“I can’t imagine any man better equipped to bring Clare’s sex life into the present,” Astrid said, her eyes gleaming with anticipation. “He’s so hot, but he’s also so obviously wrong for her that she won’t fall for him. She’s way too smart.”
Emma grimaced. “But he’s so compelling. Jake was like that and I had no chance against him, even though I knew he was wrong for me.”
“You were twenty-three,” Astrid said. “How would you have known? But Clare’s in a totally different situation. She can trust herself.”
“That’s true.” Emma chewed her lower lip. “Clare’s way more stable than I ever was. If anyone could sleep with Griffin and not fall for him, it would be Clare—”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Clare gave her friends an exasperated look, the conversation bringing her back to reality, to the truth that she absolutely couldn’t invest herself in him. “I’m not sleeping with him. He’s a murderer, remember?” And he was leaving. Emma was so right, there was no way for Clare to have sex with Griffin and not let it touch her heart. She simply wasn’t wired that way.
Astrid and Emma simply looked at her. The faces of the two people she trusted most in the entire world. People who loved her. Clearly both thinking that she needed to get laid if she had any chance at a decent life. “At least put the condoms in your purse,” Astrid said. “Just in case.”
“She has a point,” Emma said, clearly resigning herself to the power of Clare’s libido. “I mean, he is living at your house. A late night food fight with chocolate frosting could get a little out of control. Take the condoms, but remember that he’s going to leave you.”
“I know he’s going to leave. I would never fall for him.” Clare looked at the blue box sitting on her desk.
“Then you should do it,” Emma said. “Otherwise, you’re going to be too vulnerable to the wrong guy.”
“Agreed. Have sex, and then tell us all about it,” Astrid said.
“No, I—” Clare’s computer beeped and she glanced over at the screen. At the top was an email from Griffin. The subject was blank, and there was a one line note.
A good night. Thanks
.
A good night.
A good night
.
She looked at the email, and then she looked at the box of condoms sitting so innocently on her desk.
She wasn’t going to sleep with him.
Really. She wasn’t.
She wasn’t that kind of girl.
But what if...
“Oh, fine.” She picked up the box and shoved it into her purse.
And when her friends started applauding, she couldn’t quite keep the smile off her face.
At exactly six o’clock the next evening, Griffin drove up to his daughter’s new home. He parked in front of it, a strange sensation unsettling him as he studied the house. Brooke was right there. Behind those walls. Yards away from him. He was going to see her for the first time in a year. Finally.
Yes.
Griffin shoved his hand through his hair and fiddled with the collar of his dress shirt as he peered at the house. It was smaller than Griffin had expected. Plainer. Not nearly as warm and inviting as Clare’s red, rambling farm house, or as luxurious as the home he’d once provided for his family.
It was a simple gray house of a modest size. Black shutters. A small yard. A swing set sat beside a side deck that was furnished with a picnic table with a bright red umbrella. The lawn was mowed, the grass lush and verdant. Flower pots flanked the front door. A white cat was snoozing underneath a bush, the tip of its tail flicking periodically. It was domestic, more so than he would have imagined Hillary living in. But he noticed that the paint on the clapboard was pristine, the yard neat, a picture-perfect existence that Hillary craved, just like she’d forced him to live with for so long. At the thought of his ex-wife and the life he used to live, tension rippled through Griffin and he flexed his fingers, trying to loosen his muscles.
He draped his arms on his steering wheel restlessly, forcing himself to pause and take stock of his competition. It was nothing more than a small, ordinary home, one that was the exact opposite of Clare’s house with its well-worn look. He liked Clare’s better.
Griffin let out his breath, his restlessness easing as he thought of the previous evening. He’d enjoyed working with Claire in the kitchen. There had been no pressure from her to be a certain way, a certain type of man. He’d liked working with cupcake paraphernalia strewn all over the place in casual domesticity. The lasagna had been damn good. Best he’d ever tasted.
Sitting next to Clare, breathing in that delicate fragrance he was coming to associate with her, had been an intimate, easy comfort. He’d been distracted from his own work too many times, watching her forehead pucker as she worked through a difficult document, listening to her laughter when he made a joke...yeah. It had been a good night. He’d woken up energized and ready to attack his work.
