“I am calm. I’m always calm!”
Her hand gave him another pat. “No, you’re not. You throw things—plates, fists, fits. I’m not sure if you’re aware, but those aren’t really the actions of a ninety-nine-percent no-feelings guy.” She allowed that a minute to sink in. “Just saying.”
“Jane, I…” But a shiver racked her small frame, and new alarm rushed through him. “We have to get you warm.” He picked them both up off the sand and half carried, half led her to Beach House No. 9. Private greeted them with a worried whine and stealthy licks at the salt water running off their bodies.
Griffin escorted her to the guest bath when she insisted on privacy, then hit his own shower. Standing under the spray, his restless mind replayed the event: his alarm upon seeing her on the cliff, his panic when she started to fall, that absolute certainty that he couldn’t go on without her.
She’d come to mean so much. And yes, she was right again, damn her. He wasn’t a ninety-nine-percent no-feelings guy.
Even as anxiety beat its vulture wings in his belly at the idea, he could no longer hide from the truth. His heart was no longer untouchable. Hell, it was no longer his own. He hadn’t wanted this, had never wanted this, but the battle was lost.
Dry and dressed again, he stood outside the bathroom where Jane was cleaning up, overwhelmed by the need to see her and touch her. Each moment that passed ratcheted his tension higher. His hand rubbed a nervous path on the thigh of his jeans, and he had to keep telling himself to unclench his back teeth. Nothing had prepared him for this feeling.
Never had he felt so vulnerable.
And still Jane didn’t emerge from the shower.
“It’s taking too long,” he muttered. Then he banged on the door with his knuckles. “You’re wasting water!”
She came out long minutes later, wrapped in a towel and flushed with heat, a pink cast to her cheeks, her shoulders, her chest.
“Are you all right?” he demanded.
“It seems I am,” she said, her expression bemused. “I saved myself from the giant eels and the whale snot.”
Griffin wanted to claim that he had saved her, but of course it wasn’t true. “You did,” he acknowledged. “You did.”
“I’m sort of an ocean stud now,” she added, a satisfied gleam in her eyes.
God, the woman just slayed him. His mouth twitched with a smile. “You are.”
“Well, then.” She took a quick step. “I have clothes in my car—”
“You don’t need clothes,” he said brusquely.
Her downy brows came together. “What?”
“Just a minute, just a minute,” he muttered, then stalked down the hall, stalked back.
“Griffin?”
“I’m a writer, okay? Give me a second to find the words.”
Instead of being patient as he thought she should, she brushed past him and turned into the master bedroom. There she rummaged through his drawers, filching a pair of boxers and a T-shirt. She went behind another closed bathroom door to put them on.
He found himself rapping on that door too. How long did it take to get dressed? “Hurry up.”
Her expression was a little forlorn when she finally emerged. “I lost my new toothbrush.”
“I’ll buy you another one.”
“I don’t mind about the earrings. They were designed for a five-year-old.”
“Hey, it’s the thought that counts,” he said, nearly annoyed.
She swallowed, and the new expression overtaking her face was one he couldn’t read. “I never want to see that snow globe again.”
He frowned at her. “That kind of hurts my feelings.”
“Are we back to that?” Now, for the first time since they’d washed up on the beach, she sounded weary. “I thought you were sure you didn’t have any.”
He hesitated one more moment, and then he saw a shiver work its way up her spine. “You’re still cold.” Jane should never be cold again.
He reached out, intent on sweeping her to his chest. The maddening librarian stepped back, forcing him to beg for her patience. Which she seemed to like. “Please, Jane. Please give me a moment of your time.”
She allowed herself to be towed to the living room, where he wrapped her in a blanket and placed her on the couch. He sat on the coffee table opposite her, staring into her lovely face.
A tense silence developed as he tried to figure out what to tell her.
“I’ve already showed you the inside of my heart, Griffin,” she said in a tight voice. “Can’t you leave me alone now?”
“You don’t understand,” he answered. “I’m trying to see myself in your eyes. I keep thinking they’re like mirrors.”
She cocked her head, cautious. “What is it you think you should see?”
