Chapter 20
GRIFFIN
I make up the couch again for bed. Last night it was easy, as she passed out right away, taking more of the sleep she so desperately needed.
Though she’s hinted all day that she’s fine with me sleeping in the bedroom with her, I practically swan dive onto the sofa the minute we’re done with dinner.
There’s no fucking chance I’m going near that bedroom.
Ever since I got the idea in my head to fake marry her, it’s been pure torture trying to exist in Sasha’s presence.
First it was knowing she’ll finally have the additional layer of protection I need to give her—and her not immediately jumping at that opportunity.
I know it’s not real, but fuck if my ego isn’t a bruised-up, pulpy mess.
But now? Jesus.
Now that nagging knowledge that I like this woman and find her deeply fucking attractive has risen to the forefront like an oversized ocean buoy. I was barely able to keep a handle on my feelings before, but since spending the weekend with her?
Fuck me straight to hell. She’s smart and funny, and yes, she’s goddamned beautiful.
And she knows I’m attracted to her. I’ve done a poor-ass job of hiding it.
I’ve never not been able to keep that shit together before.
Never. I don’t show people what I want. This is a skill that I’ve honed to a razor-sharp point.
But Sasha Macklin has me blowing my walls down like a hurricane on a straw house.
But she still hasn’t given me an answer about getting married, and I haven’t asked. I’ve decided to let her sleep, knowing marriage is the best option, but also knowing now that for her, specifically, it’s not as easy as heading over to city hall and signing up.
I watch her just like that first night, buzzing around my place in the dark for “just one more thing” as I lie on the couch, the sheet pulled up to my chin, my eyes screwed shut like my life depends on it.
Seeing her braless and in my T-shirt, which barely covers her ass, has me on my last shred of self-control.
Finally her footfalls stop, and I dare open my eyes a crack. Her door is closed, and I’m pissed at myself for how that sparks a tiny pang of disappointment in me.
All right, not a tiny pang.
I flip over on my side and stare out into the dark living room. It’s good. It’s what I wanted. But some idiot part of me obviously likes the torture of being able to see her only a few feet away from me.
A bang sounds from inside the room. I sit up. There’s a thin line of light under the door—she’s still awake. I grumble, flopping back down and throwing a pillow over my head.
“Griff?”
Her voice is muffled under the pillow. But my stomach jolts just the same.
I lift the pillow. “What is it, Sasha?”
I act annoyed, like my name on her tongue—not the whole name, but the diminutive people who know me use—isn’t making something swell painfully in my ribs.
Like I’ve been fighting swelling elsewhere all day because of her.
Sasha comes around to the side of the couch.
I keep my eyes closed. I know she’s squatted down beside me, not just because I can sense her there, but because my nostrils are suddenly filled with her scent—a floral breeze so pretty and feminine and such a contrast to the hard machinery and wood scents of this house.
It takes every ounce of self-control I have left not to reach out for her.
“You don’t have to answer, but I wanted to ask before I say yes.”
This has my attention. I open my eyes.
Her beautiful face fills my vision, and for a moment, I can’t breathe.
It’s not just how she looks, or how she smells, or her, but it’s the earnestness of her expression.
The determination laced with worry, like she thinks I’m going to flip out at whatever she’s got on her mind but wants to ask anyway.
“Spit it out, Sasha. I can handle it.”
“Who’s Laura?”
Now that I wasn’t expecting.
I try my hardest not to frown, because I knew it took some nerve to ask me that, given how I am.
I close my eyes, choosing my words carefully.
“Like I said, you don’t have to answer,” she says quickly. “Just, if we’re getting married, even fake-married, I feel like maybe I should know if you’re having sad dreams about another woman—”
“She was a colleague. She was killed in action four years ago.”
Sasha waits a beat. “Were you there?”
Fuck. “Yes.”
A beat passes. “You were more than colleagues.”
“Yes.”
“You loved her.”
“I cared about her.”
I meet her eyes again. She knows I’m not telling her the whole truth.
“Yes, I loved her.” The words hurt to say.
Pain spasms through me. Do I tell her how pissed I still am at her, too?
That no matter how many sessions I’ve had with McCrae’s psych, I remain pissed at myself for not figuring out how to go back in time to fix what happened?
It’s not even to have her back—she would have ended things with me eventually anyway—it’s just to have her fucking alive.
Sasha reaches out and pries my hand from where I’ve tucked it under my ribs.
I try to pull my hand away, but she holds firm.
“I’m sorry, Griffin.”
There’s a burning in my sinuses; in my throat, too. I could shrug, say it was a while ago, because it’s true; it was. But it’s not just the old grief I’m feeling. It’s that double-whammy of self-blame. Of you could have stopped it.
“Would you have married her if she lived?”
I sit up, which allows me to pull my hand away. “I don’t fucking know, Sasha.” I’m reaching my limit of personal questions.
