7. Griffin
Chapter 7
Griffin
I f I thought a shift at work would get my mind in the right place, I couldn’t have been more wrong. I knew the way I left things with Andi was shitty, and I felt bad about it. So bad that it followed me around. Made me sloppy.
Exactly why I needed to avoid feelings.
Because that’s how people got hurt or worse.
Pulling into the garage, I kill the engine of my truck and stuff down the gurgle of satisfaction that rumbles in my gut at the sight of her Jeep parked next to mine as I head toward the back door.
Dylan Matthews sent me the bill after he completed the work. I paid 80% of it, then told him to make up an excuse about why it only cost her $120. I don’t want to hurt her pride and certainly don’t want to make her feel indebted to me, so I hoped she didn’t know much about auto work and let it slide. Which she did.
Thoughts of taking care of her are still on my mind when I walk into the house to find her bent over the dishwasher, emptying it. To avoid staring at her ass in those tiny shorts, I turn to take off my shoes and accidentally knock my arm into the wall. I grit my teeth to hold in my curse while my bag slides off my shoulder and hits the floor.
She startles and spins around, removing her AirPods. “I didn’t hear the door open. I was— Are you okay?”
I nod, but she sets down the plates in her hand and immediately crosses the kitchen to me. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Got a little bump today, is all.”
She scans me from top to bottom. “Where?”
“My arm. It’s fine. Andi, stop. It’s fine.” She doesn’t listen, too busy yanking up the long sleeve of my T-shirt to reveal bruises and cuts all up my forearm. Some bigger than others, and I swipe my palm over them.
“Oh my god, Griffin!”
“It’s nothing, really.”
“How did this happen?” She gazes up at me with a frown, an angry little divot between her eyebrows. “Aren’t you supposed to wear gear to keep you safe?”
I feel the corner of my mouth curve in amusement. I can’t help it. It only makes her more annoyed.
“Yeah, sweetheart, we wear protective gear.” I hate that I love how she’s fussing so much. “This is no big deal.”
“You’re bleeding!” She snatches a towel from the counter to wrap around my forearm, using the ends to tug me to the hall. It’s cute, all this worry. If this weren’t her fault, I might enjoy all the attention.
But the reason I’m scraped up is because my head isn’t in the right place. It’s on Andrea Halton, the nanny, instead of where it should be. Focused and aware of the goddamn broken glass from the window I had to crawl through.
“Come on,” she says, guiding me into the bathroom, where she digs out the small first aid kit from under the sink. “Let me look at this.”
When I don’t move to help her or twist my arm to show her, she huffs like I’m the one making a big deal out of this. We stare at each other in a standoff, and that attitude reminds me of another Shakespeare line, one from Taming of the Shrew . “If I be waspish, best beware my sting.”
This little thing does come with quite a sting.
Fucking took me out with it already.
Though, I’d never want to tame her. If anything, I’d want to set her free.
Giving in, I sigh and lift my arm. That’s when she tugs on my sleeve, revealing the bloodstain. “How far up do these cuts go?” she asks. And then she almost absently says, “Take this off so I can see.”
I grab the back of my shirt and slide it over my head, careful when I pull my arm out, but it’s no use. I smear more blood on the cotton. As if she can read my mind, she waves her hand, swatting away the problem. “It’ll come out in the wash. Here, lemme…”
We both realize at the same time that I’m in front of her with my shirt off, and her head is even with my pecs. A room has never felt so small. The entire house has never been so silent.
I can hear every single one of Andi’s inhales and exhales. Can practically feel the air between us, like right before a storm. Hot and heavy and electric.
I swallow, my throat dry.
She licks her pouty lips to a shine, her eyes never lifting above my collarbone.
It’s torture.
Easier to pull myself through that window again than stand here and not touch her.
“You, uh…” She blinks a few times and steps back, forcing a laugh that sounds manic. “Just, like…” She waves her hand in front of her face and whirls around to riffle through the kit. “Took me by surprise.”
“You told me to take it off,” I say, as if I didn’t like her looking at me. As if I didn’t wish she’d do more than stare.
But it’s a long time until she slants her gaze to me again. “Do you have any cuts anywhere else?” When I shake my head, she points to the closed toilet lid. “Why don’t you have a seat?”
I do, and she finds the hydrogen peroxide and cotton balls then turns to me. She gently takes my hand to place on the sink, forcing me to extend my arm, her eyes drifting to my chest, over the tiger tattoo there, and up to my shoulders. Eventually to my face.
I’m not sure if she’s disturbed to find me watching her, but the only reaction she shows is a pinking of her cheeks and biting into her lower lip. Maybe embarrassed she was caught again.
As if I haven’t been watching her this whole time. As if I haven’t studied every goddamn thing she’s been doing. Every breath and bend of her spine. I’ve spotted the few freckles dotting her legs and counted the number of hoops lining the shell of her ears. If someone asked me what color her eyes are, I’d tell them they’re a swirl of gold and brown to create a color close to how I take my coffee.
That’s what Andi is—a hit of caffeine. Comforting yet strong, pumping through my veins, a jump-start to my heart.
She pours the hydrogen peroxide over the cotton and cleans off all the cuts on my forearm, wincing to herself when she gets to the biggest one. The one that keeps oozing blood. “How did you even do this?”
