Chapter Ten Griffin #2
“That clip,” Denise said, “is outperforming the carry footage, which we have not even posted.”
Maren’s mouth opened. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
Denise turned the tablet toward them.
The numbers were climbing fast. Not as explosive as the almost-kiss photo, not yet, but steady, strong, and better in a way Griffin could not measure with views.
The comments were different.
People noticed her framing.
Her concept.
Her pacing.
Her correction of Tyler.
Her direction.
Her work.
Maren read silently.
Her face did not do much, but Griffin saw the moment the words reached her.
Maren is GOOD good.
The sentence seemed to hit harder the second time.
Denise looked at her over the tablet. “This is exactly why I hired you.”
Maren looked up. “Because Tyler has an audience with no impulse control?”
“No. Because you know how to turn a circus into a story without pretending it was never a circus.”
Griffin felt the sentence land.
Maren did too.
Her eyes shone briefly.
She blinked it back.
Denise looked at Griffin. “Good post.”
Griffin nodded. “Thank you.”
“Do not get used to being emotionally competent before lunch.”
“I will try not to.”
Maren made a tiny sound.
Denise’s gaze flicked between them.
Her mouth twitched once, which was as close as Denise got to gossiping on the clock.
“Part Three at two,” she said. “Keep your chaos hydrated.”
Then she walked away.
Maren stared after her. “She called my work a circus story.”
“She did.”
“That might be the best compliment of my life.”
“Your standards need work.”
“My standards are recovering from years of being called cute.”
Griffin looked at her.
The words had come out lightly, but not falsely.
Progress.
Maybe.
Maren looked back at him. “Do not make the concerned face.”
“What face?”
“That one.”
“This is my normal face.”
“Your normal face is fifty percent concern, thirty percent disapproval, and twenty percent cheekbones.”
He almost smiled.
She pointed. “There. That almost counted.”
“It did not.”
“It did.”
“No.”
“It was spiritually a smile.”
“Spiritual does too much work in your vocabulary.”
“And yet it carries.”
The word carry changed the air.
They both heard it.
Maren looked down first.
Griffin looked away second.
The carry clip still sat unposted.
He could feel it between them, ridiculous as that was. A video on her phone. A decision delayed. A public almost something waiting to become a story.
He wanted to ask if she planned to post it.
He did not.
Her choice.
The words mattered.
Her choice.
Tyler reappeared at a cautious distance, probably having decided Griffin had cooled from homicide to cardio.
“So,” Tyler said, “we still need Part Three.”
Griffin looked at him. “You need supervision.”
“Always. But also Part Three.”
Maren checked her plan. “Part Three is tonight.”
“Boring,” Tyler said.
“No,” Maren replied. “Strategic.”
Tyler brightened. “Strategic chaos?”
“Exactly.”
Griffin did not like the smile on her face.
It was not her fake smile.
It was not even the polished one.
This was creative trouble.
The kind that had built the entire day and somehow made people think about rope knots as content.
“What is Part Three?” Griffin asked.
Maren looked up from her notes app.
“Tonight is Bonfire Truth Toss.”
“No.”
“You do not even know what it is.”
“It contains the word truth.”
“Afraid?”
“You need new material.”
“Still works.”
Tyler gasped. “Truth Toss is back?”
Griffin turned slowly. “Back?”
Maren shot Tyler a look.
Tyler pointed between them. “Oh. Did she not tell you?”
“Maren.”
“It is an old Lake Briar game,” she said quickly.
“What kind of game?”
“A harmless one.”
“That answer is suspicious.”
“It is basically truth or dare, but with beanbags.”
“No.”
“And a bonfire.”
“Absolutely not.”
“And anonymous prompts.”
“Catastrophic no.”
Tyler held up a finger. “Historically, there have been only three emotional injuries.”
Cooper, passing behind him, said, “Four. You forgot Miles crying over the marshmallow question.”
Miles called from the snack shack line, “It was a vulnerable time!”
Griffin looked at Maren.
She held his gaze, but there was a nervous edge beneath the mischief.
Interesting.
“You planned this before the public suggested the carry,” he said.
“Yes.”
“And you did not mention it.”
“I was saving the fun.”
“You were saving the most dangerous part.”
“Those are often related.”
He folded his arms. “Explain it.”
Maren glanced at Tyler.
Tyler zipped his lips, then pretended to throw away a key, then realized he had thrown it toward the lake and looked worried about littering.
Maren turned back to Griffin. “Bonfire Truth Toss is a Lake Briar tradition. People write prompts on cards. Funny ones, mostly. Teams take turns tossing beanbags at targets. Hit a target, pull a card, answer or pass. Pass means your team loses points.”
“Anonymous truth questions in front of a crowd.”
“Not deep ones.”