I rub my forehead with my hand. Then I laugh, ruefully. It surprises us both, I think. “No. I do know. She would have said no. But I never would have asked her. It wasn’t like that between us.”
Laura didn’t believe in marriage, or kids, or tradition of any kind.
It wasn’t really a sticking point, because I didn’t either.
Or at least I didn’t think I did. Besides, I could never picture that fierce, no-bullshit, gun-wielding woman in a wedding gown, though I would have married her if that’s what she wanted.
Sasha’s still looking at me earnestly, and I realize right in this moment how fucking brave this woman before me is.
“She wasn’t sweet, Sasha.” Not like you. “She was serious. Hard. She could kick my ass.”
“I like her already.”
I let out a wry laugh that twists my chest. “We were well matched for what it was.” I meet Sasha’s eyes. She looks inexorably sad.
“Hey, it’s fine,” I say.
“It’s not fine.” Tears brim her eyes. “You should have married for love.”
“It doesn’t matter, Sasha.”
“Yes it does. When we’re done—divorced, or whatever we have to do—I want you to marry for love.”
I don’t move, examining her. “Does that mean it’s a yes?”
She nods. “Let’s get married. Tomorrow.”
I open my mouth like a fucking fish.
“Okay,” I say, frowning like my heart isn’t now galloping in my chest. “Good.”
She lets out this soft little laugh that makes me feel like bubbles are going off inside of me. It’s effervescence. I want to bottle the feeling.
Sasha presses a thumb to the spot between my eyebrows I know is bunched up, smoothing the space down. “Why am I happy about agreeing to a fake marriage?”
I relax into her touch, closing my eyes. I want to hold her hand there. To kiss her palm. Instead, I keep my elbows on my knees, my hands hanging between them. “Because it’s the right thing to do.”
She drops her hand. “Why are you doing this for me?”
I open my eyes again. “Because keeping you safe is my job.”
“No it isn’t.”
“I’ve made it my job.”
She smiles, and I return it.
Sasha laughs softly. “You should smile more, Griff. You’re so handsome when you smile.”
“I’m not handsome.”
“Who told you that?”
I lie back down, lacing my hands together and laying them across my stomach to keep them in line. “We should go to sleep. Big day tomorrow.” I close my eyes. I don’t want to talk anymore. I don’t trust myself not to blubber some bullshit I’m going to regret sharing.
“There’s just one more thing,” Sasha says, her voice coming out soft. Almost nervous. “Actually, two things.”
I groan inwardly but open my eyes, gripping my hands tight together.
Sasha tucks a lock of her loose waves behind her ear. “The first is, I want your family there.”
“What?”
“I know this isn’t real, but we should make it look real. Plus…I want to get to know them. I only know Jude. He’s so great, funny and so kind and—”
“I get the picture.”
She laughs softly. “I know there’s no notice, but if even one of them could come, I’d be honored. I really want to get to know them. Maybe we could throw a party here or something to thank them.”
“Let’s not go overboard.”
“We’re going to have a party here at some point, Griffin, mark my words.”
I groan, but my heart’s fucking singing. This woman.
“And what about Chester?” she asks.
“He won’t come.”
“You sure?”
“The man hides when the mail delivery comes. He’d sooner publish his social security number online than go to a wedding in town.”
Sasha gives me the side eye but reluctantly agrees we’ll leave poor Chester out of it.
She forces me to land on a time—four o’clock—to give everyone a chance to rearrange their days if they can.
I don’t tell her I know all four of my siblings would quit their jobs if it meant seeing me get married.
The only one who might not make it is Eli, who’s visiting Reese right now on tour somewhere in California.
“I’m sorry we can’t have your family here, too,” I say, seeing the sadness pass over her expression.
“It’s fine. I know it’s too risky.”
I feel like an asshole. I could get her whole family here. I have the resources, even if they need persuading. But I don’t want Sam Macklin anywhere near here, even if this marriage does make Creelman back off. Not until I learn just how closely the two of them are tied.
“You said there were two things,” I remind her.
“Oh. Right.” She stands up, and that’s when I see what she’s wearing.
I hadn’t noticed before—I was too absorbed in her face.
She’s got on a form-fitting white blazer, a lacy, silky top underneath, and trim white pants that hug every gorgeous curve.
The pants end just above her ankles, and when I look to her feet, I see glossy white high-heel sandals that show off her bright red toes.
That must have been what she was doing when she was in the bathroom all afternoon.
My throat goes strangely thick when she doesn’t say anything, just looks at me expectantly, and I realize she bought it minutes after I asked her to marry me.
“You look beautiful,” I manage, my words coming out stiffer than I want.
She smiles, looking almost bashful. “I was never going to say no, Griffin.” Then she goes back to my bedroom, the door clicking softly behind her.