Chapter 24 Griff
GRIFF
Three weeks of this shit and I still wake up confused.
The smell of coffee drags me out of sleep, which pisses me off because I didn't set the timer. Someone's in my kitchen making noise, and my first thought is to go deal with whoever broke in. My fists clench automatically before my brain catches up.
Then Savannah's scent hits me like a warm wall. Right. She's been here since we all lost our minds and made this official three weeks ago. Still getting used to waking up with her warm body next to mine. Makes my chest do something stupid every morning.
I grunt and roll out of bed, bare feet hitting cold hardwood. Logan and Xavier are still dead to the world, sprawled across my mattress like they own it. Typical. Leave it to me to handle whatever's happening downstairs.
Her stuff's everywhere now. I step over her boots by the door, duck under her jacket hanging on the banister. It should annoy me more than it does. Instead it makes something warm settle in my gut.
I follow the coffee smell and her off-key humming. Stop in the doorway, shoulder against the frame, because seeing her in my kitchen still hits me like a punch to the gut every morning.
She's wearing one of my flannel shirts and nothing else I can see. The thing hits mid-thigh, and every time she reaches up into the cabinet, I catch glimpses of smooth skin that make my mouth go dry. Hair's in a messy bun that somehow looks good. My hands itch to mess it up more.
"Morning," she says without turning around, pouring coffee into my favorite mug. Must've smelled me coming.
"Yeah," I grunt, padding closer on bare feet. She hands me the mug and our fingers brush. A little spark shoots up my arm every damn time. Coffee smells better than the crap I usually drink. She found Logan's good beans.
"You're up early," I say, settling against the counter where I can watch her move around my space like she's mapping it.
"Couldn't sleep." She glances over her shoulder with a small smile that makes warmth spread through my chest. "Still getting used to sharing a bed with three alphas who fight for space even when they're unconscious."
Makes something possessive twist in my gut. She's in our bed. Has been for weeks. Should scare me, but instead it makes me want to throw her over my shoulder and remind her where she belongs.
"Logan kicks," I say, taking a sip of perfectly brewed coffee.
"And Xavier steals blankets." She turns back to the toaster, butter knife in hand. "You sprawl everywhere and take up three quarters of the bed."
"My bed," I point out, watching her spread butter with careful precision.
"Your bed," she agrees, but there's something uncertain in her voice. Like she's not sure she belongs. Makes my chest tight.
She's making toast, moving around finding plates I forgot we had, napkins that aren't paper towels. Making my usual grab-coffee-and-go look like actual breakfast. Watching her take care of shit makes something uncomfortable twist in my chest.
"You don't have to do all this," I say, gesturing at the spread with my mug. "I can handle my own food."
"I know." She hands me a plate with toast cut diagonally, fingers gentle when they brush mine. "I wanted to. Is that okay?"
Catches me off guard. She's asking permission to take care of me. No one's done that in years. Makes my throat go tight.
"Yeah," I say, rougher than I meant. "It's okay."
Heavy footsteps on the stairs announce Logan's arrival. He appears looking like he went ten rounds with his pillow, hair sticking up, moving toward coffee like his life depends on it.
"Thank you," Logan tells Savannah with genuine reverence, accepting a mug like it's a religious artifact. Takes a long sip and his whole body relaxes.
"It would've been justified if you killed me for not setting the timer," I grunt around a bite of toast. It makes her laugh in that easy way that's getting dangerous. The sound settling straight into my chest with a comforting warmth.
Xavier appears a few minutes later looking perfect despite it being barely seven AM. Hair done, real clothes that probably need ironing, shoes that cost more than my truck payment. Makes the rest of us look like cavemen.
"Coffee," Xavier says with grateful reverence, and I watch him transform from zombie to functioning human with the first sip.
We sit around my small table. I stretch my legs out under it, accidentally brush against Savannah's knee. She doesn't pull away. A small victory that makes me grin into my coffee.
Comfortable quiet while we eat. Toast's good, better than my usual protein bar. But it's more than food. It's the effort, the thinking about what we'd want, doing something nice without being asked. Makes my chest feel too full.
"We need to talk about the venue timeline," Logan says, setting down his mug harder than necessary.
