Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Griffin
R eese forces a grin, the corners of her mouth barely quirking upward. Her gaze drops to her dress as her fingers smooth over the fabric like it can anchor her. “Thanks.”
She doesn’t believe me.
Doesn’t believe that I’d give anything to skip out on this trip and spend every second with her instead.
“It’s important for me to go.”
Her chin dips in a small nod. “Of course. It’s work.”
“Yeah.” I shift my shoulder against the doorframe, needing something solid to hold me steady. “Well, about work, anyway. I have a business proposition I’m hoping will turn into something real. A company, maybe. Wish me luck, huh?”
She studies me for a long beat, as if weighing whether to call bullshit. Finally, her lips soften into a genuine smile. “Good luck, Griffin. Fingers crossed for you.”
That smile. She has no idea. I would rearrange my life around her light.
I glance at the antique clock on my wall—already running behind.
Reese notices it, too.
She waves her hand toward me as she continues backing away. “Go. You’ve got important things to do.”
“That new life you asked me about? This trip is for that.” I stare at the ground, unsure how much I should disclose.
The truth is, I’m superstitious as hell, and life has thrown me some curveballs. I don’t want to get Reese’s hopes up that I can leave escorting for good, only to slink back a few months later when the bills come calling.
Don’t want to get my hopes up, either.
“Then I wish you all the luck in the world.” She pauses on the dirt path and draws in a fortifying breath. “No one deserves it more.”
And then she’s gone, her petite frame swallowed up by the winding trees.
She’s truly spectacular.
I can’t lose her, which is why I must go away this weekend.
Hopefully, in a few days, I’ll never have to leave her side again.
I step inside the cabin, still clutching the tin of cookies Reese baked.
First time she’s ever made a move toward me.
It’s cookies, Griffin. Not her showing up in nothing but a trench coat.
But damn if it doesn’t knock me sideways.
My cock stirs at the thought, heat coiling low in my belly. What if that’s why she came down here? What if she’s been replaying that kiss in the bar, the same way I have?
Christ, that kiss. The way her lips parted under mine, how she clung to me like she never wanted to let go. Her taste is still branded on my tongue, sweet and desperate, wrecking me in a single breath.
One night, and I’m ruined. That dress she wore—seared into my brain.
The glide of her body against mine, the soft press of her curves, every detail a fucking tease I can’t forget.
And now she’s sending me cookies like it’s casual, while I’m standing here hard as steel, imagining my hands on her thighs, parting her open, and taking everything she’s too damn scared to ask for.
Snap out of it, man. Back to the business at hand.
Time to sample her baked goods, since I don’t have time to sample her.
Yet.
God, but I want her.
I tear the package open, noting the care with which Reese wrapped each cookie. A folded note slips free and drifts to the floor.
I snatch it up, running a finger across her neat penmanship.
You said these reminded you of being a kid. I figure we need all the reminders we can get some days. Hope you enjoy them and feel the hugs baked into each one. Love, Reese.
The cookies are fantastic, but it’s the note that lingers. I fold it carefully along the crease and slide it into my wallet. At least this way, a piece of her comes with me this weekend. Makes leaving feel less like walking away.
The crunch of tires on gravel outside snaps my attention to the window. Lauren’s car.
Her driver, Dean, steps out and stretches, working out the kinks from the trip.
At first, he didn’t trust me but hell, I didn’t trust him either.
I half-wondered if he had a thing for Lauren, hovering around us like a watchdog. But somewhere along the way, he figured out the truth about my relationship with his employer: this was never about sex.
The most Lauren and I have shared is a kiss on the cheek, a dance or two. One night I held her when grief gutted her, but that was it.
We’re friends. Paid companions maybe, but still—friends. We protect one another. Her, from the onslaught of false friends in high society and loneliness. Me, from the ever-growing pile of debt accumulating in my name.
This weekend is no different for Lauren, but for me, it’s a game changer, because I’m bringing along my business proposal.
My future plans, so that Reese and I might have a future together.
I push open the door. “Be out in just a second.”
“No rush,” Dean calls back. He’s a decent guy, steady. Her late husband would’ve liked him.
“Need the bathroom?” I ask.
“Stopped at the station when I fueled up,” he says with a shrug.
“Fair enough.”
I duck back inside, grab my bag—and freeze. A bill from Pearl’s independent living facility sits on the table.
Shit.
