by Tawna Fenske
Mari points to a stack of five-gallon buckets in the corner. “At first I thought those. I even found a bunch of toilet seats that looked like something you could mount on top.”
“There’s a pleasant thought.”
“Don’t worry, there’s plumbing. The restrooms are even ADA compliant.”
I’m still studying boxes, wondering what’s in them. What would people bring with them when fleeing to an underground bunker?
“What would you want?” I turn back to Mari. “You’re stuck in an underground bunker for weeks or months or hell, maybe years. What five items would you like to have?”
Mari scrunches her face and looks thoughtful. “Are we assuming food’s already covered?”
“Maybe. Let’s say you get one luxury food item.”
“Muffins,” she says without hesitation. “Or maybe the ingredients to make muffins. That’s assuming I complete my baking lessons between now and the end of the world.”
“Good to have goals. What else?”
Her forehead furrows. “Would a crochet hook and yarn count as one item or two?”
“Let’s say one. What else?”
“Condoms.” She blinks like she’s surprised herself. “I mean, practically speaking, we’re down there for an indeterminate amount of time, and sex is a natural form of entertainment and expression and—” She stops and presses her lips together like she can’t believe she went there.
I can’t, either, but I love it. I love it almost as much as I love that she said “we.” Did she mean the two of us? Other community members would presumably be there, but I like to think I factored into her thoughts.
Maybe I’m kidding myself.
“How about you?” She tucks her hands into her pants pockets. “What are some of your five items?”
“I’ll go with beer for the culinary item. An IPA, one with a strong citra profile.”
“Citra.” She looks thoughtful. “Your favorite hops?”
I can’t tell if she remembers what I said about the shampoo. With my luck she’s noticed me sniffing her.
Stop being a creep.
“Citra tops the list of my favorite brewing hops,” I tell her. “There are actually about two hundred varieties.”
“Is it tough to pick just one? Or beer varieties—how do you choose a favorite when there are so many?”
I shrug and look her in the eye. “It’s not difficult. I know what I like.”
Like a moron, I let my gaze drop to her mouth. Mari stares back, her cheeks pinkening, but she doesn’t move away. “What else? What are some of your non-culinary choices?”
“I suppose man can’t live on beer alone.” I give it some thought, swallowing as my brain ambles down a dark path.
The marriage counselor’s office, just weeks before Gabby moved out. “Pretend you’re stranded together on a desert island,” the therapist instructed. “Each of you should make a list of what’s important. You’ll compare lists and settle on the ten most vital.”
It’s supposed to be an exercise in compromise and teamwork and problem-solving. My list had things like sunblock, a knife, food.
Gabby’s included books, her favorite perfume, a laptop for watching movies.
We bickered about the intent of the exercise and who’d misunderstood the directions. The therapist watched with eyes that saw more than we could.
It’s Mari watching me now, so I take a deep breath. “Am I supposed to list practical things like toilet paper and tools, or things I can’t stand living without?”
She smiles. “I suppose that’s part of the exercise. Do you gravitate toward the practical or the passion?”
My gaze drops to her mouth again. Until last week, I’d have said practical. No question.
But her condom response gives me pause.
“It depends,” I say slowly. “If basic survival isn’t in question, I’d crave passion. Something to make surviving worthwhile.”
Her lips part just a little. “That—makes sense.”
Does it? Because the way my brain’s spinning right now, I may be speaking gibberish. “How about you?”
She licks her lips. “You mean the rest of my five items, or whether I’d pick passion or practical?”
“Yes.”
Mari smiles. “Same as you. Assuming we’ve met the basics of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs—”
“Maslow?”
“It’s a five-tier model of human needs. Things like food, water, and safety are at the bottom—the main priorities.” Her throat moves as she swallows. “But assuming those are covered, I’d go to the top of the pyramid. Self-actualization, maybe creative pursuits.”
“So…crochet hooks.” I don’t mention the condoms, but I’m sure she thinks of it.
