Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
BECKETT
When Friday afternoon rolls around, I’m bone-tired and pissed at myself.
I spent the second half of yesterday joining my crew out in the North Lot, marking the next rotation of crop trees and checking the access road conditions before we move the loader in.
I spent yesterday evening going over the paperwork Ed had sent back and making sure all the details about delivery schedules and payment deadlines were locked down tight.
And then I spent this morning hauling chainsaw fuel and bar oil up to the Hemlock Ridge site on foot because the rain we got last night means the access trail’s still too soft for the ATV.
And all the hours in between yesterday evening and this morning? All those moments I should’ve been sleeping? I spent those tossing and turning in my bed, thinking about Griffin.
Griffin’s body under my hands when he fell off the ladder at Ada’s.
The excitement in Griffin’s face when he talks about his marketing project.
The fucking thrill of Griffin defending me to Ramona Pratt.
The sexy moan Griffin makes when he eats waffles.
Since I was hard as a rock at that point, I’d had to slide my hand into my boxers to give myself some relief and came in literally two strokes… which means I will never be able to eat those waffles again without getting a semi.
And honestly, that’s the least of my problems.
I keep telling myself to stay away from Griffin because the guy’s a short-timer in this town, and I don’t want to get attached—not to his pretty eyes, not to our ridiculous conversations, not even to his dick. But I can’t seem to make myself listen.
So with these cheery thoughts in my head, it’s no surprise that when True knocks on the open door of my office and says, “Got a second to talk?” I’m not feeling it.
The only thing that saves me from shutting him down is the fact that my middle sibling doesn’t do spontaneous talks.
Hell, True barely does necessary talks. He’s the opposite of the stereotypical middle child, in fact.
He’s always been economical with words, and since his wife left him a couple of years ago, he’s become even quieter.
He spends his days in his shop, making incredible furniture pieces, like that’s how he communicates.
“You want to talk?” I repeat. I sit back in my chair. “Okay, what’s up?”
True shrugs as he takes a seat in front of my desk. He’s wearing his usual uniform—faded jeans, a T-shirt from some band I’ve never heard of, and a Carhartt jacket that’s absorbed so many years of sawdust it always smells like pine. “Just checking in. How are you?”
“Fine,” I say warily. I do not add, aside from a small issue with waffles. “You?”
“Fine. Mom’s doing family dinner on Saturday this week. You coming?”
Whatever I’d been expecting, it wasn’t that. “Uh. I guess so, yeah.”
He nods, clearly pleased. “I wasn’t sure, what with… everything.”
I don’t know what everything he’s talking about. “Well, Brine and Dandy’s tonight and Hello, Winsome’s Sunday, so I think I can squeeze you in tomorrow without compromising my hectic Big Dill social calendar,” I joke.
“Good.” He smiles. “But I meant you and Dad.”
Oh. That everything.
I sigh and fiddle with a pencil on my desk.
“I realize I haven’t handled that well,” I finally say.
“Dad disapproves of how I’m running Axford Lumber, and that’s not gonna change.
But me distancing myself from the rest of you so that you won’t be affected…
it’s like trying to hide an elephant in plain sight. ”
I don’t know what I was thinking. That my siblings wouldn’t notice I was missing?
That my mom wouldn’t? None of them are stupid, and they don’t take things quietly.
The more surprising thing is that it’s taken them this long to get in my face about it.
But in the past couple of weeks, Holden’s brought it up, Ames lured me to family dinner, my mom reverse-psychologied me into socializing via the Big Dill thing, Eliza’s doing her best to manage my campaign, and now my silent middle sibling’s dropped by to “chat.”
They’re not subtle. But knowing they love me, even when I’m being a jackass, makes me realize how fucking lucky I am to be an Axford.
The truth is, I’ve been thinking about Griffin and his moms, and whatever secrets they were keeping that made him desperate enough to call me last Sunday rather than be alone.
I feel like it was about more than them knowing Jim built a treehouse and wrote some books…
though Griffin hasn’t shared anything else about it.
I mean, not that he would, right? We’ve hooked up, but that doesn’t mean he trusts me. It doesn’t mean we’re close.
“I’m not sure you’re right about that,” True says thoughtfully.
I blink, trying to remember what we were talking about. “You mean I should distance myself?”
“No, dumbass.” True gives me an exasperated look. “I don’t think Dad disapproves of you.”
