Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
“If the cardio kills me, I want this hill named after me,” Claire said, wheezing dramatically as they finally reached the top of the stone lane that curled behind the church, plastic bag dragging in each hand. “You said walkable from the tram stop. You didn’t say vertical.”
A row of old-world houses stood shoulder to shoulder up the steepest hill in St. Ives town. Rafael’s, unfortunately, was at the end. She noticed the same black SUV parked discreetly in front that had tailed them to the beach and the markets. Rafael’s men, always close.
Brown brick on the ground floor, sturdy, like it had weathered a hundred winters without complaint. Above it, jet-black-painted wood, the gable steep and triangular. White-trimmed windows and door, evenly spaced like watchful eyes. The contrast was striking.
It didn’t whisper wealth, but warmth. Like someone had dropped a slice of a Dutch coastal village on a St. Ives hillside.
This was his place?
She wasn’t sure what she expected, but not this. This was historical. Winsome. And there, beside the door: a brass bell. Rafael Griffin had a bell, as though he were some kind of quaint European innkeeper.
Still bemused, she yanked—
And startled when it swung open almost immediately.
Light grey t-shirt. Black trackpants, the kind you wore to the gym, not the kind you slept in. Bare feet. His hair was mussed in a way that said post-shower or post-sin. Her brain slipped from fairy tale to fever dream in under a second.
“Evening,” he said, voice like gravel soaked in rain. His eyes tracked her, top to toe. She felt every inch of that inspection like a current beneath her skin.
“Hello!” Claire kicked off her sneakers and charged straight in as though she’d been there a hundred times. “Where’s the kitchen? My arms are dying.”
Rafael stepped back to let her through.
“I didn’t expect your house to be like this,” Bea breathed, glancing back at him as she removed her sandals. He took the bags from her.
“I get enough concrete at work,” he explained.
“It’s…charming.”
“Glad you like it.”
They navigated a narrow hallway with timber floors and high ceilings. Mismatched black-and-white photographs lined the wall. One showed a boy of around six grinning wildly with his arm thrown around a younger girl. Bea’s chest twinged. The boy was probably Rafael. The girl was a mystery.
Before she could ask, she saw it. A piece of paper, unevenly cut, one corner torn. Across the top, written in large letters that grew smaller and more squished as space ran out: certificate of godfather, all lowercase. Beneath were Rafael’s name and Nico’s.
A stick figure of a tall man with impossible muscles beside a smaller, equally muscled boy, both clutching basketballs, filled half the page. The margins were crowded with stamps: GREAT JOB!, COOL!, a big thumbs-up, each one pressed too hard or not hard enough.
A smile tugged wide at her mouth. Nico had told her about this, that he’d made it for Rafael after asking him to be his godfather at age eight.
“You hung it up.” The smile in her voice was unmistakable.
“Official documents belong on the wall.”
“The likeness is startling,” she drawled.
“He captured my best feature.” Rafael tapped lightly on the glass. “Biceps.”
A giggle slipped out. She lifted her gaze, only to find his green eyes waiting. Steady, unblinking. The amusement faded, replaced by something heavier. Her ribs felt too small for the ache blooming there.
“I’m right here, by the way. In case you two forgot.” Claire broke the spell.
She fumbled for motion, slipping past Rafael into the open space. He fell into stride behind her.
The back living area was a blend of comfort and testosterone.
A caramel leather couch took center stage, flanked by deep green pillows and a round ottoman, facing a large flat screen.
The whole back wall was made of glass, sunlight pouring in; through it she spied a spacious outdoor area.
In the far corner, a narrow boxing bag hung, Muay Thai gloves tossed beneath.
Under a floating shelf of medals and trophies, a turntable rested beside a stack of worn vinyl.
Her eyes wandered greedily the way her fingers wanted to, drawn to the details. Everything in the room taught her something new. On the coffee table, a half-eaten nougat bar sat neatly rewrapped beside the remote. On a side table, a pen lay across a notebook stuffed with small square ticket stubs.
The kitchen and dining were just off the lounge. Dark green cabinetry, exposed brick. A mix of industrial and comfort, as though a pub had grown up and gone to architecture school.
Claire’s groceries were spread across the island, half unpacked already. Rafael set Bea’s bags beside them. “You carried all of this up the hill?”
“Yes,” Claire deadpanned. “You could’ve warned us about the hill from hell.”
“I did offer to pick you up.” He didn’t look at her, but it landed where he intended.
Bea felt her face warm. “It’s not like Google Maps tells you the street is aspiring to be a ski slope.”
He looked amused. Dangerous, but amused. “Want the upstairs tour?”
