by Tawna Fenske
My walls are soundproof, so I’m not worried about that. But big brother knows all our habits, including mine.
“Sometimes I like to get an early start on my day,” I point out. “It doesn’t mean something’s wrong.”
His hazel eyes hold mine a few beats longer. “Whatever you say.”
I turn away, determined to get things back on track. “Can we talk about this mixer? I’d like it if we were all on the same page before bringing in someone who’s not part of the production team.”
“Agreed.” Lana’s easy smile is a reminder of her years spent charming Hollywood royalty. “I had an idea I wanted to run by the team.”
Coop grabs another muffin. “Let’s hear it.”
“Okay, so.” Lana tosses her hair, practically bouncing with excitement. “You know how we found that crazy bunker on the edge of the property? What if we held the mixer there?”
Gabe cocks his head. “Interesting. Really lean into the crazy cult angle.”
I stifle a sigh. “Could we please stop using ‘crazy’ as an adjective?” I hate to be a hard-ass, but it’s kind of my job. “It’s ableist and perpetuates mental health stigma.”
“And offensive to crazy people.” Coop grins. “Present company excluded.”
I ignore him for now, recognizing when to pick my battles. “Are we sure the bunker’s safe? I don’t remember if we had it inspected.”
“We did,” Dean confirms, folding his arms on the table. “I had the OSHA guy out there right after we found it.”
“I don’t think it’s been cleaned,” Lauren muses. “God knows what’s in there.”
Coop looks thoughtful. “We’ve got a full custodial team in place now. I bet they could have it whipped into shape in a day or two.”
“I’d like to see it before we start planning.” Once again, it’s my job to rain on everyone’s parade. “Safety issues aside, if the setup leans too heavily on mocking cult members, it’ll come off as mean-spirited.”
“Good point,” Lana says as she picks up a muffin. “Plus we’ll lose viewers who love cults.”
Lauren sips her coffee. “I’m good with trusting Mari’s assessment on that one. You think you could go over and check it out by the end of today?”
I open my mouth to reply when the café door swings open. Griffin strides through, his gaslight eyes sweeping the room until they land on me. No, not me—my siblings, our table, this whole meeting, which he’s apparently joining.
“Hey there.” His voice is liquid silk, and I can’t help wondering if the others feel it like a caress. “Sorry I’m late.” His eyes hold mine as he approaches the table. “Had to reach a good stopping point with the decoction mash.”
“You’re right on time,” Lauren assures him.
I pick up my tea and take a sip, doing my best impression of a woman who hasn’t locked lips with the man. Who has never met his ex-wife or done anything at all that could be perceived as unethical.
“Can I grab you—” That’s all I get out before I choke on my tea, because hello, speaking and swallowing don’t mix.
Griffin lifts a hand like he might whack me between the shoulder blades, but he seems to think better of it. “Grabbing me—uh—won’t be necessary.”
Great. He’s been here ten seconds, and I’ve sexually harassed him. “Tea,” I manage to wheeze, blinking as my eyes water. “Or coffee. Can I grab you a drink?”
“Oh. Nope.” His smile is meant only for me, or maybe it just feels that way. “I’m good, thanks.”
Big brother comes to my rescue. “Griffin,” Dean says. “Things going okay at the brewery?”
“Definitely,” he says. “The equipment is all top-of-the-line. I’m still a little blown away.”
“That’s the goal.” I force a smile, desperate to look…um, less desperate? Instead, I sink into those blue eyes and forget how to breathe. He’s looking at me, and I know I’m supposed to say something else. “Blowing you—”
“Hey!” Lana shoots me an apologetic smile. “Sorry. You paused so long I thought you were done.”
“I was.”
Cooper cocks his head. “That was it? Just—‘blowing you?’”
I’m very much wishing our parents had stopped at four children. My two youngest siblings look at me with perfect innocence, so maybe my sex-fueled foot-in-mouth disease is all in my head. I look to Dean for another lifeline, but he’s working hard to cover a laugh.