Griffin had been so involved in going through the documents for In Your Face this morning that he’d missed breakfast, and the house had been empty when he’d walked into the kitchen. But there’d been a note from Clare on the table, telling him that there were fresh muffins on the counter and coffee was loaded into the coffee maker, ready for him to start it. Again, no judgment for the fact he’d missed breakfast, just an acceptance for who he was.
She’d written the note in green pen, and her handwriting had been flowing and womanly, as if she’d enjoyed the mere act of creating the words.
Yeah, a great night. Unexpectedly so, and he smiled.
A gray squirrel raced across the driveway, drawing Griffin’s attention to his ex-wife’s Mercedes. The flashy coupe was a stark contrast to the neighbors’ driveways, which had practical well-worn cars that were a quarter the price and half as shiny. Hillary might claim to have it all with her little Maine existence, but the fact she was still driving her Mercedes said she hadn’t totally abandoned all affection for the finer things in life, which meant Brooke was probably feeling the same way. Those were the things Griffin could provide, and the new man in their lives couldn’t.
Calm determination settled inside him at the reminder of what he had to offer. See? This was going to work just fine. He had the goods, and he knew damn well he wasn’t as bad of a guy as everyone said he was. If he were, he was pretty sure he wouldn’t have gotten the lasagna offer last night from Clare when he’d tried to sneak past the kitchen. Clare wouldn’t put up with shit, and she had invited him right into her space. So, yeah. It was good.
Griffin flipped his door open, swung out and headed up the brick steps. He knocked on the door, and stepped back. Six o’clock. Right on time, just like he’d said. Let them try to give him grief for always being late. Not anymore.
He heard rustling inside and sudden relief rippled through him, nearly staggering him with its intensity. Brooke was really home. She hadn’t skipped out.
He was going to see her.
Suddenly on edge, Griffin shoved his hand into his pocket and wrapped his fingers around the jewelry box holding the necklace he’d bought for Brooke. Should he give it to her right away, or wait? Should he hug her or shake her hand? Should he tell her that he’d missed her, or play it cool?
The doorknob turned, and Griffin cleared his throat—
A man pulled the door open. Not Griffin’s ex-wife. Not his daughter. A man.
Son of a bitch.
The guy was tall with shoulders like a freaking mountain and a beard like a grizzly bear on growth hormones. His jeans were baggy, and his hands and arms were splattered with lavender paint, as if he’d been painting the bedroom of a certain teenage girl. He had an attitude of ownership about him that suggested he wasn’t a hired contractor, but the man who’d replaced Griffin.
“I’m here to see Brooke.” Griffin pulled his shoulders back, raising himself almost to the man’s height. “I’m her father.”
The behemoth stuck out his hand. “Dan Burwell. Brooke’s stepfather.”
Stepfather?
Something dark rippled through Griffin, but he managed a grim smile as he grabbed the beefy fist, keeping his own grip just as strong as the mountain man’s. “Griffin Friesé.”
“Figured.” Burwell scrutinized him intently.
Griffin shoved his sleeves a little higher up his forearms. “I’m here to see Brooke.”
Burwell shook his head once. “She’s not here.”
Fierce disappointment jabbed Griffin in his ribs, but he kept his voice even, even as his daughter’s present burned in his pocket, taunting him. “Well, where is she?”
Dan narrowed his eyes. “Listen, Friesé. You walked away from this family. I didn’t.”
Griffin ground his jaw to keep from growling. He was getting really tired of that rumor. “Hillary took Brooke away from me,” he snapped. “I didn’t leave them.” He still remembered that day he walked in after work and found the condo empty. The furniture had still been there, but the soul was gone. He’d known instantly that they’d left, and he hadn’t had to look in the closets for missing clothes to know the truth. It had taken him almost a week to track them down, and he’d nearly gone mad with worry during that time. “I don’t know what Hillary has told you—”
“I’m taking care of them, and it’s my job to protect them. That includes Brooke.”
Griffin’s hands curled into fists. “My daughter doesn’t need to be protected from me.”
“No?” Dan set his arms over his chest, his huge forearms straining against the folded cuffs of his plaid shirt. “You make her cry. That’s not okay with me.”
