Chapter Thirteen Ruby #2
“It’s a huge deal,” Kenny interjected, walking past us to deposit his chairs against the wall.
“She spearheaded the Welling Springs 5K last year, and the town T-shirt sale, and the spaghetti dinner, but we needed one more fundraiser.” Kenny ignored my pointed glare and kept talking.
“There’s a reason she never goes out, and it’s because she’s been working sixty hours a week for the last two years to get enough money to buy the land next to the library. ”
I pinched my eyes shut, and when I peeled them open, I settled another lethal look in Kenny’s direction. He merely smiled.
Griffin’s brows shot up. “The land with the creek and the willow tree?”
I nodded slowly. “It’s going up for sale soon, and . . . I thought maybe we could purchase it before that would happen, but the family who owns it wants to see how much they can get for it.” I shrugged one shoulder. “Can’t blame them, I guess.”
Melanie interrupted to ask me a question, and I was relieved. Griffin quietly went about his work, helping Kenny take down the tables and stack the remainder of the chairs. Every once in a while, my eyes would snag on the way his arms bulged when he lifted something.
I cleared my throat and moved my canvas into my office, leaning it up against the side of my desk.
When I exited, Melanie was standing by Griffin.
“I’m so sorry to do this, but would you mind if I grab a selfie?
My son is a huge fan,” she said with an apologetic smile.
“He’d never forgive me if I didn’t ask.”
“No problem.” He leaned in toward her, setting his hand on her shoulder while she snapped a picture. “Maybe just . . . don’t post it on social media, at least not for a couple of days, if that’s okay with you?”
“Of course,” she said. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks slightly flushed, a far cry from the composed woman who’d run the evening without a single hint that she knew who he was.
Griffin lifted his chin in my direction. “You have any paper?”
I nodded, darting back into my office to grab a pen and an index card. Griffin took it, leaning over the counter. “What’s your son’s name?”
“Bryan,” she said. “Thank you so much. I can’t even tell you what this will mean to him.”
Griffin scrawled out a quick note, then signed his name—a big, bold signature—and handed it to Melanie with a smile. “Tell him his mom is really cool.”
“I will,” she breathed. “Thank you again. This was amazing.” Melanie gave me a brief hug. “You call me anytime if you need help with something like this.”
“Thank you,” I told her. “We will.”
Griffin approached, his arm brushing against my shoulder as we watched her leave the library with quick, excited steps. Before she went out the door, she had her son on the phone.
“Bryan? You won’t believe what just happened . . .”
The door swung shut behind her, and I glanced up at him. “That was nice.”
He grunted. “Don’t tell anyone. They won’t believe you, anyway.”
I rolled my eyes. Kenny walked past us, his messenger bag over his shoulder. “You okay to lock up?”
With a nod, I hitched my thumb at Griffin. “He’s my bodyguard tonight since Bruiser isn’t here.”
Griffin cut me a sideways look. “If Bruiser is my competition, that doesn’t say much about me.”
Kenny smiled. “All right. Good night, guys.”
It felt different when he left, leaving me and Griffin in the quiet of the library.
The whole building seemed to pulse with it—the utter stillness.
For the first time all night, the first time since he’d bulldozed back into my life, I felt an overwhelming wave of nerves, something fidgety coating my skin as I risked a glance up at him.
“Well?” I asked quietly. “You ready?”
Griffin gestured to my office, where he knew I’d set my canvas.
His was resting against the wall near where we stood, and he picked it up in one hand and followed me.
My office was lit with only the small lamp on my desk, and because the sun had already set, there wasn’t much of a view out the windows along the far wall.
But he stood in front of them anyway, humming in understanding. “That’s how you saw me so quickly earlier.”
“It’s my favorite view,” I told him, settling a hip onto my desk and staring out into the dark, where I could see a shadowed glimpse of the bench and the weeping willow tree, the branches dancing lightly in the breeze. “And I hope it stays just like that.”
“When does the land go up for sale?” he asked, wandering over to the other side of my office to study the framed renders of what we’d planned should the land become ours.
“Soon. Probably next week,” I told him. “There’s an important place in any town for development, of course.
It’s good for the economy when a city gets new restaurants and shopping and nice places to live.
But I want this library to serve a different purpose.
People come here for the sense of community it brings, as much as they do for the books.
Like tonight,” I said. “We’ve known all those people for years.