I lift my shoulder, ignoring the burn. “Things happen.”
She shoots me a glare. One that I think is supposed to intimidate me into telling her the truth. It doesn’t, but I want to anyway. Because I think I’d cut my chest open and hand over the organ she kicked into gear if she asked. “I was climbing through a broken window, and…”
“Things happen,” she fills in, and I nod. “You should be more careful,” she chides, and the laugh I let out shocks not just Andi but me too.
“I’ll do that.”
She presses her lips together, fighting a smile. “Good. You can’t be coming home banged up like this all the time.”
But I will be coming home. To her.
And I like that idea.
More than I should. More than I have any right to.
She applies some ointment to my cuts then sticks on large bandages and closes up the kit with a snap. “Okay. All done.”
I don’t move.
Neither does she.
In fact, she shifts closer, leaning her hip against the sink and folding her arms over her chest, pushing up her breasts under the tank top she wears. She has on a sweater, a long knit cardigan that falls off her shoulder. She’s sexy in an understated way, with her hair thrown carelessly up in a loose ponytail. Her shorts and top are simple cotton, and I’d probably think the sweater is ugly if not for it being on her body.
I reach up to fix it, settling it back over her shoulder, my knuckles skimming her collarbone. I shouldn’t, but I do… I let my fingertips glide over the base of her throat, her skin soft and begging to be kissed. She inhales deeply, her chest rising, and it’s enough to bring me back to earth. Back to the fact that I can’t be acting like this.
I can’t lose my fucking head.
“I’m sorry,” I say, removing my hand from her, and she dips her chin, her eyes on her socked feet.
“I don’t understand you.”
I grunt. I don’t understand me either.
I’ve never had this problem of dissociating. I’m so good at compartmentalizing, I should have a degree in it, but for some reason, I can’t with this girl.
This fucking girl who is too young for me.
Too good and sweet and my children’s nanny.
“I’m sorry,” I say again because I don’t know what else to say.
She shakes her head and lifts her gaze, those eyes that will haunt me tonight—and maybe every night—round in a way I know means she’s upset. I’ve upset her.
She mumbles something too quiet for me to hear, and I unthinkingly pull her to me, my palms around the backs of her thighs. I spread my knees, making room for her. “I can’t hear you, sweetheart.”
She tilts her head back and huffs out a frustrated sound. “I said…” A few seconds pass when she takes a deep breath then clamps her hands to my bare shoulders and meets my eyes. Hers blaze with anger, and seeing this fight in her stirs something in me. I appreciate her standing up for herself because I have a feeling she doesn’t do it enough, and I’m happy to be the outlet if she needs it.
“I said I don’t know what to do, Griffin. I don’t know what to do with you, with this, with my job. I don’t know what to do.”
I get it. I’m an asshole who can’t make up his own mind. One who wants her and can’t stop himself from giving in, permitting touches and moments like this. Only to turn around and ignore her because I’m too chickenshit to give in, yet completely unable to stay away.
So, I go with the simplest truth. “You scare me.”
Her fingers dig into my shoulders. I never want her to let go of me. “I scare you? Why?”
I skate my hands up and down the outsides of her thighs, letting my mind briefly drift to a different place and time. One where I could tug her shorts down and grip her ass, drag the tip of my nose over her stomach and between her legs.
“I don’t do emotions,” I tell her, and she outright laughs at me.
“This is you being emotional?”
Her incredulity stings. It shouldn’t because I don’t do emotions. But for her…
For her…
I lick my lips, readying myself to offer her another truth. “That’s why you scare me. You make me feel things.”
Her palms smooth circles over my shoulder blades and back, to my bone frog tattoo. She traces it, a reminder of why I compartmentalize. Why I need to.
“I don’t know what to do,” she repeats, and I shrug because I don’t know either, but I know I’m not quite ready to let go of her yet either.
I squeeze her thighs and drop my forehead to her stomach. Her hands come to the back of my head, her fingernails scraping along the column of my neck and up to my scalp. It sends goose bumps down my spine, and I groan into her middle.
“You should be out with someone your own age. Having fun. Not…here. Tending to me. Some guy who’s so much older than you with kids.”
“It’s the middle of the day,” she reminds me, with enough sass that I think it’s supposed to be a joke, but it doesn’t quite land. Because there is something else in her voice, too. Something that begs me to listen. “There is no guy. And even if there were, I doubt he’d want to take me out at one in the afternoon.”
I’d take her out at one in the afternoon. I’d take her out anytime, anyplace. Wherever she wanted to go. Because she deserves to have whatever she wants.
And it’s a problem.
“I can’t do this,” I say once I’m able to lift my head away from her. “We can’t do this. I never have an issue following through… Not until you.”
She sniffs a laugh that sounds more sad than humorous. “Sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“I’ll…try to stay out of your way.”
I swallow the lump in my throat. “I’ll keep my hands to myself.”
She bites her lower lip and steps away from me so my hands drop from her legs and her fingers fall away from my shoulders.
I hate it.
Her fake smile guts me. “I’ll get out of your hair and go finish cleaning up the kitchen.”
I stand, my fists at my sides, and let her go.