Griffin’s aggression faded at the idea of his daughter crying. Brookie? Crying? Because of him? “I don’t make her cry—”
“You do.” Dan jerked his chin at the road, silently telling Griffin where to go. “Hillary and Brooke aren’t here, and they won’t be here no matter how many times you come by, so take a hike.”
Griffin gave the man a steady, hard stare. “You can’t keep my daughter from me.” It was true, and they both knew it. “I will not hesitate to enforce my rights.”
“Yeah, you can call in the law,” Dan said, his voice dark with challenge. “But are you willing to destroy Brooke by forcing her?”
Griffin faltered. Destroy his own daughter by enforcing his right to be her dad? He would never do that to her. Ever. Suddenly, all his plans, his well-laid, infallible plans began to unravel around him, and he had no idea how to stop it.
Dan closed in on Griffin’s hesitation. “Listen, Friesé. I’ve got nothing personally against you, but we both know that the only reason you’re here is because another man took your place, and that pisses you off.” He slapped Griffin’s shoulder. “It’s a guy thing. I get it. But get over it. Your job with them is done. It’s mine now, and unlike you, I love every damn minute of it.”
Griffin stared into the ruddy face of the lumberjack who’d taken over his family’s life. There was pride gleaming in the man’s eyes. And ownership. Unyielding, fierce, protective ownership.
Shit.
This was a complication he hadn’t anticipated.
* * *
Clare bolted upright in bed, her heart racing.
Wind was howling. Rain was pounding at the shutters. Was that what had woken her up? Bad weather? It was just another spring storm in Maine, and this time her daughter was safe at home, not stranded in the mountains. A little inclement weather wasn’t worth vaulting out of bed in a panic.
Chill out, Clare.
She flopped back on the blankets, staring at the ceiling as she listened to the sound of water pouring off the roof, like a waterfall right outside her room. Branches were scraping against the side of the house, and the wind was whistling through the gaps in the window frames. Was Griffin still out in this weather?
He still hadn’t come back by the time she’d gone to bed, and after the last evening’s late night, she’d been too tired to work past ten. Katie had needed help with her math homework, and a new client had needed a will before surgery in the morning, so cupcakes (and the rest of her work) had been abandoned for the night.
Clare sighed. No delivery for Wright’s tomorrow. No assortment of sweets on her counters. No wonder she’d been woken up by a little feisty weather. She always felt a little off if she didn’t get a chance to bake. She hadn’t even had time to go through her emails, let alone frost a single dessert.
She knew the lack of baking wasn’t the only thing bothering her though. The house felt empty without Griffin, and she didn’t like that. This was her home. She loved it. She treasured every moment in it, and she was so proud that she’d managed to buy it. Katie had a home. She had a home. And it was perfect.
So, why did it feel so empty without Griffin? How could she have let that happen in a single night with him? One night of camaraderie, and he was already destroying the sanctity of her dear home.
Clare rolled over onto her side, facing the windows, so she could watch the water hammer against the glass, trickling in little rivulets down the panes. She needed to forget about the condoms. Emma was right. She couldn’t get involved with Griffin in that way. He was already invading her oasis too much, and her world was too fragile and too precious to risk it for a week of nookie, as Emma had put it, though she had to admit the idea was tempting in an unnerving way—
A loud shout from Griffin’s room caught her attention. Relief flooded her at the realization he was home, but it was quickly chased away by concern. It was nearly two in the morning. What was getting him worked up at this hour?
Another shout, mumbled words, and foreboding rippled over Clare’s arms.
He was in trouble. Something was wrong.
Clare leapt out of bed and hurried out the door. There were more shouts, and undecipherable words. He sounded like he was in pain. He sounded the same way her dad had those last nights before he’d died.
Sudden panic hit her, and she raced down the hall to his room. She flung the door open without knocking and ran inside. The room was dark, and all she could see was Griffin’s shadowed outline in the bed. He was thrashing and groaning. “Griffin!” She ran over to the bed and touched his face. He was drenched in sweat, and he sounded like he was in horrible agony. “It’s okay,” she said urgently. “Calm down.”