Chapter 14 Griff #2
Dangerous. Everything about this is dangerous. But I do it anyway, because the way she's looking at me is addictive as hell.
I guide her through the process, my hands covering hers as we build the arrangement together. Add sunflowers for boldness, roses for elegance, baby's breath to soften the edges. Each touch is deliberate, necessary, and completely fucking torture.
"The key is understanding what each flower brings to the composition," I explain, reaching around her for a stem of fall foliage. "This adds texture, depth. Makes the other colors pop."
"Like this?" She leans back against me as she positions the greenery, and I have to clench my jaw to keep from reacting to the contact.
"Perfect." My voice comes out rougher than I want. "You're a natural."
"I had a good teacher."
She turns in the circle of my arms, and suddenly we're face to face. Close enough that I can count the freckles across her nose, see the way her eyes shift from green to gold when she's emotional.
"Griff," she whispers, and my name on her lips sounds like a prayer and a promise all at once.
I'm leaning down, drawn by forces I can't control, when Margaret's voice cuts through the moment like a blade.
"How's everyone doing over here?" The instructor materializes at our station like she's got radar for ruining perfect moments. "This is absolutely lovely. You two have real talent."
We spring apart like we've been electrocuted. Savannah's flushed that pink color that drives me crazy, breathing unsteady.
"Thank you," she manages. "Griff did most of the work."
"Nonsense. This kind of harmony can't be faked." Brenda adjusts one of the baby's breath stems with practiced fingers. "You can tell when partners are truly in sync."
It’s as if we're finding our rhythm again after years of discord.
Margaret moves on to terrorize another group, leaving us alone in our bubble of tension and possibility.
“I’m sorry.”
The words slip out before I even have a chance to take them back.
“Sorry for being a dick to you. I need to do better. About cleaning. The past.”
“And sleepwalking!” She says as she points to me.
I nod my head, and then we both burst out laughing.
Then Emma's voice cuts through everything. "Oh my God, you two! That arrangement is gorgeous!"
The spell breaks. Savannah steps back, puts distance between us like she always does when things get too real.
I want to grab her, shake her, make her finish what she was going to say. But Emma's already bouncing over with the rest of the bridesmaids in tow, and the moment's gone.
"Griff, you're incredibly talented," Emma gushes, examining our centerpiece. "Have you ever considered doing this professionally?"
"Just a hobby," I mutter, but can't deny the pride swelling in my chest. The arrangement really is beautiful - autumn colors blending in perfect harmony, each flower playing its part.
"You should totally help with the wedding flowers. Our florist could use someone with actual vision."
The suggestion should terrify me. More time around Savannah means more opportunities for these walls I've built to crumble. But looking at what we created together, seeing the way her face softens when she looks at the flowers...
"I could help," I hear myself saying. "If you need it."
Emma claps like I've just offered to cure cancer. "Perfect! Church arrangements the day before, reception centerpieces morning of. This is going to be the most beautiful wedding ever!"
The workshop continues for another hour. We work mostly in silence, the easy camaraderie from earlier replaced by awkward tension. But our hands keep brushing as we reach for stems, and every contact sends electricity shooting through my system.
"Careful," I murmur when she reaches for a particularly thorny rose. "Let me get that one."
My fingers brush hers as I take the stem, and she sucks in a sharp breath. "I can handle it."
"I know you can. Doesn't mean you have to."
She stares at me for a long moment, something unreadable flickering across her face. "You're different."
"How?"
"Gentler." She says as she tilts her head, as if she’s studying me.
"Maybe I've learned a few things too."
The admission slips out before I can stop it, and I see the way her expression softens. Like she's seeing something in me she wasn't expecting.
"Like what?"
"Like some mistakes aren't worth making twice."
Around us, the other women chatter and laugh as they work on their arrangements, but it feels like Savannah and I are in our own private world.
"Our arrangement's coming together well," she says finally, breaking the silence.
"Yeah. It is."
But we're not talking about flowers anymore, and we both know it.
The workshop winds down an hour later. Our centerpiece stands out among the rest - more sophisticated, more balanced. Like we knew what we were doing even when we were making it up as we went along.
"I should get going," Savannah says as we clean up our workstation. "Emma needs help with other wedding stuff this evening."
The dismissal stings more than it should. "Right. Can't keep the bride waiting."
We walk to the truck in silence, the easy intimacy from the greenhouse replaced by careful distance. I hold the passenger door open for her, and she slides in without meeting my eyes.
The drive home is quiet, filled with the weight of everything we didn't say. I can feel her stealing glances, like she wants to say something but can't find the words.
"Thank you," she says finally as I pull into our driveway. "For today. For helping with the flowers."
"Don't need to thank me."
"Yes, I do." She reaches for the door handle, pauses. "Griff?"
"Yeah?"
"The flowers... they're lucky to have you taking care of them."
Then she's gone, disappearing into the house before I can respond.
I sit in the truck for long minutes, her words echoing in my head. Because if flowers are lucky to have me taking care of them, what does that make me for wanting to take care of her?
Dangerous territory just got a whole lot more dangerous.
And I'm not sure I give a damn anymore.