Chapter Nine Maren #2
She wanted to say it to Paige, to the comment section, to every person who thought fun had to be shallow and useful had to be dull.
See?
This was content. Real content. Human content. The kind that made people look twice because it revealed something they had not understood before.
Griffin was good on camera because he was not trying to be good on camera.
He was good because he cared.
And the camera loved care when it did not come wrapped in performance.
Maren moved closer for a shot of his hands positioning Miles’s arm.
Griffin glanced down at her.
“Too close?” he asked quietly.
“To the shot or to you?”
The words left her mouth before she could stop them.
His hand stilled on Miles’s shoulder.
Miles looked between them. “Should I leave?”
“No,” Griffin said.
“Yes,” Maren said.
Miles nodded slowly. “That clears it up.”
Cooper, watching from the shade, called, “Stay. You are structural.”
Miles remained.
Maren cleared her throat and stepped back half an inch. “Shot is good.”
Griffin’s gaze held hers for one extra beat.
Then he continued.
They finished the practical demo with Miles only mildly traumatized.
The crowd applauded.
A kid near the front shouted, “Do Tyler next!”
“No,” everyone said.
Maren ended the clip and checked the footage.
Excellent.
Actually excellent.
Griffin stepped beside her, close enough to see the screen. “Did it work?”
She looked up.
He was not asking because he wanted praise.
Not only that, anyway.
He was asking because this mattered now.
Because he had let her make her point, and some part of him wanted to know if she had.
Maren gave him the truth.
“Yes,” she said. “It really did.”
His shoulders dropped almost imperceptibly.
That tiny release felt intimate.
Too intimate for a sand lane full of hockey players.
So naturally, Tyler ruined it.
“Now the romantic version!” he shouted.
The crowd cheered.
Maren closed her eyes.
Griffin said, “No.”
The crowd booed.
Maren turned to face him. “We did agree to three feet.”
“I do not recall signing paperwork.”
“Verbal agreements are binding in the court of public opinion.”
“Public opinion is currently unstable.”
“True.”
“And you said we were not making you a swooning prop.”
“We are not.”
“Then what are we doing?”
She glanced around, searching for an angle that would keep the moment funny without cheapening the real demo. Her gaze landed on the snack shack window.
Perfect.
“Mild inconvenience,” she said.
Griffin looked concerned. “Why did that sound like the beginning of a threat?”
She pointed to the snack shack.
Ava froze.
Then narrowed her eyes. “Maren.”
“Tiny bit.”
“No.”
“For art.”
“No.”
“For education.”
“Absolutely no.”
Maren turned to Griffin. “I have suffered a tragic fry shortage.”
Ava gasped like Maren had cursed in church.
Nate laughed so hard he leaned against the counter.
Griffin stared at Maren. “That is your injury?”
“Yes.”
“A fry shortage.”
“Emotionally devastating. Physically survivable. Safe for romance-adjacent carrying.”
Ava pointed a fry basket at her. “You are on thin ice.”
“We are at a lake,” Tyler yelled.
Griffin shot him a look.
Tyler whispered, “Worth it.”
Maren placed one hand dramatically over her stomach and staggered two steps. “I do not know if I can make it to the snack shack.”
Griffin’s expression went flat.
But his eyes.
His eyes warmed.
That tiny change made Maren’s performance wobble.
“You look fine,” he said.
“I am brave.”
“You are ridiculous.”
“You say that like it is not why the views are up.”
The crowd ooohed.
Maren bowed slightly, then clutched her imaginary wound.
Griffin moved closer.
Too close.
He lowered his voice so only she could hear. “You sure?”
Two words.
Simple.
Practical.
Still enough to make her throat tighten.
Because he was not asking about the bit.
Not entirely.
You sure I can touch you?
You sure this is okay?
You sure the crowd is not too much?
Maren looked at him, and for one second she saw the boy he had told her about that morning. Thirteen, listening for what people needed before they said it. Learning to help by watching. Learning to notice because missing something cost too much.
Her heart turned over.
Very inconvenient.
“I’m sure,” she said softly.
Griffin nodded once.
Then he bent and lifted her.
Maren had imagined this would be funny.
It was not.
It was, at first, logistically surprising.
One second she was standing on the sand, hand pressed to her very fake fry-related distress. The next, Griffin’s arm was behind her back, his other arm beneath her knees, and she was against his chest like she weighed absolutely nothing.
The crowd screamed.
Tyler screamed louder.
Beckett yelled something about framing.
Ava shouted, “Do not drop her or the fries are revoked!”
But Maren barely heard any of it.
Because Griffin Hayes was carrying her.
Carefully.
Securely.
Not like a joke. Not like a prop. Not like a man showing off.
Like she was someone he had decided not to let fall.
His chest was warm against her side. His arm under her knees was solid. Her hand had landed on his shoulder without permission from her brain, fingers curling into the fabric of his T-shirt.
And his face was right there.
Close enough that she could see the sunlight catching in the dark stubble along his jaw. Close enough to see the exact moment his controlled expression slipped.
Just a little.
Just for her.
Maren’s smile vanished.
Not on purpose.
It simply could not survive the intensity in his eyes.
He took one step.
Then another.
Three feet, she reminded herself.
That was all.
Three feet.
Safe.
Contained.
Romance-adjacent.
He stopped after exactly three steps because of course he did.
The crowd groaned.
“Three feet,” Griffin said.
His voice was low.
Maren swallowed.
“Very rule-abiding.”
“You said three.”
“You counted?”
“I always count.”
“I am learning that.”
His gaze dropped to her mouth.
The world tilted.
No.
Not the world.
Her.
She tilted.
Because the crowd had blurred and the bit had thinned and Griffin’s arms were still around her like putting her down required a decision he had not made yet.
Maren heard her own breath.
Griffin heard it too.
His eyes lifted back to hers.
For one wild, quiet second, she thought he might kiss her in front of everyone.
Not because of the challenge.
Not because of the comments.
Because the space between them had run out of places to hide.
Then Ava yelled, “Fries are getting cold!”