Chapter 14 Griff
GRIFF
Savannah's saying goodbye to Emma at the front door, all smiles and wedding talk.
I lean against the kitchen doorframe, watching the way her ass looks in those jeans when she bends to hug Emma.
Been a week since she came back, and I still can't get used to having her here.
The way she moves through our house like she belongs, filling the gap that we never knew was missing.
I head to the front door, then she spins around after Emma leaves, nearly jumps out of her skin when she sees me standing there.
"Just admiring the view," I say, not hiding what I'm looking at.
Her cheeks go pink, that particular shade that always made something primitive stir in my chest. "Like you must have been when I was sleepwalking. I know you were talking about me."
I push off the doorframe, take a step closer. Close enough to see that flush spreading down her neck, disappearing under her sweater. Makes me wonder what else might be reacting to having me this close.
"You shouldn't flatter yourself," she says, but her voice comes out breathier than she probably wants.
"I don't need to." Another step. She's backed against the wall now, nowhere to run. The way her pupils dilate tells me everything I need to know about how this proximity is affecting her. "Emma fill you in on all the girly wedding shit?"
"It's called planning." She lifts her chin, trying to look defiant, but I can see her pulse jumping in her throat. Fast and hard, like a hummingbird's wings. "And yes, including the flower arranging workshop later.”
"Flowers." Can't keep the amusement out of my voice. The irony isn't lost on me. “I could volunteer to help because I’m so good with my hands."
The double meaning isn't lost on her either. That blush deepens, spreads down what I can see of her chest. Her breathing's getting shallow, and she's doing that thing where she runs her tongue across her bottom lip when she's nervous.
“You and flowers. Please,” she says as she rolls her eyes.
I’m enjoying this new game with Savannah. Something we haven’t played since she got here. We did when we first went out on a date, but it was nothing like it is now. Then, again. Nothing is the way it is now.
"You were staring. Same way you're staring now."
And she is. Her eyes keep drifting to my mouth, my hands, back up to my eyes like she can't help herself. Like she's remembering things she shouldn't be remembering. The way I used to kiss her against this same wall. The way she used to melt when I got close like this.
I lean in, close enough that my breath stirs the loose strands of hair around her face. "What exactly were you and Emma measuring anyway?"
"I told you. Flowers."
"Really?" I brace one hand against the wall beside her head, effectively caging her in. "Because from what I heard, it sounded more like you two were discussing size. Length. Girth."
Her face goes scarlet. "God, you're impossible."
"I'm thorough. There's a difference." I let my eyes drop to her mouth, then back up. "I could show you the difference if you like. In daylight. Maybe having a better view would make you change your mind about... measurements."
She swallows hard, and I watch the movement of her throat. Want to press my lips there, feel that rapid pulse against my tongue.
"I have wedding stuff to do," she whispers, but she doesn't move away.
"Do you?" I lean closer, close enough that our bodies are almost touching. Can feel the heat radiating off her skin. "Or are you just looking for an excuse to run away again?"
"I'm not running."
"No? Then why won't you look at me?"
She does then, meets my eyes with a mixture of defiance and something that looks suspiciously like want. "Happy now?"
"Getting there." My phone buzzes, breaking the moment. She jumps like she's been caught doing something she shouldn't.
"Shit," she mutters, checking her own phone. "Cheryl's car won't start. She was supposed to give me a ride to the workshop."
Of course it won't. God knows why Dax, put one of his sisters as the maid-of-honor. Especially Cheryl. She's about as reliable as a chocolate teapot. "Shocking."
"It's not funny, Griff. I promised Emma I'd be there. She said she couldn’t make this one, but would do the next. Schools and politics and all that.”
Yeah, Emma always seems to have one meeting, after another.
Sometimes I wonder if she is trying to get in office or really just a primary school teacher.
The disappointment in her voice does something weird to my chest. Makes me want to fix it, even though getting involved in wedding planning sounds like my personal version of hell.
"I could give you a ride." The offer's out before I think about it.
"You have work."
"Foundation inspection can wait." I straighten up, giving her some breathing room. Watch the way she immediately misses my proximity, even though she's trying to hide it. "Besides, someone needs to make sure you don't accidentally poison yourself with plant food."
"I'm not that hopeless."
