CHAPTER SEVEN
P IPER
“And your challenge for today…” The dramatic reality show host voice booms out of the TV. “…the recipe must include chutney .”
The camera switches between each contestant’s reaction.
Kru’s face suddenly fills the screen, and something hot zips through me.
I’ve been holed up in Griffin’s living room since yesterday evening after work, binge watching the food truck reality show competition that featured Maverick Daly and Kru, among others.
Maverick’s girlfriend—or maybe she’s a wife now?
—Scarlett is featured on the show as well, another Bayshore native.
It’s wild to see people from my hometown on the big screen.
It’s even wilder to see a younger Kru here—flat-billed ballcaps galore, long hair on one side, shaved underneath. Every inch a punk chef.
This reality TV show was filmed maybe three years ago, and the Kru I met in that club—and now conduct business beside—seems so different from this kid on the screen.
Now that I see this punk chef on the show, I understand the wiliness in his gaze.
I’m connecting the dots about why he promised I’d come in second place.
All of it just makes me want to know more about him…and see what would happen if we found ourselves alone again in a hotel room for a night.
I reach for the bowl of popcorn at my side. I need to distract myself from those thoughts.
I couldn’t possibly make a return to sexy time with that man after all the frustrating incidents accumulating between us.
But I can’t possibly forget about the chemistry we shared, either.
I’ve settled in nicely to Griff’s house, I must say.
He’s a neat freak and keeps a cozy home.
Combined with the fact that he’s not often home, this might be a more ideal situation that I wanted to acknowledge.
I snuggle deeper into the black and rust red Cleveland Crushers throw blanket.
Most of my household things are boxed up in his garage, but all my essentials have been unpacked into the spare bedroom—so this feels like half vacation, half temporary housing.
My attention snaps back to the television once the story returns to Kru. He’s telling the camera how unfamiliar he is with chutney, but he’s relying on Google and vibes for this challenge. I fight back a smile as he winks. The man is too charming for his own good.
“Piper?”
The deep voice of my older brother shocks me out of my skin. I am too stunned to even gasp. All I can think of is the fact that I’m watching Kru on his big screen TV, and I absolutely must hide this evidence before Griff catches me.
“Griffin?” I squeak. I dive for the remote, but I lose it in the fluffy folds of the blanket.
“Whatcha doing?” His voice grows nearer, as do the thuds of his footsteps through the kitchen.
“Just watching some TV.” I struggle to keep my voice calm. Where the hell is this damn remote? “Are you back early?”
“Early?” He laughs as he towers over the back of the couch. “Do you even know what time it is?”
“Of course.” My voice is pinched as I lift up the blanket, fanning it out. No remote. And worse yet, I’m realizing I lost track of time in a huge way. “It’s…the evening.”
His gaze slides to the TV just as something pops and fizzes on screen. Then there’s a booming, “Holy shit, Kru! You exploded the chutney!”
Griffin squints at the screen. “Is that your landlord ?”
The panic zipping through me turns to heavy resignation. I give up looking for the remote. “…Yes.”
“Why are you watching him on television ?” The disgust in Griffin’s voice is unmistakable.
“I was just flipping through—”
“Is this related to the email notification I got yesterday that my account had been used to purchase a show?” Griffin’s confusion is now turning into suspicion.
He quirks a brow, a muscle in his square jaw ticking.
I can just imagine the pieces falling into place inside his head, and it makes me panic.
“Well…you see…” The familiar cold dread of needing to explain myself snakes through my veins.
Not just explain, but prove. Show Griffin, and my brothers in general, that I know what I’m doing.
But the words form a logjam inside me. I can’t squeak out anything, much less a perfectly acceptable “I wanted to watch it.”
Instead, I’m clotheslined by the weight of my needs: to make sure none of my brothers find out I’m intensely attracted to Kru, and to maintain the image that I am a cool, confident, capable younger sister who needs no man.
“I don’t know how you can stand to see his face all day and then also watch him on TV,” Griff mutters.
I’ve resorted to plunging my hands in between the couch cushions in a desperate bid to find the remote.
Has it been that long since I turned the TV on or adjusted the volume?
I finally make contact with it on the cushion seam beneath my butt.
I hurry to click the TV off and take a deep breath.
