Chapter One
EMMA
Present Day
He’s coming today, and it leaves the same lump in my throat as it has for as long as I can remember.
Griffin Kennedy is a regular fixture at our house, so this feeling is irrational.
I’ve been seeing him here, twice a month, since I was a kid, but every passing year has left me more breathless in his enormous presence.
Six-foot-four, thick muscles stretching his thin shirts, eyes so blue they barely seem real.
Come on, Emma. He’s your dad’s best friend. He’s forty years old. He’s…
He’s perfect. I’ve noticed the way he looks at me. How he licks his dry lips and awkwardly fumbles over his words after a long session of taking my body in. Or maybe that’s what I want to believe. Maybe I’m overthinking it, and Griffin’s reactions to me are normal.
I wouldn’t know any better. He’s the first man I’ve ever been interested in. He’s the first man I’ve wanted to touch and feel and… have inside me.
I kick myself off the living room sofa and start wandering through the house.
A splash of water on my face to clear my head—it’s as good a plan as any.
I need a distraction. Anything will do, as long as it breaks the mental torture I’m putting myself through.
My feelings for Griffin are ridiculous. He’s my dad’s oldest friend, and he’s been around so long we might as well call him part of the furniture.
Still, I can’t help but think of him late at night when I’m on my own. His rough hands wrapped around my waist, his lips against mine while we lose ourselves in each other. Even now, the afterthought is enough to warm my belly and flush my cheeks.
“Jesus Christ,” Dad murmurs as I pass his study. Cold water to the face isn’t going to settle the butterflies, but a chat with my dad will. It came at the perfect time.
“Dad? What’s going on?” I ask, stepping into the doorway. He’s sitting behind his glass desk, thumbing the pages of a newspaper. His furrowed brow, pursed lips, and a scowl I rarely see on him make his annoyance evident.
“It’s happened again,” Dad’s dour tone speaks volumes. He doesn’t have to elaborate for me to know what he’s talking about. There’s been another crucifixion. It’s been two years since the last. The mysterious vigilante will no doubt go back into hiding for a few more before the next.
“The worst part about it is the media’s starting to side with the prick. They’re touting him as some sort of hero.”
I tended to side with them. Killer, though he might be, the vigilante has saved countless lives with his heroism. Sex trafficking rings, cold-blooded murderers, rapists; he kills them all, without discrimination, to make our world a safer place.
I don’t say this to my dad. It’d piss him off even more.
There’s no particular reason for his interest in the vigilante, apart from wanting to be a supersleuth and catch the guy.
But if the cops can’t do it, what’s he going to do about it?
If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say his need to find the criminal stems from his friendship with Griffin.
Griffin’s a detective, and a damned fine one.
He talks about putting bad guys away all the time, and Dad probably wants to get some kind of one-up on his stories.
If I can catch the vigilante, I’ll be a local hero-kind-of vibe.
“Don’t beat yourself up about it,” I say, doing my best to settle his nerves. “It’s just going to put you in a bad mood.”
Dad raises his head from the newspaper, shutting it with a frantic swing. A balled fist crumples one edge, but he forces a smile to his face.
“You’re right,” he says, solemnly. “We’ve got the barbeque anyway. I shouldn’t work myself up before it.” A chuckle accompanies his words, but it only deepens the crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes.
“Are you off tonight?” he asks.
“Nope, I’m heading in at six,” I say, resting my shoulder against the doorframe.
Dad inspects his watch. “Oh shit, you’re going to miss all of the fun.”
I would, if I called hanging out with middle-aged men and their wives fun. As it is, I’ll be sticking around to spend a few minutes with Griffin and then I am heading out to work. If it weren’t for Griffin, I’d be gone already.
“They just gave me that promotion.” I bring a smile to my face. “I don’t want them to think I’m going to start slacking right after I’ve moved up a few steps.”
“That’s my girl.” Dad points a finger gun at me. “Working hard and kicking ass.”
“When is everyone arriving?” I shift the conversation, mostly curious to know how long I’ll have with my handsome crush.
“Twenty minutes, give or take. But I’d put it closer to half an hour. You know how the usual crowd can be,” Dad snickers.
So soon? I’m not ready. I’ve been lazing around in pink pajama pants and a matching shirt all morning. Griffin usually gets here early. I can’t let him see me like this. It’ll be so embarrassing.
