’ve heard of it?”
“I may have forgotten to return my copy to the school library for a solid year,” I confirm. I look up at the tree and shake my head. “But Jim actually decided to live it. At the risk of sounding like you… why?”
I examine the handholds more closely. They’re galvanized steel, old but well-maintained, and it looks like they lead up to where the rope bridge must be anchored. I grab the rung closest to my head and hang off it. It’s strong, probably anchored into the heartwood.
“It’s a smart design,” I say. “Using the tree’s natural load-bearing capacity instead of fighting it.”
“You think it’ll hold our weight?”
“You wanna go up first, or should I?” I say in answer.
“Pfft. Like that’s actually a question.”
Griffin ascends first, and I follow, keeping my gaze on his ass… for safety reasons.
And yeah, okay, because it’s a truly fine ass, and it’s hard not to look at it.
It’s surprisingly easy ascending the tree to a narrow platform that’s also been firmly secured to the trunk. And that’s where we find that the rope bridge isn’t a rope bridge at all.
“Are those steel cables wrapped in rope? And… treated wood planks?” Griffin laughs out loud. “Oh my god, this is epic.”
It is. It’s an engineering marvel, honestly, and it’s at least as impressive as the treehouse itself. The bridge barely sways under our weight when we cautiously step onto it.
After the epic adventure of figuring out how to get up here and journeying across the bridge over the treetops, it almost feels anticlimactic when Griffin slides open the large, unlocked window and we step into…
“An empty room?” His voice, heavy with disappointment, echoes off the rounded walls.
It’s not entirely empty. There’s a simple wooden desk sitting beneath a stained glass skylight that throws colored patterns across the floor.
A couple of boxes are stacked on a rickety folding chair in the corner.
And the trapdoor we’d been trying to access from below is actually a folding staircase that’s been bolted shut from this side, like Jim last left via the rope bridge.
“I don’t understand,” Griffin whispers, which is the same thought I’m having.
I unlock the trapdoor, and the stairs slide down easily, right beside the pile of tools in Griffin’s bedroom.
“Yay. More books to donate,” he says, kicking a box with the toe of his boot. “Not exactly the treasure I was hoping for.”
“Hey, hey! Be gentle with those. They could be—” I crouch beside the box and open the top flap. “Yeah, they are! First editions of The Whispers. Not One-Eyed Willie’s hidden pirate ship, I grant you. But I bet they’re worth a fuck of a lot to someone.”
Griffin looks at me blankly. “Sorry. First editions of the what?”
“The Secrets of the Whispering Woods by JG Flummery? Aka The Whispers? Aka Jim’s silly mushroom books?”
He continues to stare at me, eyes widening.
I take a breath. “Okay, let’s start over. You do know Jim wrote children’s books, yes?”
Griffin shakes his head. “H-how would I know that? I keep telling you, I haven’t seen the guy since I was eight. Twenty-two years, man.”
“Right.” I scratch my beard. “Okay. Wow. It’s just…
The Whispers have been a really big thing in this part of the world for years.
Lots of folks think they’re set in the Winsome woods, so tourists come to hike and have the full Sprout experience.
Sprout’s the main character,” I explain when Griffin’s hazel eyes go big as saucers.
“He gets lost in the woods and learns to talk to mushrooms, and they teach him about friendship and courage.” I shrug.
“Ames read them. He could probably tell you.”
Griffin sinks into the folding chair, stunned. “Uncle Jim used to call me Sprout.”
I frown. “So… he named the character after you?”
“Or nicknamed me after the character? When I was little, Jim used to sit with me in the park and tell me what the clouds were whispering. And sometimes he’d point at mushrooms in the grass and say they were gossiping about rabbits or complaining about the weather. I’d laugh every time.”
I crouch down beside him. “So he was testing out story ideas on you? That’s cool, right?”
“I just… I don’t know how this is the first I’m hearing about it. I feel like my moms must’ve known.”
I stand and watch over his shoulder as he types out a text.
Griffin
Hey, guys. Did you know Jim wrote books about talking mushrooms, like the stories he used to tell me as a kid?! And if so, why didn’t you tell me?!
“Still with the whys about Jim, huh?” I tease.
He laughs a little. “I guess so.”
A pine needle clings to his hair, and I brush it aside. Griffin looks up at me, and suddenly, I want very badly to kiss him again.
Too easy, my brain whispers. This—sunlight dappling his face, stained glass on the floor, my fingers in his hair—this is how it happens.
Not just a kiss or even another shared orgasm, but the slide. Me losing track of who I am and what I need to do. What my priorities are.
I haven’t thought about Axford Lumber once this afternoon, and I have a million things I should be doing. The cables on the log loader are starting to fray, and I promised Hussein I’d check over the equipment maintenance logs. I have bid calculations to do for a job near Lebanon.
Worse, I barely know Griffin. And what I do know is that he’s standing in the way of me protecting everything I hold dear.
I can’t afford to forget that.
“Well.” I clear my throat. “This was one hell of an adventure, Mercer, but if we’re out of secret rooms for now, I should probably—”
Griffin’s phone buzzes again. He glances at the screen and makes a face before tilting it toward me.
MamaTish
We need to talk. Call us when you can.
MamaLaine
We’re both home. No rush but… soonish, okay?
“I was half expecting them to say they didn’t know what I was talking about,” he says lightly. “Guess I was wrong about the whole lesbian moms keep no secrets thing, huh?” He makes a dismissive noise and pockets the phone like it’s no big deal.
I can see the confusion on his face, though. He’s thrown by this revelation, and every stubborn inch of him seems braced, which is reasonable, given those texts he just got.
Once again, I think, Fuck. I know that look. I’ve worn that look. I know what it’s like to be absolutely stunned that a person—well, people, in his case—you trusted and thought you understood has done something totally out of character.
“Anyway.” Griffin shuts the window leading to the rope bridge, dusts his hands, picks up the first volume of the Whispers books, and heads for the stairs without looking at me. “Thanks. For coming today. But I should probably call them back.”
He doesn’t ask me to stay. Doesn’t even glance my way. But I get that too. His head is full of questions that I definitely don’t have the answers to.
“Yeah.” I hesitate at the front door and for some reason I feel compelled to add, “But there’s a magnet on Jim’s fridge with my number on it if you need… fuck, I don’t know. Anything.”
Wary hazel eyes meet mine. “I won’t.” It’s half warning, half apology.
I shrug. “You say that now, but if Vermont’s really trying to kill you, you might need backup at some point. A guy with insider information, maybe. A bodyguard, let’s say.”
He huffs, but I can see he’s hiding a smile.
And fuck if that doesn’t make my heart beat faster, like it’s the wildest, most dangerous thing I’ve seen in a day full of adventure.
Because I’m starting to realize I really fucking like seeing Griffin smile.
Enough that I want to make him smile again. Or maybe even all the time.
And that’s not good at all.
“Don’t touch the circular saw,” I can’t help but call out over my shoulder.
As I force myself to walk away from him.