Chapter Ten Griffin
Griffin Hayes had two rules for social media.
Do not post angry.
Do not post anything Tyler called iconic until at least one adult had reviewed it.
Technically, Griffin was not angry.
He was calm.
Very calm.
The kind of calm that happened when his body had moved past irritation, past frustration, past the familiar tightness of having to stop a problem before it spread, and into something colder. Sharper. Cleaner.
Maren’s cousin had watched a clip of him carrying her three feet during a safety demonstration and somehow decided the right response was to make Maren feel small.
Again.
Are you seriously letting him carry you now?
Griffin had not needed to read the rest.
He knew what the rest meant.
Letting.
As if Maren had not designed the entire segment.
As if she had not built the framing, adapted the public suggestion, protected the safety piece, kept the tone funny without making the skill stupid, and turned three minutes of emergency carry education into something the crowd would remember.
As if the only thing worth noticing was that a man had picked her up.
That was what made Griffin calm.
Too calm.
Because he understood, all at once, the shape of what kept hurting her.
Not one person. Not one comment. Not one cousin with a gift for polished condescension.
A pattern.
People looking at Maren Brooks and seeing the shine before the work. The charm before the strategy. The romance before the brain. The body before the plan.
He had done it too.
Maybe not the same way.
Maybe not cruelly.
But he had seen her as chaos before he saw how carefully she built it.
The realization sat in his chest like a hit he deserved.
“Give me your phone,” he said to Tyler.
Tyler clutched it harder. “I need more information before surrendering property.”
Griffin held out his hand.
Tyler looked at Maren.
Maren looked like she had forgotten how to breathe.
That made Griffin’s calm even colder.
“Griffin,” she said.
He looked at her.
He had no interest in taking her choice away. No interest in grabbing her phone, posting the carry clip, answering Paige publicly, or turning Maren’s private hurt into content because he felt protective and wanted somewhere to put it.
He had done enough damage by making choices for people under the excuse of helping.
This was not that.
At least he hoped it was not.
“What are you posting?” Maren asked.
“The part everyone keeps missing.”
Her eyes searched his face.
Suspicion first. Then confusion. Then something more fragile that she covered immediately.
“You cannot fight my cousin in the comments.”
“I am not fighting anyone in the comments.”
“Good, because Paige would weaponize grammar and I am not emotionally prepared to watch you learn semicolon aggression.”
Tyler gasped. “Semicolon aggression?”
Cooper, standing nearby with a lemonade and an expression that suggested he had become invested against his will, said, “Paige sounds exhausting.”
“She is,” Maren said, then froze like the answer had escaped without permission.
Griffin’s jaw tightened.
Tyler looked between them and slowly, reverently, handed Griffin the phone.
“I trust you,” Tyler said.
Griffin looked down at him. “That is reckless.”
“I contain multitudes.”
“Unfortunately.”
Maren stepped closer. “Hayes.”
He stopped with Tyler’s phone in his hand and gave her his full attention.
That mattered.
It had to matter.
“What?” he asked.
The word came out softer than he expected.
Her chin lifted. “Do not make me look pathetic.”
The sentence hit hard enough to make his fingers tighten around the phone.
There were things he wanted to say.
You never look pathetic.
Who made you think being hurt is pathetic?
I am sorry I ever made you feel like my concern was another spotlight.
None of those belonged in front of Tyler, Cooper, Ava, Nate, Beckett, half the Lake Briar crowd, and the teenager near the rope line currently pretending not to film them.
So Griffin said the truest thing he could keep steady.
“I would not know how.”
Maren’s expression changed.
Only for a second.
Her mouth parted slightly. Her eyes went unguarded, and Griffin saw the sentence land somewhere deeper than he had intended. Or exactly as deep as he had intended, which was worse.
Then she looked away first.
“Okay,” she said.
One word.
Permission.
Trust.
A bad idea with a pulse.
Griffin turned to Tyler’s phone before he could do something reckless, like touch her hand in front of everyone and forget they were still being watched.
Tyler hovered. “I have three hundred apps, but emotionally, I only use seven.”
“Where is the video?”
“Pinned folder labeled Lake Chaos.”
“Of course.”
“It was that or Crimes with Sunscreen.”
Griffin found the footage from the safety segment. Not the carry. Not the crowd screaming. Not the moment his arms had gone around Maren and every organized thought in his head had stepped off a dock.
Before that.
The part where Maren had explained the setup.
Her voice behind the camera, clear and quick.
Her hands moving in frame as she adjusted the angle.
Griffin demonstrating with Miles. Maren correcting Tyler when he tried to make injury funny.
