Chapter 5
GRIFF
The parking lot at Pine Hollow's bus station looks like a goddamn alpha convention, and I'm the idiot who started it.
My truck sits in the first spot, Xavier's pristine BMW gleams two spaces over, and Logan's fire department-issued SUV takes up the handicapped spot because apparently emergency vehicles don't follow normal parking rules.
Each of us clutches a bouquet like we're competing in some twisted flower-giving contest nobody signed up for.
Mine are sunflowers, bright and cheerful and completely wrong for December, but the florist assured me they'd make a statement.
Xavier's got white roses, naturally, because the man wouldn't buy impulsive flowers if his life depended on it.
He's wearing his glasses instead of his usual contacts, probably trying to score points by looking educated and sexy.
Logan's holding what looks like wildflowers mixed with something that might be weeds, which is either thoughtful or lazy depending on your perspective.
We look like three divorced dads at a custody hearing.
"This is ridiculous," Logan mutters, stomping between his SUV and the station entrance. His smoky cedar scent is sharp with irritation. "We agreed Xavier would pick her up."
"I offered," Xavier corrects, stepping closer to the building's entrance and adjusting his glasses with his free hand. "We didn't agree the rest of you wouldn't show up anyway."
I lean against my truck bed and grin at both of them. "What can I say? I like to hedge my bets."
"This isn't betting," Logan snaps, stomping his boots against the pavement. "This is a clusterfuck waiting to happen."
"Language," Xavier says automatically, which makes Logan's scent spike with leather and rain, his version of barely contained violence.
"We're grown men, Doc." Logan gestures with his wildflower bouquet, nearly smacking Xavier in the face. "I'll use whatever fucking language I want."
"In front of Savannah?" Xavier steps back, clutching his white roses protectively.
"Savannah's heard worse. She lived through dating all three of us," I point out, pushing off from my truck as the bus rumbles into the station.
"We should have discussed this," Xavier says, his mint scent carrying notes of professional disappointment.
"We did," I point out. "You volunteered. We said okay. End of discussion."
"Then why are you here?" Xavier snaps.
"Because I changed my mind."
"And me?" Logan asks.
"Because you're a control freak who can't let anyone else handle anything without supervision."
Logan's storm-gray eyes narrow. "Says the man who can't remember to put his dishes in the dishwasher."
"Hey, I put them in the sink. That's progress."
"The sink isn't the dishwasher, Griffin," Xavier says, and that's another thing that really pisses me off.
Why my parents named me Griffin is beyond my comprehension, but Xavier is the only one that calls me that.
It annoys the fuck out of me. The amount of times I have to tell him to call me Griff and he still insists on Griffin.
"It's sink-adjacent. Close enough. AND stop calling me Griffin!”
Xavier steps between us before Logan can respond. "Perhaps we should focus on why we're all here instead of our household duties.”
"We're here because none of us trust the others to handle this properly," I say.
"Handle what properly? It's a ten-minute drive,” Xavier says.
"It's Savannah," Logan says quietly, and the name settles between us like a weight none of us want to carry.
Savannah with her brown eyes that shifted from green to gold depending on her mood. Savannah who tried to love us by improving us and left when we proved we didn't want to be improved.
My sandalwood scent carries notes of sawdust and something I don't want to examine too closely. Anticipation, maybe. Or dread. Hard to tell the difference when it comes to her.
"The bus is supposed to arrive at 3:47," Xavier mutters, flicking a glance at his watch like it’s already disappointing him. "It's currently 3:43."
"Cutting it close," I observe.
"I was here first," Logan points out.
"Actually, I was here first," Xavier corrects. "You arrived approximately three minutes after me."
"And I was here before both of you," I add, which is a complete lie.
Logan snorts. "You pulled in as I was getting out of my car."
Other people wait for the bus too. An elderly woman clutching a cardboard sign reading "WELCOME HOME JANET," a young man bouncing on his heels with nervous energy, a mother with two small children who keep asking when Daddy's bus will arrive.
Normal people with normal reunions that don't require multiple vehicles and competitive flower arrangements.
"What if she doesn't want to see us?" Xavier asks suddenly, his mint and cologne scent carrying an undercurrent of anxiety.
"She agreed to let you pick her up," I point out.
"Before she knew all three of us would be here," Logan says, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Maybe she'll appreciate the gesture," I suggest, trying to inject optimism into my voice. "You told her that we live together. This is what packs do."
"Or maybe she'll think we're stalking her," Xavier replies, his medical training making him consider every possible negative outcome.
Logan lets out a dark chuckle. "We are stalking her."
"It's thoughtful," I protest.
"Flowers are thoughtful when you're dating someone. We're not dating her," Logan points out with brutal honesty.
"We're not not dating her," I counter.
Xavier winces. "That's not how grammar works."
"Grammar is overrated," I shrug, earning disapproving looks from both my packmates.
"Says the man who dropped out of college after the first month," Xavier grumbles.
"I didn't drop out. I chose a more practical education path," I defend, my sandalwood scent sharpening with irritation.
"You got kicked out for poor attendance," Logan adds helpfully.
Before I can formulate a comeback, Xavier's phone rings. Sharp and professional in the afternoon air. He glances at the screen and his entire posture changes, shoulders straightening into his emergency mode stance.
"I have to take this." He answers with his clinical voice. "Dr. Blackwell.”
