by Tawna Fenske
I think about what Leonard said earlier. Misjudged. I know I’m anthropomorphizing, giving human characteristics to an animal. But there’s something about the way he looked right into my eyes when he said it.
As I lug a heavy box to the front room, Griffin’s truck eases up in front of the cabin. He bounds up the steps as I open the door. “Got it.” He pulls the box from my arms before I can object, so I return to the Cox family living room with my fingers tingling where his brushed mine.
We’re loaded up in minutes, waving goodbye to Alex and Jaya. “They’re looking at you like you just saved their marriage,” Griffin murmurs as he eases onto the road that leads toward the next bank of cabins. “I suppose you’re used to that, though.”
I swallow back the lump in my throat, ordering myself to stop wondering if I could have saved his. “I don’t do a lot of couples’ counseling.”
If he hears the stilted note in my voice, he doesn’t react. “You feeling good about this?”
“I am.” I turn to face him, then wish I hadn’t. My belly turns cartwheels, and I hate this silly schoolgirl crush feeling, so I peer into the truck bed where Leonard’s riding in his cage. “I hope he’s okay back there.”
“It’s warm and we don’t have far to go,” Griffin says. “Soph’s going to freak out when she hears you adopted him.”
I smile to myself, happy there’s something new to draw the girl to me. Not because I want her father—of course that’s not it. I recognize the difficulty of being a pre-teen girl in a new town. She needs adult support, and between crochet lessons and Leonard, I’ve got opportunities to lend it.
“You’re home, Leonard.” Griffin parks in front of my cabin and slings himself out of the cab. I open my door and find him waiting to help me down. “Watch your step.”
“Thank you.” Once more, my hand starts tingling and doesn’t stop until we’ve got everything unloaded into my office at the end of the hall. It’s quiet there so Leonard has space to adjust.
I return to my living room to find Griffin in the center of it, surveying the furniture. “Same floor plan as mine,” he muses. “The kitchen’s on the opposite side and your deck’s a little smaller, but they look almost identical.”
“They’re all Armbrust cabins,” I tell him. “Armbrust Resorts?”
“I’ve heard of that.”
“There are several dozen resorts around the country. Nick Armbrust is famous for these rustic-luxury cedar cabins.” I pause. “Lauren used to date him. It was a pretty ugly breakup.”
Griff looks at me like I’ve shared something unexpected. “Handy to have a sister who’s a shrink when you go through stuff like that.”
Tiny needles of self-doubt prick the edges of my heart. “I—suppose so. I wasn’t really around much when they split.”
She didn’t seek me out, anyway. It was Lana who picked up the pieces, who let Lauren cry on her shoulder. Not that Lauren’s the crying sort, but surely there were tears at some point.
“Think they’ll be surprised you adopted Leonard?” he asks. “Your family, I mean.”
“Maybe. We’ll all be at Gabe’s for dinner, so I’ll tell them tonight.”
He smiles and drags a hand through his hair. “Well, I should get out of here. Get you bonding with the bird and all.”
I should let him go. Inventing reasons to keep him here just ups the risk we’ll end up kissing. My gaze drops to his mouth, and I remember what it felt like to have his lips crushing mine, to feel his body big and hard against me.
“Would you like a drink?” I blurt.
So much for that.
Griffin smiles. “I’d love one, thanks.”
I try to recall what I have to offer as I slip past him into the kitchen. “There’s mineral water, white wine, orange juice, and some questionable buttermilk.” I bought it thinking I’d learn to make Patti’s chocolate buttermilk muffins but haven’t gotten around to learning. “Also red wine and probably some gin in the pantry.”
Griff clutches his chest like he’s mortally wounded. “Not one beer?” He reaches past me into the fridge, brushing my hip with his arm. “Why’s the buttermilk questionable?”
“I thought it might be expired.”
“You’ve got five days to go. Want to try Morir Soñando?”
I took Spanish in college, but I’m rusty. “To die dreaming?”
Griffin looks surprised. “My grandma grew up in the Dominican Republic. She made it with yogurt and milk and OJ, but Soph likes it tart, so we use buttermilk.”
