Chapter 5
Sage
We have dinner on the patio, balancing pasta bowls on our knees and sitting side by side on top of a picnic table that overlooks his garden. His workshop stretches along the far side, but doesn’t block the view of the rolling hills dotted with beach houses or the stretch of the Pacific beyond.
It’s comfortable and cozy as the conversation flows between us, covering non-explosive ground like growing up in different places, what we hoped to be, and whether our lives turned out the way we expected.
“I thought I was born to be a star, you know?” I wrinkle my nose and laugh. “It sounds stupid and pretentious when I say it out loud, but it seemed so glamorous.”
“It doesn’t sound stupid,” he says, swiping his mouth with a napkin and turning my way. “It sounds ambitious. Hopeful. Exactly what you should be at your age.”
I snicker and bump my knee against his thigh. He doesn’t move away, and the bloom of pleasure radiating from where we touch races up my leg.
“Yeah, well, Hollywood didn’t agree with me. I’m not exactly their type.”
He shrugs.
“So, you don’t fit the mold. That’s a good thing. You can be an original. That’s what I do every day. I make something original.”
The sentiment hits, striking deep as my smile wobbles. Tears spring up into my eyes, unbidden. Unwanted.
“Hollywood didn’t want me because I don’t fit into a size four or less.” I’m proud of the way my voice doesn’t crack, even if my heart does. “They just don’t see me as leading lady material.”
He squints at the sunset and soaks the last of his garlic bread into the scant bits of sauce clinging to his bowl. I offer up mine, which still has some sauce left over. And as silly as it is, I’m pleased when he doesn’t hesitate to dip his bread in before tossing it into his mouth.
“Maybe they don’t see you, Sage.” Griffin takes my plate and stacks it on his own.
“You know, even if I make the same table fifty times, not one of them will come out looking exactly the same as another. The wood, the grain, any faults, scarring, or previous history shows up differently for every single piece. Seems to me they didn’t get a good enough look. ”
“Guess they just don’t know how to see me the way you do, huh?” I grin and blink away the unshed tears. Flashing a wide smile, I pat his thigh in thanks.
“I got an artist’s eye,” he says softly, laying his hand over mine.
My breath catches as I lift my gaze to his. “Oh, I noticed.”
“So you should hear me when I tell you that you’re a beauty, Sage.”
He gives my hand a squeeze, then moves to stand.
I don’t know why I do it, but it happens fast. Maybe it’s the sun soaking into my skin, the beer still lingering in my blood, or because the mood just felt fucking right and I wasn’t ready to let him go.
My hand lashes out, curls into the sleeve of his gray T-shirt, and pulls him close. I cup his stubbled cheek with my other hand and lean in to plant a kiss on him, right on the corner of his lips.
And for one heart-stopping moment, we both freeze. His deep blue eyes search mine, and he braces a hand against the table, his fingertips skimming my bare thigh.
Awareness zings through me and my breath hitches as I stare hard at his mouth. He’s so close. The muscles beneath his sleeve bunch and tense, and I’m suddenly very aware of how much space and air there is between us.
With every fiber of my being, I want him to close that gap. To turn his head two inches in my direction and fit his firm, full lips to mine.
“Sage.” His eyes flutter shut as he presses his forehead to mine. In my name, I hear it all—the ache, the admonishment, the warning. “We can’t do this.”
“We shouldn’t do this,” I answer. “Doesn’t mean we can’t.”
His eyes snap open. Electricity shoots through me as he grabs hold of the dishes and steps out of my embrace. “We can’t.”
I listen to the rattle of the plates as he walks away, but all I can think as I watch the sun dip into the sea is that he didn’t tell me no.
He just hasn’t said yes yet.
I toss and turn all night, stretched out over the pull-out sofa in his quiet, masculine office. Here, too, everything is neat and tidy; everything has its place.
It almost looks like a house that could be photographed for warm, Scandi-inspired interiors, if the wood he worked with was pale.
But Griffin likes the warmth, depth, and drama of walnut or the clean comfort of oak.
It’s everywhere here, like a fingerprint, and as I turn my face into the sheets and draw another breath, I let out a groan of frustration.
It smells like ocean breeze and sawdust, and it makes me feel so incredibly turned on.
The kiss—or, more accurately, the non-kiss—plays over and over in mind.
If only his hand had braced on my thigh. If only he’d flexed those fingers into my flesh. If only he’d tilted my chin up and claimed my mouth…
What? What then?
My hands slip under my shirt, find my nipples peaked and aching.
I brush over them, imagining what it would feel like to have his rough, calloused fingers pinch and tweak and roll over my tips.
Between my thighs, wet heat gathers, and I remember he’s across the hall.
Just steps away, tucked into his own bed.
When I’d said goodnight, he’d been reading in the warm glow of a lamp. His bare feet were crossed at the ankle, and he’d looked up at me over the rim of thin, wire-framed glasses before rumbling out a response.
It’s that low rumble I think of now as I reach over and grab my earbuds. Popping them in, I quickly scroll through my phone and look for the audio recording I’d made a few nights ago for a narration gig.
As my voice fills my ears, setting the stage for a seductive, erotic aural adventure, I try not to critique my performance. I don’t count the space of my breaths, the catch in my throat, or the sound of my moans.
Instead, I focus on the words and the picture they paint in my mind. I imagine the lead character in the story to be the older, quiet, steady man sleeping across the way.
And when I slip my hands into my shorts, I lose myself to the fantasy, fervently wishing for it to become reality.