Reality hits like ice water down my spine. I straighten in my chair, jaw clenching. Right. The resort. The impossible deadline that's been eating at me.
"Less than three weeks to finish," I say, gripping my coffee mug tight enough my knuckles go white.
"Electrical's done. Plumbing works in the main areas." Xavier pulls out his phone, fingers flying over the screen. "But we still need ballroom flooring, kitchen equipment, and all the finish work."
Savannah's scent goes sharp with anxiety. I catch her biting her lip, that thing she does when her mind's running worst-case scenarios.
"What about the kitchen?" she asks, leaning forward. "Caterers need a full test run."
"Equipment gets delivered tomorrow," I say, running through the mental checklist that's been eating at me. "Commercial everything. But the installation's tight."
"How tight?" Logan asks, and I can hear stress creeping into his voice.
I scrub a hand over my face, feeling the stubble rasp against my palm.
"Install crew arrives Wednesday morning.
If everything goes perfect, a functional kitchen Thursday afternoon.
Test run Thursday night, adjustments Friday morning.
" I look directly at Savannah, watch her process what that timeline means. "One day buffer before rehearsal."
"Cutting it close for a thousand-person reception," she says, already making mental notes. I can see her brain working.
"Everything's cutting it close," Xavier says grimly, still scrolling through his phone. "That's what happens when you renovate in weeks instead of months."
"I can help," Savannah says immediately, sitting up straighter. "Coordinate vendors, handle deliveries, manage decorating."
"You've got wedding coordination," Xavier points out without looking up.
"I can do both," she counters, chin jutting out in that stubborn way that means she's not backing down.
The thought of her on a construction site surrounded by power tools and heavy equipment makes my protective instincts spike hard enough to make my vision narrow. My hands clench into fists on the table.
"It's dangerous," I say, with more alpha authority in my voice than I meant. "Heavy machinery, electrical work, crews who don't watch their language or keep their hands to themselves."
Her eyes flash with irritation mixed with determination. She crosses her arms, shoulders squaring up for a fight. "I can handle construction workers, Griff. I've been managing difficult people for years."
"Not the same thing," I growl, because the thought of some asshole contractor looking at her wrong makes me want to break things with my bare hands.
"Maybe coordinate from here," Logan suggests, hands up in a peacemaking gesture. "Handle vendor calls remotely."
I watch her weigh the suggestion, practical instincts warring with her need to be hands-on. Finally she sighs, shoulders dropping slightly.
"Fine," she says, but there's steel in her voice. "But I want daily updates. Detailed ones. And I'm coming to see the progress."
Challenge accepted. Something fierce and proud swells in my chest. "You want the grand tour?"
"I want to see if you're actually as good as you claim," she says, pointing her fork at me like a weapon.
I shove the last of my breakfast in my mouth and stand up, already reaching for my keys. "Finish your coffee. We're going."
"Now?" she asks, but she's already standing.
"Yeah. Before I lose my nerve and realize you'll probably find a dozen things wrong." I'm heading for the door, adrenaline spiking at the thought of showing her what I've built.
I head to the back and put something in the back. I sit in the truck waiting for her. Twenty minutes later she's sliding into my work truck that smells like sawdust and sweat. She doesn't seem to mind, just buckles her seatbelt and reaches for the radio like she owns the place.
Which she does, I guess. Owns me, owns this truck, owns everything that matters in ways I'm still figuring out.
Foo Fighters comes on, "The Pretender," and she starts actually singing. Not humming. Full-on singing with a voice that's fucking beautiful. My hands tighten on the steering wheel because this woman keeps surprising me in ways that make my chest tight.
"You know this song?" she asks, turning to look at me.
"Know it? Foo Fighters has been my favorite band since I was seventeen," I say, joining in on the chorus.
"Seriously? You don't seem the type."
"What type do I seem like?" I ask, genuinely curious.
"Country? Classic rock? Something with tractors?"
I laugh so hard I nearly swerve. "Tractors? I build houses, not barns."
My hand finds her knee without permission from my brain, squeezing gently through her leggings. "Though I do look good in flannel."
"You do," she agrees, voice going breathless in a way that makes my scent spike with satisfaction.
We sing along to whatever comes on. Turns out she knows half my construction playlist. Every time she hits a high note or laughs at something I sing, I fall a little harder.