“You cannot control anonymous questions.”
“I can pre-screen them.”
“Will you?”
“Yes.”
He studied her.
She held still under it for about two seconds, then lifted her chin. “I do know how to run an event.”
“I know.”
That stopped her.
Good.
“I am not questioning your competence,” Griffin said.
“What are you questioning?”
“Whether you are using a game called Truth Toss to create content or to avoid something.”
Her eyes sharpened. “Careful.”
“There it is.”
“What?”
“That thing you do when something almost gets honest.”
She exhaled sharply. “You cannot keep saying that every time I disagree with you.”
“I do not.”
“You do.”
“No,” he said. “Only when it is true.”
The air tightened.
Tyler looked at Cooper. “Should we leave?”
Cooper took a sip of lemonade. “Obviously.”
They did not leave.
Maren stepped closer to Griffin, voice lower now. “You want honesty? Fine. Truth Toss works. It is funny, interactive, and gives us a way to move the story tonight without relying on me being carried like some lake damsel with fry trauma.”
“That is not what happened.”
“That is how Paige saw it.”
“She was wrong.”
“Maybe. But she saw what people like her always see.”
Her voice had sharpened around the edges.
Not bright now.
Hot.
“That is why the behind-the-scenes post mattered,” he said.
“Yes. It did. And I’m grateful. But one post does not fix the fact that the biggest numbers still come when people think I might kiss you.”
Griffin went still.
The words hung there.
There it was.
The real problem.
Not Paige.
Not only Paige.
The numbers.
The story.
The fact that Maren’s proof of professional skill had become tangled with a public romance narrative that was not fully fake and not safe enough to be real.
Griffin’s chest tightened.
“You think the work disappears if people want the romance too,” he said.
Maren looked away.
That was answer enough.
He softened his voice. “Maren.”
“No.” She shook her head once, fast. “I know how this works. I built it. I know what gets clicks. I am not naive. Chemistry works. Pretty light works. Almost-kisses work. I am not mad at the game for having rules.”
“You are allowed to hate the rules.”
Her eyes came back to his.
Something in them made him want to cross the space between them.
He did not.
She smiled faintly. “That sounds like rebellion.”
“It sounds like accuracy.”
“From you? Same thing.”
He almost smiled.
Then Tyler ruined it by whispering, “I am feeling emotionally educated.”
Cooper nodded. “Against my will.”
Maren laughed once and stepped back.
The moment loosened, but did not disappear.
Griffin could still feel it beneath everything.
He looked toward the lake, then the crowd, then the scoreboard.
Bonfire Truth Toss was a bad idea.
Not because it was unsafe in the usual ways.
Because it would give the public exactly what it wanted: access. Questions. Answers. Moments that could slip too easily from funny to real.
And Griffin had spent the morning learning that real with Maren Brooks was not something he could manage from a safe distance.
“Fine,” he said.
Maren blinked. “Fine?”
“Truth Toss can happen.”
Tyler shouted.
Griffin pointed at him without looking. “With conditions.”
Tyler’s shout died mid-vowel.
Maren crossed her arms, but her mouth curved. “Spiritual khakis has entered negotiations.”
“Prompts are screened by you and Denise.”
“Agreed.”
“No questions designed to humiliate anyone.”
“Agreed.”
“No kissing prompts.”
Maren’s mouth twitched. “The public will be devastated.”
“The public will survive.”
“Barely.”
“And if either of us wants to pass,” Griffin said, holding her gaze, “we pass.”
Her smile faded.
That last condition was not for the event.
They both knew it.
If either of us wants to pass.
On a question.
On a moment.
On the story.
Maren swallowed.
“Okay,” she said.
Tyler looked from one to the other. “Why did that sound intense?”
“Because you are nosy,” Cooper said.
“I am narratively aware.”
Griffin ignored them.
Maren checked the time. “We have three hours before Part Three setup.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“Yes. We use the next hour to get normal team content.”
“Normal.”
“Players. Families. Alumni arrival. Lake Cup updates.”
She stared at him.
Then slowly smiled. “Are you suggesting content strategy?”
“I am suggesting balance.”
“Sounds like strategy.”
“Do not make it weird.”
“Oh, Hayes. It is weird already.”
He could not argue with that.
They split up for the next hour.
Or tried to.
Griffin checked equipment near the paddleboard rack while Maren filmed alumni arrivals.
He walked the sand lane while she captured Team Snack Shack decorating their table.
He inspected the bonfire area while she recorded Beckett teaching two kids how to make dramatic entrances through smoke that did not exist yet.
Everywhere he went, he found himself tracking her.
Not intentionally.
That was what he told himself.
Then she would laugh somewhere across the lawn, and his attention would turn before he made the decision.
That was intentional.