11. Lennon
Chapter 11
Lennon
He’s a Perfect Distraction
G riffin’s place suited him.
Eclectic vintage vibes with a definite hint of money.
I wasn’t sure what rockstars brought in cash-wise, but I had a feeling he’d done well for himself.
For it being one massive box—save for his hideaway bedroom—the space was strangely homey. The kitchen was actually quite large, and the intriguing raised space over it was strangely empty. The industrial metal supports were obviously a Kain idea. His modern and architectural prowess practically screamed from the design.
I’d done a deep dive on him when we’d found out who Kain was. A billionaire architect playing chef in the middle of nowhere didn’t make any sense. The sheer number of awards and articles about him were staggering. But the more I got to know Kain, the more I understood him.
And liked him.
The orchard was one big renewable resource in his eyes. This place had the hallmarks of his design sense all over it, but there was no doubt that Griffin had made his mark here too.
Griffin was so different than Kain.
Oh, they both were chameleons when it came to their easygoing natures. Where Kain was quick to boil over, Griffin was placid as a lake. No matter how many times Kain ignored him or berated him, he came back for more.
Determined to show he wasn’t going anywhere, he slowly wore Kain down.
Was that what he was doing to me?
Quietly, he hung out there at the end of the bar. Watchful and charming, but never pushy. I’d happily fill his glass, chat when things were slow, but I didn’t want to let him in. Didn’t want to let anyone in.
And yet, here I was—in his place.
Overnight.
I could have left last night, and I’d chosen not to.
Chosen being the very important word.
And I’d slept.
I always loved my own space. When I did a bit of naked entertainment, I was quick to bounce after the main event.
Not only had I slept here—not completely without some very effective persuasion—but I requested breakfast.
And this guy was plating up a damn gourmet omelette—at least gourmet to me. I was lucky I had a Pop Tart in the mornings. Hell, when I wasn’t in orchard mode, I was lucky to crawl out of bed before one in the afternoon.
Griffin, with those distracting shoulders and stupid hands, returned to the kitchen with the pan and put it right in the damn dishwasher.
Who was this guy?
Was he just showing off for me?
I glanced around the room and decided that was a no. His place was positively tidy, save for a few albums sticking out from his staggering collection. I drifted over, unable to deny my curiosity.
Otis Redding, Myles Davis, and the last one on the actual turntable was Taylor Swift. I laughed and flicked on the player and pulled over the arm to set the needle on the first song.
He was pouring orange juice and looked up, meeting my gaze. “Secret’s out.”
“Secret Swifty?”
He laughed. “Kain brought it over, thinking to insult me. Now I have a complete collection.”
I couldn’t help but laugh as “Willow” drifted out of his impressive surround sound situation. I glanced around, surprised there wasn’t a television in the mix.
Hmm .
I climbed the two steps up to the kitchen and sat across from him. “This looks amazing.”
He grinned. “Growing up in a hotel had some perks.”
I paused with my fork in my hand. “What now?”
He laughed and picked up his silverware, then cut open the steaming, fluffy omelette. “My mom worked for a place called the Kona. Part of the perks were living there instead of a shit place in Honolulu.”
“Wow. Infinite room service sounds good to me.”
“You’d think.” He rested his forearms along the edge of the table and focused on me so intently my stomach jittered. Then his grin returned— easy-peasy Griffin back in control. “However, the chef liked me. Taught me how to fend for myself when my mom was busy.” He forked up a bite.
There was something else under the words. Like a story he was used to telling to downplay the truth. I understood full well what it meant to grow up with a working mother. Daphne Hathaway had worked two jobs, sometimes just to keep us in a rathole apartment.
“My mom taught me how to build a perfect Guinness before I was twelve.”
He laughed. “Solid talent. Not sure a twelve-year-old should have been behind the bar.”
“I usually hid in the back office with my iPad, but I couldn’t resist sneaking out to listen to the patrons. Some were obviously hitting on my mom, but most were just telling stories about their crappy jobs. When my mom torpedoed their incredibly bad pickup lines, they moved on to the single—or not so single,” I said wryly, “women who showed up Thursday through Saturday nights.”
“And her boss didn’t mind you being there?”
“My mom was too good at her job. They didn’t want to lose her, even if I was part of the deal on the nights she couldn’t find someone to watch me.”
I preferred the bar over the boring grandmotherly types who would watch me. Or the less than desirable men who hung around the waitresses that invariably befriended my mom.
Puberty hit me early and I’d learned to get out of the way of wandering hands far earlier than I should have.
I cleared my throat. “Anyway, that’s why I do what I do.” I finally took my own bite and resisted the groan that wanted to break free. Damn, he definitely had listened in the breakfast lessons at the very least.
“So, she taught you everything you know?” He broke open a biscuit and offered me half.
Our fingers brushed as I took it from him. “Well, the drink part, anyway. She worked at what felt like a hundred bars in Tempe. When one didn’t work out, we just moved onto the next.”
And we moved from one rundown apartment to the next.
“That’s rough.”