“Oh, jeez, well let me start getting ready then.” I’m out the door before the last word leaves my lips.
Dad doesn’t stop me. I don’t make it very far before I can hear the newspaper opening again. Some things are out of our control for a reason, and my dad would be wise to learn that. Not everyone can be a cop; not everyone can fight crime.
Some people are just born different.
***
After a quick shower, I pat my face with a light application of makeup – partly for my shift at Legends Bar and Grill later, but mostly for Griffin – and I’m all set. From my bedroom, I can hear the festivities have begun. People are speaking, laughter follows, and the cycle repeats itself.
I’ve got an hour and a half to burn, before I have to head to work and I don’t want to waste a second of that time without Griffin. I make my way through the hallway, which leads into the dining room and kitchen.
“There she is,” Dad says.
“Emma,” Scott Ellis says, opening his arms for a hug.
Scott is a short, stout man, whose eyes meet mine when we stand face-to-face.
In the time I’ve known him, I haven’t seen his chubby cheeks without a smile stretched across them.
With the long greying beard he sports, he’s our go-to Santa at every Christmas party.
I make my way through the kitchen, greeting the rest of dad’s friends one by one. To my dismay, none of them is Griffin. He’s usually early…
I hope nothing’s happened to him on the way over.
Outside, the jovial voices of dad’s friends – although mostly their wives – can be heard.
Dad usually invites husbands and wives to these events, and it’s Griffin and Dad who are the single ones.
On more than one occasion, they’ve jokingly said they’re the only partner the other needs.
In some ways, I believe it. After my mom passed, Griffin was a strong pillar for Dad to lean on.
If I had to pinpoint the real foundation of their friendship, it would be the day Mom passed.
I linger in the kitchen with Dad and his work buddies, listening to them gossip about a colleague. My dad’s a financial advisor, and a lot of the technical jargon is lost on me, but I chuckle when they do, pretending I get the punchlines.
Dad’s been saucing steaks since I got here, and progress is slow as he drinks beers and cracks jokes. But we stand there a while, lost in conversation, and then the front door opens. The open plan layout of our house gives us a full view of the living room from the kitchen.
The only person I care to see today passes through the doorway. Even on such a beautiful day, with the sun shining and the birds chirping, all I want to see is Griffin Kennedy. He’s dressed in a pair of jeans and a brown leather jacket.
“Sorry I’m late, Mark,” Griffin says. He’s holding a paper bag in one hand, and six beers in the other. “Traffic was hell getting here.”
“No worries, pal. No worries at all,” Dad says, breaking away from his meat duties. He rinses his hands and walks over to greet Griffin – who’s made it over to the kitchen counter – with a hug.
Griffin’s enormous frame stretches his jacket as he pats my dad on the back. His head hovers over one shoulder, and his gaze never breaks from mine. There’s no smile on his face, and I couldn’t read what his expression meant if I wanted to.
His piercing blue eyes, granite jaw lined with salt-and-pepper stubble, and smoldering intensity make him impossible to look away from.
“Hey, Em.” His face finally cracks in a bright smile, and I push towards him for a hug.
“Hey, Griff.” My hands don’t touch each other when I wrap myself around his gigantic body. He gives me a few pats on the back, and I have to force myself to pull away from him before it gets awkward.
Damn, he smells good.
Griffin pulls his jacket off, and tosses it over one of the barstools. The movement stretches his shirt across his chest, and my brain completely short-circuits.
“What’s with the gun and badge?” Dad asks, gesturing towards them on his belt.
Griffin sighs. “Part of my traffic detail. Forgot to take them off before I came in.”
No wonder he’s dressed so snappily. He doesn’t wear a beat-cop uniform; Griffin has his own. He looks damned fine in it.
“I’ll take ‘em back to the car, give me a sec,” he says, unclipping both before he’s out of the front door.
“What a workaholic,” Dad snickers, going back to his cooking.
Workaholic isn’t the term I’d use, oh no.
Like the vigilante in the paper, Griffin Kennedy is trying to make this world a safer place.
If that means sacrificing a Saturday morning in some attempt to bring a criminal in, he’s willing to do it.
It’s honorable. He’s fighting for the preservation of law and order, and it’s one of the many things that draw me to him.
A champion’s resolve, a fighting spirit, and a good heart?
Griffin Kennedy is perfection.