“Oh.” I snort. “No, he definitely does. You remember how he and Mom sat me down when he was still in the hospital and said Dad was retiring as of that moment? He said he trusted me to run the company, to uphold the legacy, Mom got all teary, I felt like I was getting knighted or some shit?”
True nods. He knows this part. Everyone does. So I fill him in on the part I’ve been keeping to myself.
“Three weeks later, he’s home from the rehab place, barely able to put on his own bathrobe, but saying, ‘Beckett, let me show you the right way to categorize things in QuickBooks,’ and ‘I had a plan for x-y-z, so maybe I’ll just handle it myself,’ and ‘Put relationships first! That’s the Axford way.
’ And on and on like that.” I break off with a shake of my head.
“Not sure what you think I’m misinterpreting.
I bet as far as Dad’s concerned, I deserve that stupid ‘Axe’ nickname Derek Sullivan gave me because all I’ve done is wreck stuff lately. ”
The business. My family relationships. Every damn boundary I’ve tried to set with Griffin.
“You really are a dumbass,” True says fondly. “Now, tell me why you and Griffin were at the diner yesterday.”
Shit. How the heck does he know about that? “It was an accident. A… matchmaking accident. Ada Wickham got her claws in us.”
“And forced you to share a meal?” He whistles low. “Diabolical.”
“Shut up. It wasn’t like… whatever you’re thinking, okay?
Griffin’s a good guy. He explained the marketing presentation he’s doing for Hello, Winsome—which reminds me, I don’t have a single thing to talk about on Sunday, since Eliza says I’m not allowed to suggest widening the parking spaces on Whether Street so I can park my truck more easily.
” I wince and decide to save that problem for tomorrow. “But that’s all it was.”
True raises an eyebrow.
“I’m serious. That’s all it can be. If it wasn’t clear before yesterday, it’s crystal fucking clear to me now that Griffin does not belong in Winsome. And it’s not just about his fancy boots and fancy hair product and fancy fake-rugged outdoor wear.”
Even though I’m starting to find his city-boy outfits kind of sexy.
“Griffin’s passionate about marketing the same way I’m passionate about the forest,” I explain, since True doesn’t seem convinced.
“And he’s talented as fuck. Hell, his marketing thing nearly sold me on Winsome, and I already freaking live here.
There’s no way he’ll stick around for long, and why would he want to?
So… take that back to Mom or whoever else you’re reporting to on the Winsome gossip chain. ”
He laughs softly to himself. “Damn, you’re defensive.”
“Griffin’s my rival. My opponent for Big Dill.” I fold my arms over my chest. “The guy preventing me from accessing our land.”
“So you really like him, huh?”
I open my mouth and shut it again. “That is the exact opposite of what I—”
True grins. “Stop pretending you don’t want things just because wanting them feels risky, Beck. If you want something badly enough, you’ll figure out how to get it. Remember, ‘axes’ don’t just wreck things; they help clear away the old shit so new things can be built.”
“And now he’s a fortune cookie,” I complain to the ceiling. “Have you considered talking less, True?”
His laughter echoes out into the chilly October afternoon, and then he’s gone, leaving me with the uncomfortable feeling that the most reticent Axford just saw right through me.
By the time I lock up the office, I’ve nearly convinced myself I shouldn’t go to the Brine and Dandy tonight. After hearing about his tourism thing, it’s clear Griffin’s got Big Dill on lock, especially since I have no amazing ideas of my own.
Which is why, when I get to the end of the driveway, I hesitate.
Everything in me wants to turn right and go home.
Let Griffin have this one and spend a little time getting my head on straight, remembering why I need to avoid the guy for my own peace of mind.
But before I even have a chance to consider what I’m doing, I hang a left and head into town.
The Shed on a Friday night during the Brine is exactly what you’d expect from Winsome’s most beloved—and only—watering hole. It’s warm, it’s loud, and it’s packed to the rafters with a mix of locals and tourists who’ve all had just enough alcohol to think they’re best friends.
The place itself is a dive bar, but Vermont-style.
Weathered wood paneling covers every surface, dotted with vintage signs advertising long-gone breweries and faded photos of New England sports teams. Mismatched tables and chairs are clustered together, and string lights cast everything in a warm, golden glow that makes even Hussein’s five-o’clock shadow look romantic.
There’s a small stage area that sometimes hosts folk musicians or ’80s cover bands, but tonight, it’s been cleared for what I can only assume will be our public humiliation.