“Lauren.” I focus on my older sister, praying her rescuer nature kicks in. “Did you want to talk about the bunker?”
“Sure.” Her smile is less shark-like this time and more I totally know you’re perving on this guy. “Right, so Lana had an interesting idea about a venue for the mixer.”
Griffin leans back in his chair. “You mean it’s not happening at the brewery?”
“Is that what you’re wanting?” Gabe asks. “We can roll with it if you’d prefer to have the airtime.”
“Actually, no.” He scrubs a hand over his chin. “If it’s all the same to you guys, I’d rather restrict how many people are running around when I’ve got open fermentation going on.”
“Of course.” I want to ask what open fermentation is, which seems like a sign I’ve gone loopy. Since when do I care about beer? “Lana had an idea for another venue.”
He turns to my sister, and I wonder what he’s seeing. Honey blond hair, clear blue eyes, a body men would crawl naked through hot glass to admire. “Where’s the venue?” His voice is perfectly even, like he’s talking to a woman and not a goddess.
Lana looks downright giddy, and not about Griffin. “There’s an underground bunker on the far edge of the property,” she says. “The BONK members—”
“Benevolent Order of the New Kingdom,” Dean supplies. “The cult that built the place.”
“Right, so they also built a bunker,” Lana continues. “And it’s massive. Big enough to hold hundreds, I’d guess. So what if we held the event there?”
“Sort of a hat-tip to the property’s origins,” Gabe adds when Griff doesn’t answer right away.
Lauren jumps in next. “We think it’d make good television. Test audiences have shown a strong interest in the quirkier aspects of Juniper Ridge.”
Griffin’s gaze swings to me, knocking me back with the force of those blue eyes. He doesn’t say anything right away. Just looks deep into my eyes until one edge of his mouth tugs up. “What do you think?”
I force myself to breathe. To answer like a normal human. “I think the idea has merit. I’d want to be conscientious about not coming off as scornful or judgmental of people who build bunkers. Doomsday people or survivalists or whatever. We don’t want it to play like we’re judging anyone.”
“Good point. I hadn’t thought of that.” He folds his arms over his chest and my brain flicks to one of my last sessions with Gabby.
“My husband, he’s always judging.” She mopped her eyes with a tissue as one hand balled up the edge of her sweater. “Like I’ll be telling him something about a scene I’ve shot, and he’ll cross his arms and just stare at me.”
In my mind, I thought I knew that look. One of scorn, maybe outright disdain.
But that’s not the look Griffin’s giving me now. The man my patient described bears little resemblance to the one studying me now, the one whose blue eyes hold mine as he thoughtfully considers my input.
“Well.” He uncrosses his arms and breaks the spell as he swings his gaze to Lana. “What’s the timeframe on this?”
“Today, if possible.” She gives me her sweetest smile. “Mari volunteered to take you out there to look over the space. If you both approve, we’ll get the ball rolling right away.”
I start to correct her, to clarify that I didn’t volunteer to be his tour guide. The last thing I need is Griffin thinking I’m tripping over myself to be alone with him again.
But as his gaze swings back to mine, he smiles. “I’m ready anytime. And I trust Mari’s judgment, so…how’s now?”
I swallow hard, wishing I could grab him by the shoulders. Wishing I could scream the words bouncing like jumping beans in my brain.
Don’t trust me! For the love of God, don’t trust me!
But I can’t say any of that, and everyone’s staring at us.
“Okay,” I breathe. “Let’s go now.”
Chapter 6
CONFESSIONAL 691.5
Walsh, Griffin (Brewmaster: Juniper Ridge)
Being a dad…yeah, it’s great. I mean, it has its challenges. [covers lapel mic] You’re not filming her for this, right? Okay.
[clears throat]
You’re basically molding this whole person, teaching stuff like hygiene and nutrition. Kindness and honesty. That’s what’s more important, I think. You can skip showers sometimes or forget to eat your vegetables. But if someone grows up to be a dishonest jerk?
Well…that’s about the worst thing I can think of.