I can tell by the color in her cheeks, the way the edges of her mouth tug up again. “Something like that.”
My palms are sweaty as my gaze drops to her mouth again. I’m aching to kiss her. From the way her lips just parted, she wants that, too.
“Mari.” I lift a hand slowly, gauging her response. If she steps back, I’ll have my answer.
She doesn’t move. She’s breathing fast, and I don’t let my gaze fall to her breasts. Her cheek is soft under my palm, and she doesn’t pull away.
“Goddammit.” She breathes the word like a prayer as her eyelids flutter shut.
I’m not sure how to take that. I’m still touching her, so I brush a curl from her face. She leans into my palm like she’s hungry for my touch. Like she craves me the way I crave her.
“Griffin.” Her voice sounds strained, and when she opens her eyes, the heat takes my breath away. “Just this once.”
I’m not sure what she means, since we’ve already kissed. But it feels different to me, too. Maybe because there’s no threat of Soph walking in or the brewery blowing up. It’s the two of us ten feet underground with dim light and smells of damp earth lending a primal note to what’s buzzing between us. It doesn’t feel real. Maybe that’s it.
I tug the pencil from her hair and thread my fingers through the silk strands. Slowly, I brush her lips with mine. She tastes like muffins and citrus and something unmistakably Mari.
With a soft moan, she kisses me back. “God.” Drawing her hands to my chest, she clutches my shirt and looks deep into my eyes. “Don’t stop.”
It’s like gasoline on a fire, and I pull her to me so fiercely she stumbles. I catch her easily, slipping an arm around her waist as she crashes against my chest.
Then we’re kissing—frantically, like our lives depend on it.
Her fingers grip the cotton of my T-shirt as her tongue grazes mine. My hand drops to her ass, which is a bold move. But she presses against me, going up on tiptoe so we’re aligned at the center. She grinds against me, and I give a groan of my own as I back her toward the wall and kiss my way into the hollow of her throat.
She’s got her hands on my back as her pulse beats wildly against my lips. Arching her back, she grinds against the hard-on I’ve spent the last few minutes hiding. Since when did a kiss do this to me?
But this isn’t just a kiss. It’s hot and hungry and fueled by something I don’t understand. I couldn’t stop if I wanted to, and I’m sure she feels the same.
She makes a sound that’s half sigh, half groan. “Why?” she breathes as she arches into me.
I kiss the space behind her ear. “Why what?”
“Why are you so good at this?”
I don’t have an answer. Something’s happening, and it’s not about skill. It’s not that either of us is an epic kisser. It’s that we’re magic together. Something about her sparks a heat in me I’ve never felt before.
The silky fabric of her top slips just a little, and I seize the chance to claim more skin. To kiss every faint freckle from the hollow of her throat to the roundness of her shoulder. I want to taste every inch of her, to know what she sounds like as she breaks apart beneath my tongue.
There’s a gentle squeeze around my cock and
I glance down to see she’s stroking me through my jeans. Her fingers claim me, rough and ready, and I wonder if she knows she’s even touching me. That’s how far gone we are. We’re desperate and dangerous and I swear to God I could come just like this.
“Mari.” Emboldened by her stroking, I slip a hand up to cup her breast through her thin top. “You feel so good.”
“God, Griffin.” Her eyes pinch closed, like she’s pretending we’re someplace else. Somewhere with a bed, maybe.
Her grip tightens around my cock, and I’m having trouble breathing. “Do you want to—”
“We should—”
We both speak at once as her eyes flutter open. Hers widen just a little. “What?”
I swallow hard, dropping my gaze to her hand at my fly. “If you keep that up, I won’t last long.” Embarrassing to admit, but it’s been a while. “If there’s a bed in this place—”
“God.” She jumps like I’ve stung her, dragging a hand to her mouth. “I’m so sorry.”
“For what?”