I shrugged. “Most of the time, it was okay. Especially the last place we landed. George Burns was the owner.”
He snickered.
“He definitely didn’t look like that little guy. Who I didn’t know, by the way. Bit before my time.”
“You calling me old?”
I laughed. “Bit before your time too.”
He snorted. “Yeah, well when you’re a bored kid living in a hotel, you meet a lot of interesting people. We’d have impersonator conferences all the time.”
“Now that would be a fun thing to see.”
“Fun is one word for it.” He gestured to his hair. “Let’s just say the Elvis thing is just sad without the whole ensemble.”
I reached for another biscuit. “Not sharing this one.”
“I’m offended.”
I broke it open and slipped the last of my omelette between the fluffy pieces. “Got hot sauce?”
“That I do have. Frank’s or some of the fiery stuff Kain prefers?”
“Ohh. The good stuff.”
He came back with two bottles from the fridge, then copied me with the biscuit for the last bites of his breakfast as well. “Cheers,” he said as he held out his sandwich.
I tapped mine to his. “Cheers.”
When we finished, we cleaned up companionably with Taylor as our soundtrack. As I was wiping down the table, he wandered down to the record player and changed the finished Taylor album to Mumford & Sons.
The rumbly voice of their lead singer filled the room. Griffin stopped at the massive window and looked out over the spindly branches of apple trees still in winter hibernation. The sad tones of the bass guitar layered under melancholy lyrics filled with longing replaced the jittery nerves of before with the urge to escape.
I didn’t want this man to have other layers.
I knew he did.
Everyone did—it just depended on what parts of yourself you showed to the world. I preferred the easygoing Griffin.
I even understood the playful drunk half of him from the night before. And that was far easier to handle.
“Thanks for feeding me. I should get back?—”
“We can pretend this didn’t happen. That I didn’t get my hands on you and hold you last night.” He was still facing the window, his words gravelly.
I fisted my hands at my sides.
What the hell did he say to that?
“You don’t remember any of it,” I reminded him. “It should be easy for you.”
Not me.
The warm weight of him wrapped around me all night would take a while to forget.
But I would be leaving soon.
But he’s perfect for a little distraction.
I gritted my teeth against the little voice.
“I woke up with you in my arms, Lenny. That was more than enough to make me want more.” He glanced over his shoulder, his strongly angled face in profile. “I already did.”
“So, you want to fuck me?” The sharp words tumbled out of me.
His lips tipped up, but the smile wasn’t friendly. “Oh, I want to fuck you, don’t doubt that, Lennon Hathaway.” He turned around and faced me, his arms folded over his chest. “Every part of you fit me and I can only imagine what it would feel like to be inside you. Both of us sweaty and out of breath because it wouldn’t be an easy fuck.”
The jitter was back.
And something lower—an ache unlocked that had been long buried.
I mirrored him, still in the kitchen. For all intents and purposes, I was looking down at him and still I felt at a distinct disadvantage.
I didn’t want his honesty.
I wanted the veneer.
I wanted the easy and uncomplicated Griffin from before.
“A quick and dirty one—got it.” I lifted one eyebrow and stared him down.
“No, you really don’t.” He headed my way, slowly climbing the few stairs between us. “That’s only part of it. I want your ginger fresh scent on me in the morning to start my day. I want it burned into my skin at night.”
I took a step back, bumping into the long, kitchen table.
“So, if you’d prefer we forget about this, I’ll go back to pretending I don’t want you. Both of us will be busy soon enough once the season starts.”
My mouth was dry.
That would be the smart thing to do.
“Right. We both have jobs to do.” And maybe this would be the last season for me here.
Maybe the last time to see these people when I started a new life in Miami. Of course, we’d say we would keep in touch, but I knew we wouldn’t.
I knew it would be the last of my time in New York.
He nudged a chair aside and gripped one side of the table, then crowded into me and caged me in with his other hand right beside my hip. He lowered down to me until our mouths were inches apart. “I’d really like to see where this goes.” He brushed his nose along mine. “Maybe it will just be some fun on my big king-sized bed, or on your very organized bar.” He licked his lips. “Or your bed.”
My heart pounded and I wanted to deny how he affected me, but my unencumbered breasts were flashing a neon sign.
His gaze drifted down to my nipples and his jaw flexed, but he didn’t move his hands. His thighs were barely touching mine and there was no denying that behind his zipper, he was just as interested.
I gripped the table, my hands brushing his as my breath backed up in my chest.
“But if you don’t want this,” he spoke a whisper away from my mouth, “then just say so.” His chest grazed mine and my nipples got impossibly harder.
I could say no.
I should say back off.
Being alone was smarter.
Easier.
I closed my eyes and wanted to whimper. But then I went on my toes and met his mouth with mine.
The table practically vibrated as he dragged in a long breath, but he didn’t press me for more than this meeting of lips.
Savage.
Overwhelming, hard, and soft at the same time.
He poured the tension between us into the kiss, and I let go of the table to press my hands to his belly, then I slid them up to his shoulders as the kiss spun out.
As I let him in.