“Obviously,” Claire chirped, already heading for the landing.
There were only three doors off the second-floor hallway. Claire poked her head into each one, narrating.
“Office—predictable. Bathroom—cleaner than expected. Guest room—oh wait, there isn’t one.”
Bea stepped into the hall just as Rafael’s voice came behind her. “Guests sleep in my room. Or not at all.”
Her stomach dropped like an elevator cable had snapped. If she didn’t make eye contact, she wouldn’t have to respond to that.
The door to the third room was open. The one she was dying to see inside but also pretending not to be dying to see inside. His.
“Go see, little Bea,” he challenged. “You’ve come all this way.”
It was just a bedroom. Except it wasn’t.
Dark, sprawling, sexier than any bedroom had a right to be.
Two rooms had been combined to form one massive den of wood and charcoal.
Exposed brick, layered rugs, an enormous black bed that looked like the place modesty came to surrender.
A pull-up bar gleamed above the wardrobe door.
She hadn’t even stepped in, and already she was thinking very dirty thoughts.
A large sliding-glass door opened onto a wide balcony. Claire called from out there. “Bea! Get out here. The view’s insane.”
Bea followed her voice.
The balcony stretched wide, a high-top table and four chairs perfectly arranged.
She held onto the railing. It overlooked the whole of St. Ives town—spires, rooftops, cobbled paths curling down the hill.
The sea glinted silver in the distance. November the days got warmer and longer but the sun was finally dipping, casting the streets in amber and cobalt.
“Okay, I forgive you.” Claire sighed. “This view makes up for my aching calves.”
The bell peeled downstairs.
“That’ll be Duret,” he said. But before he left, he dropped one last dig. “Make yourself at home, little Bea.”
Her body went still, as if the words had rooted her to the spot. He didn’t wait for a reply. Just vanished down the stairs.
“Just checking you still have a pulse?” Claire teased when Rafael was out of earshot.
“Barely.”
Downstairs they heard footsteps. Voices. Male laughter.
Claire pushed off the rail. “Come on. Let’s go cook something spicy enough to explain the red in your cheeks.”
By the time they’d joined the men, Laurent was inspecting the wine rack. He wore a crisp white t-shirt and charcoal gym pants similar to Rafael.
“Bonsoir, Claire, Bea.”
Bea couldn’t be sure since she hadn’t spent that much time with him, but she swore Laurent spoke more French in Claire’s presence.
Claire blinked. “Hello, Laurent,” she said after a beat, then started unpacking the bags methodically. “Kitchen’s ours. Feel free to do push-ups or something. You’re not required.”
Rafael glanced at Bea as if to check, then scooped up a basketball from who knew where.
“Call us if the flames get out of hand,” Laurent said.
They pushed the glass panels wide and slipped through the screen doors, the mesh sliding closing in their wake. A beat later, the sound of dribbling echoed back. Hoops under the evening sky.
Claire leaned in close and whispered, “I was not emotionally prepared for the amount of biceps tonight.”
Bea snorted a laugh, then jabbed her elbow into Claire’s side. “Shhh, if they hear you—”
“I’m just saying, it’s like being in those restaurants where the food might not be that good, but the view is amazing.”
They got to work quickly—Claire manning the cutting board, Bea at the stove.
She’d learned since coming to the UR how to make rice the ‘non-Asian way,’ pot on the stove, timing it by instinct until every grain came out fluffy.
Garlic cracked in the oil, onions next, then vegetables tossed with sesame and soy, and plated.
Finally, thin strips of beef hit, just seared.
She poured the marinade in and it bubbled in minutes, fragrant and rich.
From outside came the sudden halt of a basketball bounce. “Can we come in now?”
“Let’s eat!” Claire called as Bea finished setting the table with the bowls and chopsticks she’d unearthed in Rafael’s drawers.
The men filed back in, quick to abandon the game. Rafael took the seat next to Bea. “Smells good,” he said.
“Beya Slaya makes her own bulgogi marinade now,” Claire announced proudly. “From scratch.”
“Beya Slaya?” Rafael echoed, dishing out rice for everyone.
“She used to perform full Beyoncé routines in kindergarten. I was going to manage her career.”
“She made business cards.”
“You needed marketing.”
“You spelled Beyoncé wrong,” Bea said, dousing her beef in ssamjang.
Claire looked at Rafael and Laurent. “Minor detail, am I right? The vision was strong.”
“Do you still sing?” Rafael asked. He bit into a snow pea and Bea smiled when she heard it make a slight crunch.
“Mostly to myself. Usually when I’m happy.”