“I shouldn’t—we shouldn’t—” She shakes her head and takes a step away. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“We weren’t thinking,” I point out, aching to reach for her again. To ride this wave of feeling past any ripple of doubt. “That’s kind of the point.”
Her gaze drops to the bulge in my jeans and color rushes her cheeks. “I shouldn’t be doing this.” She licks her lips and meets my eyes again. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what got into me.”
I shake my head to clear it, not sure where we got off track. “There’s no need to apologize. And there’s no rule against us enjoying each other’s company, is there?”
As far as I know, Fresh Start at Juniper Ridge has no regulations about behind-the-scenes staff hooking up with community members. Not that I read the manual that closely, but I would have remembered. “Mari?”
She’s blinking fast now, trying to draw herself from some sort of trance. “I—need to go. This venue, it’s great. Dark and mysterious and weirdly romantic.” She edges sideways, still struggling to put distance between us. “That’s all this was, right?”
“Are you really asking me? Because I’ll tell you right now, this wasn’t just some weird cave fetish. Not for me, it wasn’t.”
“I don’t know what this was.” She shakes her head again. “But it shouldn’t happen.”
“Mari—”
“So, um, I can leave you here to look around. I need to get back for an appointment. You can find your way out?”
She’s got a hand on the ladder while I’m still trying to figure out what the hell just happened. “Sure, yeah. Don’t worry about it.”
“Great!” She flashes a smile that’s forced. Her eyes flash as she touches a fingertip to her lip. “I’ll see you around then.”
She turns and scrambles up the ladder, the heels of her shoes tapping faster than the slamming of my heart.
What the hell just happened?
Chapter 7
CONFESSIONAL 702
Judson, Marilyn, PsyD (Psychologist: Juniper Ridge)
So many patients blame perceived failings on a lack of self-control. Addiction, debt, overeating. Like you can flip a switch and fix it. There’s an excellent study connecting low glucose levels to poor performance on tasks tied to self-control. By replenishing glucose—say, with honey or sweet corn or fruit juice—the percentage of improvement on—what?
It’s grape juice, Lauren. No, you can’t have some. I don’t care if you’re thirsty. I’m trying to explain how—fine. It’s wine, okay?
I avoid Griffin as much as possible, pouring myself into event planning and coaching sessions with other community members.
But there’s only so much you can do to dodge someone who lives a literal stone’s throw away in a community designed to maximize interaction between residents.
“Hey, Mari.” He strides up to the coffee shop counter just as I’m ordering a butterscotch bran muffin. His eyes sweep me from head to toe, and I hate how much I love it. “I’ve been meaning to call you.”
“Oh?” Accepting my tea mug from Patti, I pick it up and blow on my Earl Grey. “I’m happy to schedule an appointment.”
He quirks an eyebrow. “Should I make an appointment to discuss the Cox’s parrot?”
Patti and Colleen exchange a look behind the counter. “There’s a euphemism I’ve never heard.”
“It’s not a euphemism,” I insist, though the heat rising in my cheeks leaves some doubt. “It’s just—” Shaking my head, I gesture to a corner table. “How about we sit over there?”
Griff grins and scoops up my muffin plate. “Let me get this.”
We walk together to the sunny corner table under a west facing window. Easing into the seat across from me, he watches as I take a sip of tea. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
There’s no question mark, so I don’t bother denying it. “I’ve been busy.” I clear my throat. “There’s news about the parrot?”
“Unfortunately, yes. They need to find a new home for Leonard right away.”
“Something happened?”
Griffin nods grimly. “Jaya baked Cornish game hens for dinner. I guess both birds were in the kitchen watching when she pulled them out.”
“That seems…unnerving.” I cut the muffin in half and push the plate toward his side of the table.
“Not as unnerving as Leonard turning to the other bird and chanting ‘Paco’s dead’ until they freaked out and moved his perch to the next room.” He picks up his half of the muffin and takes a bite. “This is great, thanks.”