My stomach drops as I skim it. It’s chock-full of legal jargon, an attempt to soften the blow that her rent is increasing by $500 a month.
I can barely cover costs now, working more than sixty hours a week between construction and the stables. Where the hell am I supposed to find another five hundred a month?
Pearl would move in a heartbeat if I broke down and told her the truth. The whole unvarnished truth.
Right after she raked me over the coals for ever considering such a line of work.
As far as my sister knows, I’m still busting my ass in construction, running a crew, and on the side I escort rich women to dinners that end at the doorstep.
If she ever found out the rest—that I slept with women to cover her rent—she’d be horrified. Probably beat the hell out of me, then pack her bags before the bruises faded.
But she’s happy, living her best life. And my little sister is everything to me.
That’s why everything hinges on this weekend. Because if Lauren doesn’t believe in my business idea, then I’m out of options.
It will be back to turning tricks again.
A guaranteed payday that will guarantee I never have anything real with Reese. Oh sure, she might sleep with me, but she’d never marry me. Never have a child with a man who fucked women for money.
Who could blame her?
The thought makes my gut twist. I shove Pearl’s bill into my bag like hiding it will make it disappear and square my shoulders.
This weekend has to work. It just has to.
The museum gala is everything Lauren promised—grand chandeliers, champagne flutes that never empty, and Portland’s elite dripping in designer labels. All to celebrate a new wing in her late husband’s name, the kind of gesture only old money can pull off.
Lauren’s right at home, radiant in a jewel-toned gown and looking easily a decade younger than her peers.
“Do you hate these events as much as I do?” she asks with a grin, looping her arm through mine.
“It’s not that bad,” I reply, which earns me a dramatic eye-roll.
“Oh yes, it is. It’s terrible. And I fully expect you to be honest with me, Griffin.”
Okay, fine, it’s been awful. Endless small talk, fake smiles, and calculated networking. I’ve been around enough of the wealthy to know most of them only open their mouths when it benefits them. Charity is just the backdrop for their deals.
Lauren leans closer. “Please tell me I’m not like them.”
“You’re not.” My answer is immediate and honest. “I wouldn’t be hanging out with you like this if you were. Wouldn’t agree to overnight trips either.”
She studies me intently, her expression softening. “Something’s different about you tonight.”
Here I thought I was pulling it off, acting nonchalant and unbothered.
How much do I reveal about Reese? About the kiss still burned into me? The answer is immediate: not the place. Not the time. This is about business.
“Just tired,” I reply as I sip the champagne.
Not a lie. These jobs are kicking my ass and for a fraction of what I earn as an escort.
Still, happiness is always a valid pursuit.
“It’s more than that. How’s your sister?”
I exhale, running a hand down my tie. “Pearl is amazing, as usual, but her rent is going up. Again. ”
Her smile falters. “I’m sorry. That’s not fair to you. I know how hard you work.”
“Well, the thing is, Lauren.” I glance at the glittering crowd before returning my focus to her. “I don’t want to keep doing this. This lifestyle.”
Her hand tightens on my arm. “I can’t say I’m surprised. I’ve told you before, I think this takes too much out of you. Your talents are being wasted.”
I let out a short laugh. Plenty of clients would argue my talents are being put to use just fine.
“So?” she prompts gently. “You have a plan?”
“Yeah. I was a contractor for years. There’s a market for specialty work. Landscape architecture, custom spaces, gazebos, pergolas. That’s my niche. I’m good at it, and I love it.”
“That sounds wonderful, Griffin.” She slows near a marble statue, fingertips grazing the cool stone as she glances at me. “Where do you plan on setting up shop?”
“Tangled Vines.”
She arches a brow. “Isn’t that a bit small?”
“It’s growing. And there are some decent-sized cities around it. If I can get the business going there, I can branch out.”
She nods slowly. “Okay. And what’s standing in your way?”
I shift my weight as I gear up to ask the question. “I’ve got the tools, the skill. But I don’t have the cash flow for marketing, advertising, or some of the machinery that would make the work easier. I was hoping?—”
“—that I might lend a hand?” Her smirk is playful, knowing.
I duck my head, suddenly self-conscious. “Not a gift. A loan. I’ve got a solid business plan I’d like you to see.”
She studies me for a long beat, then nods. “I believe in you, Griffin. I don’t want you to keep doing this either. We’ll talk. But tell me—money’s a problem right now, isn’t it?”
And there it is. The million-dollar question.