“That sounds…interesting.” What’s interesting is that Griff looks right at home in my kitchen, plucking the orange juice from the fridge and locating a whisk in the bin beside my stove. “The trick is to pour the OJ into the buttermilk and not the other way around.” He whisks as he demonstrates, filling one of my tall pint glasses. “That keeps it from curdling. Also helps if they’re the same temperature.”
“You’re quite the culinary master.” I watch as he adds a little sugar and a dash of vanilla extract, then tastes his concoction.
He looks at me and grins. “Perfect. Want your own glass, or should we share?”
The thought of putting my lips in the same spot as his feels embarrassingly tantalizing. “Can I try yours?”
He hands me the glass, fingers brushing mine. “It’s filling, so we can share if you want. I need to get home soon to fix dinner for Soph.”
And I need to stop swooning every time he looks at me with those gaslight blue eyes. I take a sip. It’s creamy and smooth, a little like an Orange Julius. “This is amazing.”
He grins. “Glad you like it.”
I take another drink and hand it back to him. Griff gestures to the table. “Want to sit a minute?”
“Sure.” I ease into one of my ladderback dining chairs, and he takes the seat beside me, knee brushing mine as he sips the drink and then hands me the glass.
This time when I lift it to my lips, I feel Griffin’s eyes on me. My pulse kicks up for reasons I can’t grasp, and when I lower the glass, there’s heat in his eyes. “God, you’ve got a great mouth.”
“I—um.” I swallow hard, wiping my lips with the back of my hand. “Thank you?”
“I was watching old clips of your show the other night,” he says a bit sheepishly. “And I just kept staring at your mouth thinking, ‘I’ve kissed her.’ That gorgeous, smart woman talking right into the camera—she’s mine.” He laughs and shakes his head. “I know you’re not mine. That came out wrong. I just—well, it’s hard to look at you and not think ‘God, I want to kiss her again.’”
Heat floods my face. Not just my face, but other parts. Arms, legs, the space between my legs. Everything about this man turns me on, and I’m fighting to remember why I shouldn’t give in to temptation.
“Griffin.” I have every intention of telling him we can’t do this. That we should finish our drink, shake hands, and call it a day.
But the heat in his eyes makes me forget all that, and I lunge for him. Just launch myself into his lap like some deranged harlot.
Griffin’s ready, arms clutching my waist as our mouths collide and my thighs clench his hips. He tastes like citrus and spice and everything delicious. As his tongue grazes mine, I moan and press my body tight against his. His chest is a hot wall against my breasts as hot hands cup my ass through yoga pants.
I shouldn’t do this.
I shouldn’t do this.
But my id kicks my subconscious to the curb. The pounding of my heartbeat drowns its shriek, along with Griff’s strangled groan.
“God, Mari.” He breaks the kiss, looking dazed. “These chairs aren’t great for this.”
Before I can speak, he scoops me up and stands. I give a squeak of surprise as he boosts me onto the table and wedges his hips between my thighs. “Better,” he says and kisses me again.
I’ve never felt as wanton and wild as I do wrapping my legs around Griffin’s waist and pulling him tight to my core. The hardness at his ce
nter claims the softness at mine, sending shockwaves of pleasure up my spine. I circle my hips, startled to realize I could come like this. Or I could drag him to my bedroom and—
“Fuck, Mari.” He eases me back onto the table, spreading me out like I’m a four-course meal he’s been craving. The lust flashing in his eyes is unmistakable. “Let me taste you.”
I don’t have to ask what he means. Good news, since I can’t find my voice. Somehow, I manage to nod, and that’s his cue to strip me bare. My T-shirt goes first, followed by yoga pants and panties.
I’m naked and aroused on my dining room table and trying to recall why this is a bad idea. As Griff drops to his knees, I give up trying and give in to the sensations. His tongue, hot and hungry, traces my seam. “Fuck, Mari. You taste so good.”
I know I should suggest the bedroom, maybe something aimed at getting us both off. But as Griffin’s tongue circles my clit, I’m helpless to do anything but cry out and clutch his hair.