The resort comes into view as we round the curve, and I hold my breath waiting for her reaction. It’s looking fucking spectacular, if I do say so myself.
"Holy shit, Griff," she breathes, hands pressed to the passenger window.
Pride swells in my chest like a balloon. "That's what I like to hear."
I park near the staging area, shut off the engine and turn to face her properly. "Called in every favor for permits. Got my college roommate to bump our electrical inspection. Used my own money for backup crews when weather delayed everything."
I count off on my fingers, callused from years of swinging hammers. "I drove to three states for materials. Slept here four nights last week when the heating installation ran behind."
"You slept here?" Her voice goes soft. "I thought you came home late."
Kicks me in the gut that she didn't notice the nights I was gone. But I shouldn't be sensitive about it. We've all been busy.
"Someone had to make sure they didn't screw it up," I shrug. "This wedding's important."
She goes still, studying my face like she's looking for something. "Griff..."
"Used my own money because I couldn't let budget constraints mess us over."
She reaches into the back seat and pulls out a wicker basket. "Come on. Let's eat."
I stare at the basket, then at her. "That's what you put back there?"
"I packed sandwiches. We're having a construction site picnic." She grins, and it makes my chest do something stupid and warm.
My grin nearly splits my face. "Sweetheart, I just cleared my afternoon."
We find a spot on the newly restored deck. Mountain views stretch out in front of us, but I'm watching her spread out a blanket like she's done this before.
"Roast beef and cheddar with that spicy mustard you like," she says, handing me a sandwich wrapped in wax paper.
I take a bite and groan because it tastes perfect. "You've been paying attention."
"I pay attention to everything about you."
My hand finds hers on the blanket, fingers tangling together. "I notice things about you too."
"Like?"
"How you organize everything by color. How you bite your lip when you're thinking." My thumb traces across her knuckles. "How you make everything better just by being around."
"This is nice," she says, gesturing at the view with her free hand.
"Which part?"
"The company. Definitely the company."
I set down my sandwich and shift closer, my knee pressing against hers. Her scent spikes with something warm and sweet.
I cup her face in my hands, thumbs stroking across those perfect cheekbones. My palms are rough, callused, probably not soft enough for her, but she leans into it like she's been waiting.
Then I kiss her like I've been starving.
It's everything I am. Raw hunger, desperate need, years of wanting wrapped up in lips and teeth and tongue. I don't do it gently. I take what I want, and right now I want her more than my next breath.
She gasps against my mouth and opens for me, hands fisting in my flannel shirt like she's trying to anchor herself. I taste beer and sunshine and something purely her.
One hand slides into her hair while the other grips her hip, pulling her closer until there's no space left between us.
When we break apart, both breathing hard, I don't go far. Can't. I bury my nose in her neck.
"I'm sorry," comes out broken, weighted with every mistake I've made. "For the past. For how I treated you. For being too much of a coward to see what was right in front of me."
She studies my face with those brown eyes. "Griff..."
"Never meant to hurt you. I was twenty-two and stupid and thought I had all the time in the world." My hands frame her face again. "Didn't know I was throwing away the best thing that would ever happen to me."
"I know," she tells me softly, and the forgiveness in her voice nearly breaks something in my chest.
"Do you forgive me?"
Instead of words, she kisses me again. Soft this time, sweet, pouring something that feels like absolution into the space between us. When she pulls back, my eyes are burning.
"Is that a yes?"
"That's a yes to everything," she tells me, settling against my side when I pull her closer. "To forgive you. To trust you. To see where this goes."
"Even if I'm still an idiot sometimes?"
"Especially then," she laughs, pressing a kiss to my jaw that makes my skin burn. "Someone has to keep you in line."
"I like bossy women."
"Good thing I like men who build things with their hands."
We finish eating with her tucked against my side, my arm around her shoulders. The resort's going to be beautiful, but not as beautiful as this moment.
"Ready to see inside?" I ask when we've packed up the remains of lunch.
"Lead the way, Mr. Stone," she says, taking my offered hand and letting me pull her to her feet.
"Yes, ma'am, Ms. Hale."
As we walk toward the building I've been pouring my heart into, her hand warm in mine, I can't help but think some things are worth the wait. And some second chances are worth everything you've got.