2. Griffin
Chapter 2
Griffin
“I ’m, uh…gonna go grab my stuff,” my roadside princess says and hops outside before I can answer one way or the other. By the time I move to open my door to help her, she’s already halfway to her Jeep. With a perturbed huff, I step out of my truck. Thankfully, the rain has slowed to a drizzle once again.
I’d been looking forward to going home to a hot meal and a nap after my shift, but that idea flew out the window along with my goddamn good sense as soon as I saw her in those tiny shorts.
I would stop for anyone who needed aid—it’s not in me to keep driving—but especially for a young woman in cowboy boots and a T-shirt that stuck to her like a second skin in the rain. It’s a ridiculous outfit to wear at this time of year. We have weeks until summer, when she could wear those tiny shorts. Not in this weather.
And without a bra.
Killing me with those tight little nipples.
One look at her and my entire day was shot.
Because I couldn’t rest until this soaking-wet slip of a woman was taken care of.
“Fuck me,” I mutter as I reach her. She’s got a duffel bag over one shoulder, a purse across her body, and a guitar case slung on her back. She jolts with awareness at my mumbled curse, and I stick out my hand. “Let me take those.”
She hesitates for only a moment, and I try my best not to watch her small tits jiggle as she rearranges her bags, handing me her duffel, but not giving up her purse or guitar.
Smart girl.
Back in the truck, I set her bag on the rear seats then glance at my reflection in the rearview mirror. I run a hand over my hair and face then tug at my clothes as if I’m some young buck, vying for her attention.
Jesus Christ.
She’s got to be more than a decade younger than me and in need of help, not some guy falling all over his damn self.
I’m such an asshole. But when she looks up at me with those big brown eyes and fixes her obscenely puffy lips into a pout that’s half misery and half hope, I have to fight my instinct to take her in my lap and tell her I’ll take care of everything from now on. All she has to do is say yes.
Instead, I shift my attention down to the guitar case she sets between her golden, tanned legs. Seriously. Why is she wearing shorts right now?
With a stiff shake of my head, I study the black case. It’s well-worn. Well-loved, too, from the way she won’t let go of it. She takes a deep breath and attempts to tame her caramel-colored hair, but it’s a mess. She’s a mess.
And so fucking cute.
I slant my gaze out the windshield, refusing to give in to any more of this middle school crap. I’m forty-two years old, a fire captain and a former Navy SEAL. I don’t have crushes on girls.
Especially ones with sad eyes and stickers all over her guitar case, including but not limited to an Awkward as Flock flamingo, a trash bin on fire with the words This Little Light of Mine, I’m Gonna Let it Shine above it, and another which reads Daddies Do It Better . That particular one has me pinching the bridge of my nose.
Next to me, she clears her throat. “So, I guess…” She holds out her hand to me. “My name’s Andi. Nice to meet you, Captain.”
I stare at her hand for longer than socially acceptable and only take it when she giggles nervously. Her fingers are fine-boned with chipped polish on her nails, and a small, colorful hummingbird is inked on her wrist. I draw my thumb back and forth over it before letting go.
She skims her own thumb over the tattoo and offers me a quiet explanation. “For my grandmother. She loved them.”
“That’s…nice,” I say because I’m a fucking idiot. “Are you close?”
“We were.”
I wince. “I’m sorry.”
She keeps her gaze on her guitar case, where she scratches at a rainbow sticker. “Thanks. It was…” Her throat works on a swallow as she gathers herself. I’ve never been a particularly patient person, but I am today. Or, at least, I am for her. Because I sit in silence as she licks those lips I can’t stop staring at and takes a breath that makes her chest rise, and I force my eyes away from her peaked nipples.
An entire day passes before she finally says, “She was sick, and whenever I talked to her, she kept telling me to stay, stay, stay, don’t come home , and then one day I called, and she wasn’t there.” Her chin trembles, voice cracks. “And now I can’t face going home without her there.” She shakes her head, still refusing to meet my gaze. “I’m sorry. It was a few months ago, but it feels…fresh. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.” Before I even know what I’m doing, I catch the lone tear on her cheek with my thumb then stroke her jaw, gently prodding her to look at me. The tip of her nose is red, her eyes are wet, and it inexplicably kills me.
Feel-her-pain-in-my-own-chest kind of kills me.
And I fucking hate it.
Because I don’t do this. I don’t do feelings, and the few that I do have are secured tightly under lock and key, buried beneath the floorboards of my skeleton.
I can’t give in to emotion, not with all the shit I’ve already been through and experience every day. If I did, I wouldn’t have been able to last so long in the SEALs or put on my uniform every day to fight fires. I’ve seen more death than any person ever needs to and have been responsible for saving more lives than I can reasonably count up to, so I keep my mind tidy and the organ beating inside my chest on a leash.
Life is too short and too precious to fuck it all up with something so capricious as feelings .
Feelings make people do stupid shit.
But here I am, doing stupid shit.