“Griff.” His name slips out on a gasp as heat builds inside me. It’s been so long since I felt anything like this, and my climax barrels at me like a bike without brakes. “Oh, God!”
I shriek and squeeze my eyes shut as I hurtle over the edge. Pleasure blasts me into the stratosphere as Griffin slips two fingers inside me. His tongue lifts me to the next tier as I arch up and squeeze every ounce of pleasure from the moment.
I come down slowly, conscious of a ringing in my ears that might be from my own screams. Struggling to sit up, I drag my fingers through my hair and wonder if I look as undone as I feel. “That was—Christ, I don’t even have words for what that was.”
He grins and drags a hand over his mouth. “You’re delicious.”
Heat coils inside me again. How can I want him again already? But I do, and I know I shouldn’t, but I might actually die if we don’t make it to the bedroom. I brace myself with both hands, pushing to sit up on the table. As I do, something tumbles off the edge.
Turning in slow motion, I watch my notebook flutter to the floor. As the pages ruffle open, two words scream up from the sea of my own handwriting.
Gabrielle Julia.
I choke and glance at Griffin, but he’s not looking at me. He’s staring at the notebook, blue eyes scanning the page. When he pulls his gaze to mine, there’s a furrow between his brows.
“Mari—Why do you have notes about my ex-wife?”
Chapter 8
CONFESSIONAL 708.5
Walsh, Griffin (Brewmaster: Juniper Ridge)
Trust issues? Yeah, I guess so. [drags hand through hair] I mean, yeah…divorce left me kinda jaded. But I’m trying to do better. Self-improvement and all that. I want to be a better guy than I was when I was married. Model good behavior for my kid, you know?
[slow grin]
Well, I can’t be good all the time…
I stare into Mari’s eyes, still mind-whacked from what just happened between us. “Gabby’s name. Why is it in your notebook?”
I bend to retrieve it from the floor, but Mari scrambles under the table and grabs it. “That’s just—notes.”
“Show notes?” Joining Fresh Start at Juniper Ridge made me familiar with the concept, but I’m still not clear what Gabby has to do with anything. “You’re not bringing her on the show are you?”
Mari slams the notebook closed against her chest and shakes her head. She’s still naked, so the sight of her breasts squishing around the edges of the notebook makes me lose my train of thought.
“Absolutely not,” she says. “It’s just—” She bites her lip like she’s choosing her words with care. “Can I put my clothes on?”
I’d be a dick to say no, so I nod. I avert my eyes as she fumbles with her shirt and skips the bra. The lace tangles around her pepper shaker, making this my first time feeling turned on by a condiment.
Grabbing the notebook again, she runs her fingers through her hair. “Being conscious of what every community member is grappling with on an emotional level is my job,” she says at last. “Most of that will never be part of the show, but I still need to be aware of what our residents are facing in their personal lives. It’s a crucial piece of the research I’m conducting.”
I stare at her, reminding myself not to be a suspicious prick. “That was an awful lot of shrink speak in one mouthful.”
My own mouth is still filled with the taste of Mari, sweet and sexy and intoxicating. What were we talking about again?
“Elle Julia is on the show’s radar as a potential source of conflict in your life.” Her words jolt me back to the conversation, splashing cold water on my libido. “There’s a lot of behind-the-scenes due diligence we need to perform to be sure there won’t be any surprises.”
I’m not sure why she’s talking like a TV producer, but my brain catches one small detail. “You called her Elle Julia,” I say. “Her Hollywood name. Does that mean you’ve been in touch with her recently?”
Whatever just flickered in her eyes is something I can’t read. “No one from the show has spoken with Elle Julia recently.”
“Recently?”
Her throat moves as she swallows. “You’ll recall we did our due diligence when you applied. Our attorneys tracked down your ex-wife to make sure there were no conflicts as far as Sophie’s involvement.”
I’d almost forgotten about that. It was before Gabby started going by Elle, before anyone had heard of Hustlers and Housewives or even Fresh Start at Juniper Ridge. I called Gabby to explain, to put her mind at ease.