My elbow bumps Mari’s as we trudge through the field. Ribbons of grass twist around our ankles, and the bright blue sky stretches from the eastern treetops to the craggy rock ridges. Springtime in Central Oregon is a helluva sight to behold.
“We’re hoping to break ground sometime next quarter for another six cabins right over there.” Her arm bumps mine again, and I order myself to focus on her words instead of how nice her skin feels. Is it weird to be turned on by a woman’s elbow?
That’s not an appropriate question, so I try another one. “More cabins? How many people are you planning to have here?”
She smiles and adjusts the pencil holding her bun in place. “There’s no set number. Not until we see how the first season’s ratings look.”
“Ballpark, though?”
“Maybe another dozen. It depends. We’ve got most of the key roles filled in the community already, but characters will cycle in and out as the show unfolds.”
“Characters?” It’s the first time I’ve thought of myself like that. “I mean, I guess that’s what we signed on for.”
“Sorry, that was the wrong word.” She brushes a wisp of hair off her face. “You’re all ‘community members,’ to us, but sometimes Gabe and Lauren slip in show meetings and say ‘characters.’ Old habits and all that.”
“It’s not a problem.” I don’t care what she calls me, as long as there’s a chance I’ll get to kiss her again. “Soph’s still begging for that bird, by the way.”
Mari smiles, and my skin warms even more than when her arm brushes mine. “Are you going to give in?”
“Nah, not now. At the risk of being asshole dad, it’s not a good time to get a pet. We’re still getting settled, you know?”
“I hear you,” she says. “I could teach her to crochet a parrot.”
“That’s right, how did her first lesson go?”
“Great.” She trails her fingers through a thatch of tall sagebrush, and I find myself getting jealous of shrubbery. “We’ve got a ways to go before she’ll bring home crocheted birds, but she’s got a knack for it.”
“Good.” Sometimes I hate that I can’t give my kid everything her heart desires. “I do wish we could have the bird. It’s just not in the cards right now.”
Mari pauses. “What if I adopted him?”
I stop walking to look at her. “You?”
She cocks her head. “Is it so unbelievable I’d be the nurturing sort?”
“Not at all! That’s not what I meant.” What the hell did I mean? “I’m just surprised, that’s all. I didn’t know you liked birds.”
“I’ve never had one,” she admits. “But I always thought a parrot would be cool. I spent some time online researching African Grays. Did you know they’re considered one of the most intelligent bird species? Dr. Irene Pepperberg conducted a series of studies showing not only can they learn a tremendous volume of words, but can use them in context to communicate with humans.”
“No kidding? Seems like a perfect pet for you.”
Her expression turns wary. “You mean because my communication style is too tedious for human conversation?”
“What? No! Of course not.” Is that really how she sees herself? “I meant because you’re so damn smart. Seems like a smart pet would be a good match.”
“Oh.” Color darkens her cheeks. “Thank you.”
Hell. Now she thinks I’m feeding her lines, maybe hitting on her again. I’m trying hard to keep things professional, since it’s clear she’s said zilch to her family about the kiss. We’re pretending it didn’t happen, and I’m trying not to be bummed about that.
“Well,” I say, struggling to shift the conversation. “If you adopt Leonard, that would give Soph an excuse to visit.”
The instant I say it out loud, I second-guess myself. I’m being way too presumptuous about my future contact with Mari. But she looks at me and smiles. “This is it.”
“What’s it?” I’m still stuck on the idea of Mari and the future, so I’m taken aback when she drops to her knees on the grass in front of me and—
“The trap door.” She looks up and grins, and I pray to God she never knows what just went through my head. “The access point for the bunker. Dean made sure the ladder’s sturdy, but it’s not ADA compliant.”
“ADA—oh, Americans with Disabilities.” I scrub a hand over my chin. “Is that going to be a problem for older folks or people in wheelchairs?”
“It could be.” She pulls back the trap door, and I drop to the grass beside her to peer down the steel ladder. “I put a call in to our contractor about rigging up some kind of pulley system or maybe one of those temporary freight hoist things they have on construction sites.”