I hand Andi a tissue and brush her hair away from her face. It’s drying in waves that tempt me to weave my fingers into it, so I cross my arms, keeping myself from doing any more stupid shit.
Unfortunately, my mouth doesn’t get the message. “I didn’t come home for a long time after my mom died.”
Andi lifts her head, her eyes full of compassion, her face full of understanding. Before she can say anything, I tell her, “It was a long time ago, and I stayed away until I couldn’t any longer.”
Until another untimely death forced me back to my hometown , I don’t say.
But she surprises me when she asks, “Did you regret it? Not coming home before?”
I shrug. And then because I can’t seem to shut my mouth, I confess, “I try not to think about my regrets.”
That makes her release a soft laugh, and she may as well wrap her fist around my heart.
“That’s a really good line,” she murmurs, tugging her cell phone out to open up her Notes app, typing something. I try to get a peek at it, though she closes it before I can, and she turns to catch me spying.
“You a poet or something?” I can’t believe I used to be good at this. I used to be able to have a conversation with a woman. Albeit, that was a very long time ago, but I think learning to speak Russian was easier than this.
Although I can’t be too embarrassed by my ineptitude because she smiles at me, faint as it may be, displaying two shallow dimples on either side of her mouth. A playful glint shines in her eyes. “Or something.”
I lean forward into her space. “What’s that mean?”
She squints, and a moment passes when I think she might not tell me, but she gives in with a shy shoulder shrug. “On my better days, I like to think of myself as a songwriter.”
The guitar makes sense, and I nod, interested. More so, captivated.
I have been since I pulled over and saw her face. I always thought love at first sight was bullshit, and this certainly isn’t that. Although I did feel…something in that moment.
And the longer I sit here with her, the more it settles into me.
Not an electrical current or euphoria, but something like familiarity. Which is impossible. We’re strangers to each other, and yet I can’t stop wanting to talk to her, wanting to know her, wipe her tears, and make her smile. Because it feels like we’ve done all this before, like her sitting in the cab of my truck is exactly where she’s supposed to be. Like I’m the one supposed to be tucking her hair behind her ear, so I do, and I’m the one supposed to be taking care of her, so I do.
When the tow comes, I tell her to stay put and get out to direct the driver to take her Jeep to Matthews Mechanic. I wait until he’s on the road then sit back behind the wheel of my truck. That’s when Andi thanks me again, and I shake my head. Making sure she’s safe is the least I can do.
I turn on the radio, and it’s a song I don’t know, so I move to change it.
“No, leave it.” Andi catches my wrist, her cheeks going pink, and she releases me like she burned herself. “Sorry. I mean, please. Please leave it. I love this one.”
It’s the easiest request she could make, and I raise the volume a couple of clicks. While I drive, Andi’s head bobs slightly, her voice barely above a whisper as she sings along to Billie Eilish, and I could not name one of her songs if someone paid me a million dollars, but I might download her album to check it out.
At a red light, I steal a glance at the woman in my passenger seat, noting the few small hoops around her earlobe and those lips she purses. She must not realize what she does to a man with that mouth, because if she knew the depraved fantasies they’ve already stirred in my brain, she’d run far from me. Not to mention, the dewy shine of her skin that calls to be touched. I’m not sure if it’s natural, from the rain, or lotion, but I tighten my fist around my steering wheel so I don’t place my hand on her thigh.
When we arrive at the shop, we don’t have to ring the bell for service, because Dylan Matthews is already at the desk. He’s my son’s baseball coach, and while I wouldn’t exactly say we’re friends, we’re acquainted enough that I bring my truck here when it needs an inspection, and I’ve recruited my siblings to become customers as well. The guy does good work.
Andi introduces herself and explains what happened. I fill in the information about the leaky coolant, and Dylan nods.
“It’s not a difficult job, but I’ll have to order the parts, so it’ll be a day or two before I can get to it.”
Next to me, I feel Andi’s little body tighten with tension at that news, so I try asking, “There’s no way to overnight it?”
He studies me then Andi before flicking his gaze back to me. “I’ll see what I can do, but I make no promises.”
I nod my thanks as Andi knots her fingers together, another problem surfacing. “Would you be able to tell me how much it’ll be? Approximately?”
“A few hundred.”
She sucks in a breath. “A few hundred, like two? Or like eight? Because I might have to split it between credit cards.” Her face flushes red. “Or do you have payment plans?”
Once again, Dylan slants his eyes toward me, and I give an imperceptible shake of my head, hoping he understands what I’m saying. That I’ll take care of it. Just don’t fucking make this worse.
“I can’t be positive until I get under the hood and have the parts in my hand, but I’m sure it’ll be closer to two.”
I blow out a relieved breath and stick my hand out to him. “Thanks.”
“Not a problem.” I’m grateful he says no more. He keeps it uncomplicated. How I like it.
With my hand on Andi’s back, I usher her out of the shop, where she pauses outside the door, turning her face up to mine. “I guess I’m staying in West Chester for a little while, but I don’t know of a place to stay.”
“I do.”