“The schools in the area are very good,” I assured her. “And the producers promised to keep Sophie out of the spotlight as much as possible.”
Gabby laughed, adopting the odd, breathy voice she’d been testing out. “I highly doubt a show like that will make it on the air.” She sounded worldly and cynical, or maybe just distracted. “Do you even know what it takes to get a television show from concept to fruition?”
I didn’t, but it turned out neither did Gabby.
News hadn’t gotten out yet that the Judson family was behind the odd little TV social experiment. By the time I understood, Gabby had changed her number and dropped off the face of the earth.
Shaking away those thoughts, I force myself to meet Mari’s eyes. Something feels off here, but maybe I’m paranoid. She looks edgy and uncomfortable and not at all like the woman who gripped my face with her thighs five minutes ago.
Probably because you won’t stop talking about your ex-wife.
I clear my throat. “Look, Mari—”
“I believe I owe you an orgasm.” Her eyes flash as she hooks her fingers in the waistband of my jeans. “Shall we move this to the bedroom?”
I would like that more than anything, and thoughts of Mari’s mouth wrapped around me push all other rational thought from my brain.
Almost all rational thought. “I should get home.” I scrape a hand through my hair and try to bring myself back down to earth. “Soph’s due back any minute, and I promised homemade mac and cheese.”
Is it my imagination, or does Mari look relieved? She lets go of my jeans, but not the notebook. Is that significant?
“Right,” she says. “Of course. Tell her she can come by anytime to see Leonard.”
I’d almost forgotten about the parrot, who hears his name from the other end of the house.
“Griff!” He squawks. “Oh, God!”
Mari winces. “That’s a problem.”
I can’t help grinning. “I’ll tell Soph you’re blown away by my new cocoa porter. If she visits and he says that, you can tell her we did a beer tasting.”
She licks her lips as her gaze skitters away. “I’d like to keep the lying to a minimum.”
Pulling her into my arms, I plant a kiss behind her ear. “I dig that about you.”
As I let go and step back, a ghost of regret flickers in her eyes.
“What are you reading in English class?”
It’s two days later, and I’m sitting with Soph in a booth at the br
ewery. There’s a plate of sweet potato fries between us, my gimmick to entice conversation. Maybe about the merits of ketchup versus mayo or whether she’s miserable at school.
I can’t say it’s going well.
“Dad, they don’t call it English anymore,” she says. “That’s from like, the olden days.”
I stifle the urge to sigh. “Humanities class. Are you still reading The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian?”
She shrugs and plucks a fry off the plate. “I guess. I finished last week and got another Sherman Alexie book. The rest of the class is still reading.”
“Atta girl.” I start to raise my hand for a high five but think better of it. Few things suck more than an unreciprocated palm slap. “How are things with your friends?”
“Okay, I guess.” She shrugs and sticks the fry in her mouth, then reaches for another. “There’s a sleepover this weekend with some girls from school.”
“That’s great. Are you going?” Belatedly, I realize she didn’t say she’s invited.
“I don’t know. Maybe.” She pauses to swirl a fry through ketchup. “Like, I’m not sure if they really want me there or if they’re just being polite to the new kid.”
“Soph. Of course they want you there. You’re funny and kind and smart and amazing. They’d be idiots not to want you around.”
It’s possible calling her friends idiots isn’t the right move. I wish Mari were here to tell me what to say.
Soph sighs. “Whatever.”
The universal pre-teen response.
I pause, trying to recall if Mari gave me any tips for broaching this subject. Thoughts of her send my brain zinging back to her kitchen table the other day, and it takes me a second to get my mind back on the conversation with my kid.
“If you ever want to talk with anyone—a psychologist or whatever—Mari recommended a guy who specializes in teenagers.”
Soph’s eyes widen. “You think I’m crazy?”
“That’s not what therapy is about.” I’m not sure what she remembers from when her mom and I tried counseling, so I settle for giving broad strokes. “It’s about having someone to talk to. Someone neutral who can listen and help you figure out things that are bothering you.”