I can't hear the other side of the conversation, but Xavier's scent shifts from mint and cologne to something sharper, more focused. Medical emergency. The kind that requires immediate attention and no room for personal complications.
"How many casualties?" Xavier asks, already walking toward his BMW. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes."
He hangs up and turns back to us, his expression apologetic but determined. "Multi-car accident on Highway 6. They need all available medical personnel."
"Go," Logan says immediately, his protective instincts kicking in. "We've got this."
"Are you sure? I can call someone else to cover..."
"Doc, go save lives. We'll handle one omega."
Xavier nods and climbs into his BMW, white roses forgotten on the hood of his car. The engine purrs to life, and he's gone, leaving Logan and me to handle Savannah pickup duty.
"Two alphas, one omega," Logan mutters. "This should be interesting."
"It'll be fine. How hard can it be?"
Logan's radio crackles to life before I can say anything else. Emergency dispatch, the kind of urgent tone that means someone's house is on fire or someone is having the worst day of their life and needs a firefighter to make it better.
"Engine 12, respond to structure fire on Elm Street. Multiple units requested."
Logan's storm-gray eyes focus on something beyond the bus station, beyond flowers and romantic complications and whatever awkwardness is about to unfold.
"I have to go," he says, already moving toward his SUV with the fluid efficiency that makes him such an effective first responder.
"What about Savannah?"
"You handle it. You're here, you've got flowers, you can drive. Figure it out."
"But what if..."
"Griff." Logan pauses with his hand on the driver's door, his expression serious. "Don't fuck this up."
And then he's gone too, sirens wailing as he speeds toward whatever emergency requires his immediate attention.
Leaving me alone in the bus station parking lot with three abandoned bouquets and the sudden realization that I'm about to see Savannah Hale for the first time in eight years.
Just me. No backup. No moral support. No Xavier to smooth over awkward moments with diplomatic small talk or Logan to deflect attention with his grumpy charm.
Just me, armed with sunflowers and the kind of nervous energy that makes me want to build something with my hands to keep them busy.
My phone buzzes. Emma.
Emma: How's the pickup going?
Me: Fine. The bus is running a few minutes late.
Emma: All three of you behaving yourselves?
Me: Define behaving.
Emma: Not starting a fight in public. Not overwhelming Savannah with alpha posturing. Basic human decency.
Me: Two out of three isn't bad.
Emma: Griff...
Me: Relax. Xavier got called to a medical emergency, Logan got called to a fire. I'm flying solo.
Emma: YOU'RE picking her up alone?
Me: Problem?
Emma: Do I need to list the reasons why that might be a problem?
Actually, I prefer flying solo. Xavier makes everything feel like a medical procedure, and Logan turns social situations into military operations. Without them, I can be myself. Charming, easy-going Griff who knows how to make people laugh and feel comfortable.
The Griff who made Savannah smile before I made her cry.
Me: I've got this under control.
She starts typing, then stops. I can practically feel her frustration through the phone.
Emma: The bus has been delayed by 5 minutes. Should be there at 3:52 now.
Me: Copy that. Three minutes and counting.
I pocket my phone and check my watch. 3:49. Any minute now, I'll see those brown eyes again, breathe in that vanilla bourbon scent that has haunted my dreams for eight years. My heart hammers against my ribs like it's trying to escape.
Then my phone rings.
The caller ID shows Sullivan Construction. One of my subcontractors. I almost let it go to voicemail, but something about the urgency of the repeated calls makes me answer.
"Griffin Stone."
"Griffin, thank God," comes the panicked voice of Jake Thompson. "We've got a serious problem at the Riverside project. Building's not stable. Looks like Tommy forgot to engage the safety mechanisms on the scaffolding system. The whole structure is swaying. We need you here now."
My blood goes cold. The Thornfield project is a three-story commercial building, and if the scaffolding fails with workers on it...
"How many people are on site?" I bark into the phone, my contractor instincts taking over.
"Six guys, and they're all still up there working. They don't know how dangerous it is. Griffin, this thing could come down any minute."
The sunflowers slip from my grip, scattering yellow petals across the asphalt as the phone presses against my ear. People could die. My crew, my responsibility, my fault for not double-checking Tommy's work.
"I'm on my way," I growl, already sprinting toward my Jeep. "Get everyone off that building now. Don't wait for me."
"We tried, but..."
"I don't give a shit what it takes, Jake. Clear that site."
I fumble with my keys, adrenaline making my hands shake as I throw myself into the driver's seat. This is important. Life or death is important. Everything else can go to hell.
I toss my phone onto the passenger seat and gun the engine, tires squealing as I peel out of the bus station parking lot.
As I race through Pine Hollow's streets toward the Thornfield project, my mind is completely focused on the crisis ahead. How the hell did Tommy miss the safety protocols? How long has the scaffolding been unstable? Are my guys still up there, oblivious to the danger?
I should never have left the site early. Should never have trusted Tommy to handle the final safety checks without supervision. I know he's careless, and he cuts corners when he thinks no one is watching. But I left anyway, eager to get to some damn flower pickup instead of doing my job properly.
Six men are in danger because I left early for some fucking flowers. Because Tommy's an idiot who can't follow basic safety protocols.
Fuck!
I press harder on the accelerator, knuckling white against the steering wheel. The Thornfield project looms ahead, and I'm going to tear Tommy a new one when I get there.