Maren saying, We are not making a serious emergency skill look like a joke.
The crowd quieting. Kids watching. Griffin explaining the carry.
Maren reframing the whole thing so people understood why it mattered.
That was the story.
Not his arms.
Not her dress.
Not romance.
Her work.
He trimmed the clip quickly, jaw tight with concentration, then opened the caption box.
Tyler tried to peer over his arm.
Griffin shifted the phone away.
Tyler whispered, “Creative secrecy.”
Cooper said, “Or survival.”
Griffin typed.
Then deleted half of it because the first version sounded too angry.
Do not post angry.
He tried again.
Behind every viral moment is someone building the shape of it.
Maren Brooks took a crowd suggestion, protected the safety piece, directed the footage, kept the tone sharp, and made emergency carry basics something people actually stopped to watch.
That is not luck.
That is not a “little romance storyline.”
That is the work.
He stared at the last line.
Too much?
Maybe.
Good.
He hit post before he could talk himself out of it.
Tyler’s phone buzzed immediately.
Then again.
Then again.
The clip was live on Tyler’s account, not the official Lake Briar page, which meant it was messier, less polished, and somehow more honest. Tyler had more followers than he deserved because the internet rewarded chaos when it had cheekbones and no shame.
The first comment appeared in seconds.
Okay this is actually so cool. I did not even realize how much planning went into that.
Then another.
Maren is GOOD good.
Another.
This is the behind-the-scenes content I want.
Another.
Not Griffin defending her work better than half the people who know her???
Griffin stopped reading.
Maren had gone very still beside him.
He handed Tyler’s phone back.
Tyler looked at the post and blinked.
“Oh,” Tyler said.
For once, no joke followed.
Good.
Griffin turned to Maren.
She stared at the screen in Tyler’s hand.
Not smiling now.
Not pretending.
Her face was too open, which meant she would close it any second.
He waited.
Her throat moved.
“You posted that from Tyler’s account,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“More reach.”
She looked at him then.
A sharp, incredulous laugh slipped out of her. “That is not the reason.”
“It is a reason.”
“Griffin.”
His name in her voice nearly undid him.
He had heard it teasing. Challenging. Warning. Bright.
This was different.
Soft enough to be dangerous.
He kept his hands loose at his sides.
“Because if I posted it from Lake Briar, it would look like brand correction. If I posted it from mine, it would look like I was making myself the hero of your work. Tyler’s account is chaos. People trust chaos when it accidentally tells the truth.”
Tyler looked moved. “That is the nicest insult anyone has ever given me.”
Cooper patted his shoulder once. “Frame it.”
Maren stared at Griffin.
The noise of the beach moved around them, but no one pushed closer. Ava had intercepted Beckett with a look. Nate had one hand on Tyler’s shoulder, steering him away before he could ruin the moment by being Tyler.
For once, the team gave them space.
Maren’s eyes stayed on Griffin’s.
“You thought through all of that?”
“Yes.”
“For me?”
The question was almost too quiet.
There were many possible answers.
For the event.
For the clip.
For accuracy.
For the team.
Because Paige annoyed me.
Because you looked like you needed someone to name the right thing for once.
He chose the simplest.
“Yes.”
Her breath caught.
Barely.
Enough.
Griffin saw it, and every disciplined part of him went still.
Maren looked away, but this time she did not smile to cover it.
That might have been more dangerous than if she had.
“Thank you,” she said.
Two words.
No sparkle.
No armor.
No joke.
Griffin felt them like a hand against his chest.
“You are welcome.”
Her eyes came back to his.
For one suspended second, the whole morning seemed to narrow to the few feet between them.
Then Tyler screamed from somewhere behind Nate’s hand, “THE COMMENTS ARE CALLING HIM A WORK WIFE!”
The moment shattered.
Maren blinked.
Griffin closed his eyes.
“No,” he said.
Tyler continued, muffled now, probably because Nate had put a towel over his head. “WORK HUSBAND? STRUCTURAL BOYFRIEND? RESPONSIBLE MUSE?”
“Run,” Nate said.
Tyler took off.
Griffin opened his eyes and looked at Maren.
She was biting back a laugh.
Good.
He would take that.
Even if he was about to make Tyler run until his ancestors were tired.
Maren lifted one hand. “For the record, I did not create structural boyfriend.”
“You are enjoying it.”
“A little.”
“That phrase also dies here.”
“Tragic. It had legs.”
“No.”
“Forearms?”
“Maren.”
She laughed then.
Real.
Warm.
A little shaky at the edges, but real.
Griffin let himself have half a second of satisfaction before Denise appeared with a tablet and a look that meant something had either gone very right or very wrong.