“Just clumsy as hell. Some things don't change."
"Some things do." The way she says it, quiet and pointed, makes me wonder what she's really talking about.
"Do they?" I step back, giving her room to breathe. "Guess we'll find out."
We head to the Morrison's Garden Center, and Savannah sits in the passenger seat, hands folded in her lap, but I catch her stealing glances when she thinks I'm not looking.
"You really don't have to come in," she says as I pull into the parking lot.
"I'm already here." I cut the engine, turn to look at her. "Besides, this should be entertaining. Watching you try to arrange flowers without bleeding all over them."
"You're such an ass."
"You say that like it's news." I get out, come around to open her door before she can do it herself. An old habit that earns me a surprised look.
"Since when do you open doors?"
Yeah…I scratch my head, confused about the comment and about what I’m doing.
Morrison's Garden Center smells like earth and growing things and possibility. Takes me back to being twelve years old, learning the difference between annuals and perennials from Mom. Before she died.
Emma spots us the second we walk in, practically vibrating with excitement in a yellow dress that makes her look like she raided a sunflower field.
"Griff! You came!" Emma screeches, giving me unwanted attention. I don’t mind it usually but for some reason in front of Savannah, I feel embarrassed.
“I thought you couldn’t make it?” I ask. Swiftly changing the subject.
She laughs. “Plans change.”
“Yep. Like I’m here as the driver."
"He's being modest," Emma tells the cluster of bridesmaids gathering around us. "Griff's going to help with the heavy lifting."
Perfect. Exactly what I signed up for - being a pack mule for a bunch of women who probably think flower arranging is a competitive sport.
The workshop instructor is some hippie woman named Brenda with silver hair and dirt under her fingernails. She leads us into the greenhouse, where the air sits heavy and humid. Buckets of flowers everywhere - roses, mums, sunflowers, baby's breath.
My fingers itch looking at them. Been too long since I've worked with flowers. Too long since I've let myself have this one thing that's just mine.
"Today we'll be creating centerpieces for the reception," Brenda announces. "Autumn themes, so we'll focus on warm colors and seasonal blooms."
I find myself automatically cataloging varieties, assessing which stems are freshest. The sunflowers are particularly good - full heads, strong stalks. The roses could be better, but they'll do.
"Want to be partners?" Savannah asks.
"Sure." I move to stand beside her at one of the back workstations. Close enough to smell that vanilla scent she's always worn, mixed now with something floral that makes my mouth water.
She reaches for a rose immediately, predictably pricks her finger on a thorn.
"Fuck!"
I catch her hand before she can put the bleeding finger in her mouth. "Rule one - respect the thorns."
Her skin's soft, warm against mine. It takes effort not to bring that finger to my lips, suck the hurt away like I used to do when we were kids.
"There are rules?" she asks, staring down at our joined hands.
“Always.” I grab a tissue from the supply station, press it to the tiny wound. "Rule two - never rush. Flowers respond to patience."
"What's rule three?"
"Rule three is understanding that every flower has its own personality." I release her hand reluctantly, pick up a rose stem to demonstrate. "This one's elegant but demanding. Needs to be handled with respect."
I show her the proper grip - firm but gentle, supporting the stem without crushing it. She watches intently, and I find myself enjoying the role of teacher more than I should.
"Like this?" She tries to copy my technique, fumbles it.
"Here." I step behind her, cover her hands with mine. Guide her fingers to the right position. My chest is pressed against her back, and I can feel the way her breathing changes. "Feel that? The way the stem gives just enough but doesn't break?"
"Yes," she whispers, and the breathless quality of her voice sends heat straight through my bloodstream.
"Good. Now the placement." I guide her hands as she positions the rose in the foam base. "Each flower needs its space, but they also need to work together. Balance."
"You actually know what you're talking about." She turns slightly in my arms, looking up at me with surprise. "How long have you been hiding this?"
The question hits closer to home than she knows. Admitting I grow flowers feels like admitting weakness. Like giving her ammunition she could use to tear me apart.
"Since I was twelve," I say finally. "Mom bought me sunflower seeds after Dad left for good. Said every home needed something beautiful growing in it."
The silence stretches between us, heavy with understanding. She gets it. Always did, even when we were kids.
"Show me how to make something beautiful,”she whispers.