Chapter 17
SASHA
After getting home, I find myself overwhelmed by exhaustion.
Griffin insists I lie down, which is disappointing, considering all I want to do is go through the bags of clothes I bought at the store.
Except it wasn’t me who bought them. I was just handing Vivian my credit card when Griffin came rushing in from outside, practically slapping it out of my hand.
“Is there a problem?” Vivian had asked coolly.
“I’m buying,” Griffin said, leaving no room for argument.
I understood then. A credit card could be traced. I swallowed hard at the thought of Creelman having access to something as personal as my bank account.
Vivian had started folding all the clothes, but when Griff saw the tissue paper, he grabbed the whole pile off the counter.
“I’m not finished!” Vivian protested.
“I am,” he said from behind the mound of clothes.
I told him on the way home I’d pay him back when this was all over—especially considering the bill came to the GDP of a small country.
“It’s fine,” he said. “I need to see a guy about a pension check anyway.”
I gasped. “Griffin Kelly, was that a joke?”
He only grunted, but I know I saw a facsimile of a smile under that frown.
I wake from my nap completely disoriented, my back aching from a lump under my ribs. I roll over to see a blazer bunched up under me, now riddled with wrinkles.
Shit. I rub the sleep from my eyes, squinting to where I know the window should be. I get up, pulling open the curtains, shocked to see a speckling of stars in the night sky.
The house is dark, and for a moment, my chest tightens. Am I alone? Did Griffin have to go somewhere? I’m surprised he’d leave me alone, given how caveman he was being about looking after me.
There’s no way.
I cross the living room, crying out as I stub my toe on the coffee table next to the couch. I curse out loud—this place needs serious help. If I were to stay here, I’d do a full redecoration of the main room. No, the whole house.
I swallow. I’m getting ahead of myself.
My eyes go to the only light shining in the big open space—there’s an under-cabinet light on in the kitchen, and on the counter under it, a note with a phone next to it.
I pick it up. The note says simply:
Sasha—for you.
-G
I smile and slide the phone on. The background is an image of the sun setting over a field of wildflowers. I run my finger over the ray of light slicing across the screen.
There’s an alert—six, actually.
GRIFFIN: Call whoever you like except your brother for now. There’s a block on here so no one can see your number. Please don’t tell anyone where you are until I figure things out.
GRIFFIN: There’s a credit card loaded on here so you can order whatever you need. The address is saved in the Notes app.
GRIFFIN: There’s a casserole thing in the oven my sister dropped off. Help yourself.
GRIFFIN: I’m in the workshop.
I look up: there’s a hallway next to me lined with several doors. The one at the end has a line of light under it.
GRIFFIN: You should sleep more. I’ll be around when you wake up.
My chest tightens. He’s really thought of everything.
I check the time on the phone, shocked to see it’s almost eleven. I yawn. Even though I slept all day, all I want to do is crawl back into bed again. But my stomach feels raw and empty.
SASHA: I guess you ate already?
A few seconds pass, then three dots pop up on the screen.
GRIFFIN: Eat whenever you want.
That’s not really an answer.
I tell him I’m going to shower and ask if it’s okay to borrow some sweats.
He thumbs-up the message, and I fight off the little push of disappointment that he’s staying out there.
I could go see him, but suddenly all I want is to be rid of these clothes.
I strip them off, not bothering to wait until I’m fully in the bathroom.
I want to burn them, to burn all traces of that day in New York.
Hell, I want to burn away my existence in that city.
I flick on all the lights as I pass, not caring that there are windows everywhere. The only person out there is Chester, and I don’t think the house is visible from his. Even if it is, I don’t even care about giving the old guy a show. He did ask me to marry him, after all.
The smile on my lips dies as I remember the second proposal I got this weekend. I still haven’t answered Griffin.
Somehow I can’t. Not yet. Even if it’s not real. It’s still marriage.
In the bathroom, I step into the old clawfoot tub, turning on the shower extension. I close the curtain, then suddenly feel claustrophobic. Would it be weird to ask Griffin to come back into the main house while I’m in here?
I resist the urge to get out and text him. I’m a grown woman. Instead, I soap up, using the toiletries I was delighted to find Vivian carried on her little cosmetics table.
After I’m done, I step out and towel off, humming a song to myself.
When I open the bathroom door, towel wrapped around my body, I realize the bedroom door is open, and Griffin is frozen in the doorframe.
“Shit, I thought—”
He’s wearing a mechanic’s outfit with the top pulled off and tied around his hips. The white tank top he’s got on underneath is streaked with grease; it spreads onto his thick arms, too, which are holding something gray.
I don’t miss the way his eyes rake over my body for the briefest moment before he averts them.
He steps aside, holding something gray out to me. “Sorry. Here.”
What would he do if I dropped this towel?
The thought comes to me unbidden, but I have to bite my cheek to keep from laughing at what his reaction might be. Before breakfast, I would have thought he’d clap a hand over his eyes and snap at me to put some clothes on.
But after that moment with the orange?
I swallow as a feeling like something warm and liquid spreads through me. I walk toward the bedroom, which, of course, brings me to within a foot of him. He seems to have realized that a moment too late.
His hand gets tighter on the bundle in his arms. “I—” he begins. “These were in the laundry.”
His voice is rough. Strained.
A rush of something hits me, bolstering and amplifying that heat inside me. It’s the sense that right now, just for this tiny moment, I’ve got the power. He may be taking the lead outside, where we exist together in the wide world, but right in this moment, he’s at my mercy.
“Thank you,” I say softly, taking the clothes from him. Our fingers brush, and I don’t miss the way his eyes flame.
I linger just a moment too long. Even though we’ve only spent days together, I feel like those days have been amplified, given everything we’ve been through.
So I know the war going on behind his eyes.
And even though it’s probably the wrong thing to do, when I pass him, I lower the towel just enough to flash a good portion of my ass at him before shutting the door with my foot.