Maybe now I can start thinking straight.
“I’ve been trying to get an idea of my competition,” I finally say.
“Competition?” Griff sinks onto the far end of the couch, wincing a bit as he avoids overusing his injured leg.
“Bayshore is hosting a ‘best of’ food competition. I’m going to enter a dessert, of course. But Kru was there when Will from the Chamber came by and so he’s entering too. He’s determined to win.”
Griff scoffs. “Fat chance of that.”
“So I need to know as much as possible about my competition.” I gesture toward the dark TV, content that I’ve finally explained myself. “If I’m going to beat him, I must understand him.” My heart races as I wait for Griff’s reaction.
He tips his head from side to side as he contemplates the dark screen. “We know where he plans to live. Where he works. I could always orchestrate an untimely refrigeration failure. Maybe he wakes up with one broken ulna.”
“Ulna? Griff, I’m not talking sabotage or a back-alley beatdown here. Besides, do you really want to risk your career? You’re the one rich Keegan—your poor entrepreneur siblings need you.”
“Fair point. I’ll send Jett. He’ll pull some weird shit and never get caught.”
I snort laugh. “I appreciate your willingness to fuck a dude up for me. But that’s not what I’m after.
I just want to see what he might be planning.
This is the third food business he’s opened.
He’s already been on a reality TV show.” I don’t want to say the next words, but they’re ricocheting around my chest: He’s also been in my pants.
I can already feel the shock and disappointment that such a confession would elicit from Griffin and the rest of my father-brothers. They can never find out. It would just be the final nail in a coffin I never wanted them to put me in.
“He might have been on a reality TV show, but that doesn’t mean shit.
You have the cutest marshmallow shop in the country, and that’s a fact.
” Griffin jabs his finger in my direction as if this seals the deal.
His words warm me, but I also see them for what they are: a proud big brother who is slightly blind to reason when it comes to my shop’s reputation.
Griff wanders off into the kitchen. As he rummages around for snacks, I sigh and pull myself to standing.
I suppose it’s time to do something other than rot on the couch.
I do some light stretching and finally opt for some fresh air, since I may have spent my entire day off sealed in the living room— oops.
I step through Griff’s sliding glass door leading out to a small cement patio.
It’s already dark and I take a deep breath of the chilly night air.
I love the air in Bayshore in the fall—so crisp and clean.
After a good lungful, I feel like I can conquer the world, not to mention win the Best of Bayshore competition.
In between Kru-binging, I’ve been planning out my entry for the competition.
I’ve settled on a strawberry and s’mores torte, which has been one of the most requested items from customers since the shop opened.
I knew saving it for a special time would come in handy. That special time is now.
As my thoughts become more grounded, I begin to take notice of the neighbors. Specifically, the house directly behind Griff’s backyard.
There’s music. Voices. Laughter. Nothing terribly loud, but it piques my interest. I step barefoot over the patchy grass of his backyard—professional hockey players barely have time to keep a yard seeded, apparently—drifting closer to where the sound is coming from.
Deep male laughter booms through the night as bass-heavy music thumps in the distance. A thinning barrier of honeysuckle and roses divides the back of Griffin’s lot from his neighbor’s, along with a chain link fence. Somehow, he can’t keep grass alive, but the roses are looking excellent.
Like the Nosy Nancy I am, I push aside some of the honeysuckle and peer through the greenery.
A similar bungalow style home is in the lot behind Griff’s.
The backyard is a postage stamp, but unlike Griff's, it has a stone patio, a fire pit, and a whole crew of large, beefy men standing around, drinking beers and grilling.
Something warm churns to life inside me. The skin on my forearms prickles.
I’m looking into a stranger’s backyard, but it feels familiar.
The faces. The wafting smell of cooking meat. That unmistakable laugh I’d just heard coming out of the TV speakers…
I straighten as the realization begins churning through my limbs.
A broad-shouldered man wearing a gray tee and dark jeans is at the grill.
He’s wearing a flat-billed ballcap backwards, chestnut hair peeking out from the sides.
Tattoos cover his forearms. He’s regaling his audience with a story in his rich, bass voice.
I’m looking at Kru.
And the man at his side, in black pants and a tight black tee? Maverick Daly.