Watched them get married, have kids—some of them bring in their grandkids to get books now.
And I love the idea that they can stay and play outside too.
Watch for birds and butterflies, go for a walk, play with some interactive art. ”
I sighed, fighting a tug of defeat that it might not happen.
“That land could be a legacy that’s just as important as any of the books inside this building, and I want to know we’re using that land as something good for this town.
Someday, we’ll all be gone, but that beautiful place could still be here, you know? Proof that we did something good.”
Even now, well past my school years, I wanted to have something to show for all the work we’d done. It wasn’t a test hanging on a fridge or a project to be admired, but I wanted to know that someday when I was gone, there’d be something good left behind.
Griffin had gone still listening to me, his eyes tracing my face. “Why do you look so sad?”
My nose was burning from the press of tears, and I pulled in a sharp breath to will it away. “I’m not sad, I’m . . . frustrated, I guess. There’s only so much I can do.”
He leaned a shoulder against the wall. “Sounds like you’re doing it.”
“I suppose.”
Griffin cleared his throat, tapping the edge of his canvas with two fingers. “I know what’ll make you feel better.”
“What’s that?”
“Me kicking your ass in a painting competition.”
I laughed. “It’s not a competition.”
“Says you,” he answered on an exhale. “I’d say that, too, if I knew I was outmatched.”
With a roll of my eyes, I grabbed my canvas. “Fine. Are we showing them at the same time?”
“Oh no. Ladies first.”
“Okay.” I shrugged, sucking my bottom lip into my mouth as I turned the canvas around.
Griffin didn’t move.
Then he blinked.
Then he leaned closer to the canvas, snatching it out of my hands.
“The fuck . . . ,” he whispered. His eyes locked with mine. “Why didn’t you tell me you’re like, fucking Picasso?”
My eyebrows arched. “Because I’m not?”
“This is good.” His head reared back as he studied the painting with almost frantic eye movements. “Holy shit, Ruby, this is really fucking good.”
Clasping my hands in front of me, I cleared my throat. “Thank you.”
His jaw hung open. “I’m keeping this. I’m framing it and keeping it and it’s going up at my house whenever I buy one.”
I laughed. “You are not.” Standing from the desk, I tried to take the canvas back, and he snapped it out of reach. I set my hands on my hips. “You are not framing that at your house.”
“Says who? It’s my house. This is the best thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Of course you’d say that. It’s your face.”
He kept his gaze locked on the canvas. “I do not look like this in real life.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I painted you as I see you.”
“I don’t think I’m this hot, birdy.” Griffin turned the canvas around so it was next to his face. “Tell the truth. You made me hotter.”
My face burned at the insinuation. For a moment, I tried to study the image objectively—golden-brown eyes straight to the front; the way his hair curled, slightly too long over his ears; the hard line of his jaw and the crooked smirk I’d given his mouth—but all I could see was him. “I think it looks like you.”
He blew a raspberry. “Whatever you say.”
I drew in a deep breath. “Okay, your turn. Let me see.”
“No fucking way.” He picked up his canvas. “This is going into the garbage.”
With a gasp, I marched forward. “It is not. You show me right now.”
Griffin shook his head, ruthlessly swatting at my hand when I tried to take the canvas from him. I huffed, setting my hands on my hips again. “You’re ten times bigger than me; this isn’t fair.”
He clicked his tongue. “Tough shit. Life isn’t fair, cupcake.”
I was two seconds away from stomping my foot when I had an idea. It was Griffin’s idea, really. Something he’d said to me on my very own couch, just before he held his hand out to me and offered himself up as the world’s sexiest hand-holding partner.
What would I do if this were a real date?
Courage was something I could hold in my hand. Something I could see and feel and touch. A canvas with bright colors, painting a man with a sharp jaw and a beautiful smile and big, big hands that were so warm and rough when they curled around my own.
Bravery was something different, of course. It was the absence of fear when you stepped into a precarious situation.
Maybe that wasn’t me all the time. But it was tonight.
And it wasn’t because he’d bought me pretty clothes or checked out my ass like it was something worth staring at. It was because he’d let me hold his hand and made me feel good in that seemingly insignificant snippet of time. Worthy of that small piece of affection and normalcy.
I took a deep breath and stepped forward, laying my hands on his chest. Griffin went still as a stone the moment I touched him. The heat from his skin seeped through his shirt like it wasn’t there.