I love that she’s always ten steps ahead of every process. “This must be a big switch for you. Going from private practice to TV shrink and then suddenly becoming an HR expert. That’s quite the trajectory.”
She looks startled. “How did you know I was in private practice?”
“I just assumed—” Not entirely true. I flash a sheepish grin. “Okay, I may have spent time Google stalking you.”
Her shoulders ease as she glances back toward the lodge. “It’s a change, but I like change.” Her smile warms as she turns back to face me. “It’s the first step toward growth.”
“Spoken like a shrink.” I grin so she knows that’s not a bad thing, though part of me will always be wary of psychologists. “Do you like the Human Resources stuff?”
“It’s rarely dull. I like bringing my expertise to the table, being able to approach things from a different angle than Lauren or Lana or Dean or Gabe or Cooper would.”
I smile. “So it’s an asset not to be just like everyone else.”
“I suppose so.” Again with the flicker of surprise in her eyes. “I never thought of it that way.”
Our eyes stay locked together for a few beats. Is she thinking about that kiss like I am? Remembering what it felt like to have our lips make contact, our tongues tangling as we—
“Want to go first?” She gestures to the dark cavern, smacking my brain away from the kiss. “Or I can.”
This feels like a test. Am I a chauvinist pig for going ahead to catch her if she slips, or an inconsiderate asshole if I make her go down before me?
“Whatever you’d prefer,” I finally say. “Is there a light?”
“Yeah, hang on.” She reaches into the hole and flips a switch. Her face lights up, too, as she meets my eyes again. “After you, beer guy.”
“Happy to break your fall.” I’m joking but also relieved she chose this. I swing my legs into the pit. “Kinda chilly in here.”
“There’s a furnace we could turn on for the event,” she says. “Air conditioning, too.”
“Wow.” I swing my feet to the rungs of the ladder. “The BONK folks really did think of everything.”
She quirks an eyebrow. “Except how to avoid going to prison for fraud and coercion and money laundering?”
“Minor detail.” I grin as I start down the ladder.
“Careful.”
> “Always am.” I take my time descending, letting my eyes adjust to the dimness. The bunker smells like cool earth and still air, but it’s not a bad smell. There’s something else, a scent I can’t place.
As I drop to the ground and survey the space, I figure it out. “Rubber.” Stepping toward a crate, I look over to where Mari is descending the ladder. “Why is there a giant box of rubber balls?”
“That is a very good question.” She surveys the collection, then shakes her head. “Maybe they planned to put in a racquetball court?”
“Or have ball wars against the bunker walls.” I move from that mystery and onto another. “Can I look in some of these boxes?”
“Be my guest. The feds took anything valuable when they seized the place, but we haven’t gone through and organized what’s left.”
I pry the top off an oversized plastic crate and peer inside. “Feathers?”
Mari steps in close, shoulder brushing mine as she slips a hand inside. “Feather boas.” She quirks an eyebrow. “Because that’s what everyone needs with a zombie apocalypse raging outside?”
I laugh and keep moving, stepping deeper into the space. I’m dumbfounded by how big this is. “We can definitely host an event here,” I call. “That spot over there would be perfect for kegs.”
She surveys it and nods. “I was thinking a bar right there, and maybe food stations scattered around to keep people moving.”
“Yeah, I can picture that.” I really can, and it’s way cooler than I imagined when they suggested this mixer. My gaze lands on another plastic crate, and curiosity gets the best of me.
“What’s your guess?” I ask. “Hockey sticks? Five-pound bags of freeze-dried brine shrimp eggs?”
“The label says Condensed Milk,” she points out.
“That it does.” But as I pry off the lid, that’s not what I see. “Vodka. Lots and lots of vodka.”
She grins, firing a flurry of carbon bubbles through my chest. “I mean, who are we to judge what people do at the end of the world?”
“That’s fair.” I survey the rest of the items. Boxes of hot sauce. Rolls of duct tape. Someone with an over-active imagination could have a heyday figuring out what all this stuff is for. “Where were they supposed to…uh…relieve themselves?”