“Of course.” I sip my tea and fight to keep my focus off Griffin’s mouth. Instead, I consider the pitfalls of adopting a pet with sociopathic tendencies. “They’re looking to rehome Leonard soon?”
“Immediately. I’m walking over now to drop off a book Soph borrowed from Olivia. They asked if I’d take him temporarily until they find a new home.”
I see where this is going. “And you’re afraid Soph will take that as a sign you’re keeping him.”
“Bingo.”
He finishes his half of the muffin, then rests his hands on the table. I definitely do not look at his fingers. Or his forearms. Or— “You’re inviting me to come with you?”
“Yep.” He grins, and my belly turns a cartwheel. “I thought you’d like to meet him.”
This is a bad idea on many levels. Despite days of trying, I still haven’t managed to make contact with Griffin’s ex-wife. I’ve rattled every cage and called in favors with a dozen Hollywood pals. Until I reach her and get that consent form signed, I have to keep my distance.
“I do need to drop off some show notes for the Coxes.” Why the hell did I say that?
Griffin lifts an eyebrow. “So you’re still interested?” He smiles. “In the bird, I mean.”
No sense pretending this isn’t awkward. “Griffin, I—I’m sorry if I’ve given you mixed messages.”
A slow grin spreads over his face. “Your messages have seemed clear to me.”
God, I hate how that smile sends bushels of butterflies zinging through my belly like drunk little demons. It’s a struggle to keep my voice calm as I remind myself of the reasons to keep things professional. “What message are you receiving?”
He shrugs. “You want me.” Still grinning, he leans forward over the table. “I want you, too. But for some reason you’re determined to keep up this weird, professional distance, so I can roll with it.”
I swallow hard, grateful he can’t read my mind. Grateful he doesn’t know I spent three hours last night filling a notebook with ideas on how to contact Elle Julia. I even called in a favor from a director I once slept with, hoping he might have an in.
“They keep ‘em locked down tight on that set,” he said when I mentioned the name of her reality show. “Doubt I could reach her even if you made it worth my while.”
The implication set my skin crawling and reminded me why I’m glad to be out of Hollywo
od. “I appreciate you trying.” I hung up and took a long shower.
Now, I take a deep breath as I study Griffin across the table. “I’d love to meet Leonard.” I pick up my half of the muffin to keep my hands busy. “Do I need to join you now or come by later?”
“Now’s great, if you’re free. I wanted to pick your brain about Soph, actually. There’s…some stuff going on.”
Now he’s got my attention. “Is everything okay?” I bite into the muffin, hoping the girl isn’t in trouble. “She’s struggling with something?”
He watches me as I finish the muffin, and I’m annoyed by how much I love that he’s mesmerized by my mouth. “We’re coming up on the anniversary of her mom leaving,” he says. “I’m expecting that might be rough.”
“Oh. I didn’t realize…I mean, yes. Of course.”
I hate myself so much for how easily the lie slips out. I do know the exact date Griffin’s ex-wife left because she told me the day she planned to do it.
“I’m just going to rip the Band-Aid off.” She swiped her eyes with a tissue and glanced out the window. “It’s the kindest way, don’t you think?”
The irony of being asked that question is no longer lost on me.
Griffin runs a hand through his hair. “I’ve been wondering if I should say anything to Soph about the date or just let it slide.”
I get to my feet, needing to walk and talk so I stop staring at Griffin and start focusing on his mental health needs. On the needs of his child. “Are you fairly certain Soph remembers the date?”
Griff looks grim as he follows me to the trash can in the corner, then out the door into the bright afternoon sunshine. “The day Gabby left, Soph started marking her calendar. Marking each day her mom’s been gone. I just saw she’s up to seven-hundred-and-twenty. Almost the two-year mark.”
God, I can’t imagine. “Poor kid.”
“Right, so—do I plan something? A special dinner or something fun to distract her?”
“Not to distract her.” We fall into step together as we skirt the edge of the lake, moving toward the Cox residence. “The opposite might be helpful, if you think she’d like to talk.”