Chapter 4
Griffin
It wasn’t a quick fix. Not even close.
“What do you mean it’s going to take days?” Sage sags into a seat I’d crafted, looking so damn right inside my house that I keep blinking at her like an idiot and reminding myself she doesn’t belong here. It shouldn’t feel like she belongs here.
But fuck, that’s exactly what it feels like.
“I mean, it’ll take a few days. Three, minimum. A week, tops,” Max deadpans and tucks away a pencil in his jumpsuit pocket. “It’ll cost you, but I can get started Monday.”
“Everything costs me,” she mutters, facedown against my table.
Max glances up at me questioningly.
“The money’s not an issue,” I say, tightening my hold on my beer bottle. “Her safety is.”
We exchange a look, and he casts a sidelong glance at her slumped figure. “You got a place to go? Family you can stay with?”
My heart thuds in my chest and my knuckles go white.
“Why?” She lifts her head up and glares at him through slitted eyes. “I can’t stay in my own house now?”
“Not until this gets fixed.”
“Stay here, then.” The words are out before I can think better of them, before I can even fucking stop them.
“I couldn’t put you out like that. This isn’t your problem.”
“It’s not a problem. It’s just a few days. Saves you the hassle of packing your shit and sorting something else out.” I drink down a long pull of beer and swallow hard as she turns those bright hazel eyes on me.
Shock and gratitude swirl in those depths as her mouth hangs open. Her pink tongue slides over her full bottom lip thoughtfully, and I swallow down a groan for my stupidity.
“Thank you,” she breathes, “that’s very kind.”
“It’s the neighborly thing to do.” I grumble, then I show Max the door.
When I shut it behind him, I take a beat before I turn around and see her leaning against the doorframe of my kitchen, arms crossed and gaze lingering on my ass.
When she looks up, our eyes lock. Her lips tip upward and my heart squeezes inside my chest.
Yeah. This is a bad fucking idea, but for the life of me, I can’t think of a better one.
In a matter of hours, she’s holed up in my house, hooked up to the internet, and padding around my kitchen in the sexiest pajamas I’ve ever seen.
If a simple white tank top and cotton candy pink shorts qualify as pajamas.
She’s freshly showered—not that I’ve given a single thought to her being naked and soaping up all her luscious curves in my house—and marching around my living space while she video chats with her friend.
A male friend, if I heard right before she got her earbuds in.
Maybe he’s a boyfriend.
The possibility gets my back up a bit. Even though it doesn’t matter. It’s not like I asked her about her personal life. And it’s none of my business, anyway.
I dig out a couple of placemats and set the table the way my mother made me when I was growing up. Then, I think better of it and toss the utensils and napkins where I normally keep them—in catch-all utensil holders. This might feel like a damn dinner date, but it’s not one.
Somehow I have to keep reminding myself of that.
“I’m with a friend, dumbass. Not a serial killer,” I hear her say when she passes the kitchen. For the last ten minutes she’s been giving him the grand tour of my house, oohing and aahing at the craftsmanship of my furniture—most of which I made—and showcasing my heavy-laden bookshelves.
“What do you mean, how do I know? He’s making me dinner, Dev. From scratch. See?” She flashes her phone at me and grins wide. “Smile, Griff!”
I force my mouth into the appropriate shape and sprinkle in another handful of herbs into the spaghetti sauce.
I give it an aggressive swirl and tap the spoon against the pot with more force than necessary as she spins away from me, hissing, “Besides, what serial killer keeps a leather-bound collection of the complete works of Shakespeare, Poe, and Dickens on their shelf?”
After a moment, she calls back, “Dev says you should add Austen and the Brontes to your collection.”
“I have them,” I answer absently. “Top shelf.”
Sage pops her head back in. “He says he’s impressed. And accepts my assessment of your character.”
I hide my smile as she dips her head to stare at her phone again.
“Hang on, Dev, my dad’s calling. I’ll call you back.” A beat passes as she taps buttons on her screen. “Hi, Dad! How’s Beijing?”
My stomach drops. Shit, I hadn’t thought to give Andy a heads-up that his daughter was here. Before I can panic, she’s already moved down the hall and toward the living room. Fragments of her conversation float back to me as I dump the pasta into boiling water and set a timer.
By the time I get the garlic bread in the oven, she’s reappeared at my side and wafts her hand over the sauce, trying to smell it.
“Dad says he didn’t realize the house was in such bad shape. Think he feels kind of bad about it.”
I grunt. He should. I’d been telling him for years that the house needed to be tended to, and I’d offered to help plenty of times.
But I know it’s not from willful neglect.
Andy’s too busy being a banking hotshot and jet-setting from one end of the earth to the other to try to handle all of life’s little details.
We’re different in that. I’m someone who cares about the details, who likes to take my time to do things properly.
“The good news is he’s going to send me some money to help with the repairs.” Her arm brushes up against mine when she lifts a spoonful of sauce and cups a hand beneath it. “So, you know, if you want me out of your hair sooner rather than later, I can probably find a hotel in town to stay in.”
“If that’s what you want.” My back stiffens as I watch her blow on the sauce, trying to cool it. “You’re free to do as you please.”
“I didn’t say it’s what I want. Just checking to see if it’s what you want.”
I want you to stay and never leave. I want you to read every book in my library. Enjoy everything I make. And I want to hear that full-throttle laugh that makes me want to laugh with you.
“Stay.” It comes out sounding like a command, so I blurt out, “Have dinner with me.”
She lifts the spoon to her puckered lips, keeping her eyes steady on mine as she slurps a taste and lets out a little moan of pleasure. “Mm, that’s good.”
I clear my throat. “Save your money for your refurb. Unless you think you’d be more comfortable elsewhere.”
She turns the spoon toward me and lifts it to my lips. “I’m happy right here, Griffin. Now, taste this and relax a little, will you? I don’t bite.”
I wrap my lips around the spoon as she tips the remainder of the sauce onto my tongue. She’s right; it’s good and ready.
Then she flashes a blinding, wicked smile. “But I don’t mind if you do.”
My coughs are lost in the sound of the pasta timer going off, and all I can do is stare at her as she moves deftly around my kitchen, looking like she owns the damn place.