Griffin took a breath. A life unexamined is not worth living. “That final explosion in the Humvee…the one that took Jackal’s leg—it splintered me into pieces. One part objective reporter, one part combatant affected—no, injured—by war, one part human being grieving for friends lost and wounded. I’ve been avoiding putting those three back together.”
“You don’t say.”
“Smart-ass.” He scrubbed his hands through his hair. “Separated like that, it seemed I could keep myself from feeling—” Breaking off, he forced himself to breathe.
“But you are feeling. You’re hurting. That’s why you’re—”
“Throwing plates, fists and fits.” He looked away, looked back. She deserved the truth. “I’m having flashbacks. More all the time.”
“Oh, Griffin.” Sitting straighter, she leaned toward him. “How frightening.”
His mouth was dry. “I’m a mess.” He’d been trying to deny it for so long. Refusing to acknowledge what everyone had been telling him.
“You can get help.”
“Rex thinks the book will go a long way toward that,” he said, then hesitated. “I’m not going to Gage. I’m done with war.”
God, what a relief it was to say those words.
Jane’s expression was once more inscrutable. “But not done with the memoir?” she asked. “You’re actually going to finish it?”
Here was the critical moment, one that felt more live-or-die than any he’d faced in Afghanistan. He took another deep breath. “If I can get some assistance.”
In an abrupt move, she sat back. “Maybe Frank can find you someone.”
His gaze caught hers. “I’ve already found someone.”
“Griffin…”
“Look, your reputation doesn’t need me. It doesn’t need this job. You’re incredible at what you do—you’re good with the words, you’re good with people. You’ve already made my memoir so much better.”
Her face flushed. “Thank you.”
“But this isn’t about the book. I need you, Jane.” He was certain of this. Find a woman you can value and love every day. “You’re the glue. In your eyes I see me, whole and well. Loved…and loving.”
She made to rise off the couch.
He grabbed her knees, holding her down. “I love you, Jane Pearson. I can’t run from my memories any longer, and I don’t want to distance myself from this either. I am desperately in love with you.”
She turned her face away from his. “You’re riding the adrenaline rush from the fall. Don’t say something you’ll regret later.”
Griffin hadn’t come this far to fail. “Let me be the one who never lets go of you, sweetheart.” He caressed her bare legs in soft persuasion. “I know I’m not completely healthy, but I promise—”
“It’s not that.” She whipped her head toward his, and he could see the tears standing in her eyes. “It’s… You’ve been all over the world. Been in perilous places, taken risks that stop my breath. In comparison to all that, will what we might have…will I be enough?”
“Sweetheart…”
“You said my world, this world, is colorless, remember?”
It almost made him laugh. “Honey-pie, when I’m with
you, I think of a thousand colors. Your beautiful silvery eyes, your lemon-yellow swimsuit, your pink sunburn, your pumpkin shoes. You’re…you’re my rainbow.” His darling, serious, wonderful, brave, spirited, beautiful, talented Jane. So, so lovable.
He would make it his worthy purpose to assure her of that every day.
But she didn’t yet appear entirely convinced, damn it.
“Jane, sweetheart, remember…” His heart felt unmoored in his chest, bumping throat, ribs, belly. Oh, God, he thought, he had to get this right.
He reached for her hands, held tight. “Remember when I told you that during each moment in war, you hold the certain knowledge that what you’re doing might be the very last thing you ever do?”
She nodded, and her mouth was trembling.
He pulled her forward, into his arms. His lips found the smooth skin of her cheek. “Jane. Oh, Jane.”
Holding her away again, he hoped that there really was magic in Beach House No. 9, because he wasn’t too proud to accept enchanted spells and secret love potions if it meant he could convince her. If it meant he could keep her forever. “I want my very last thing to be you.”
There was a taut moment of stunned silence. Then she launched herself into his arms, laughing and crying at the same time. “Oh, God. I love you, I love you too.”
Their kiss was tender and deep, carnal and exuberant. Needing breath, he finally lifted his head. “Jane—”
“Griffin—” she said at the same time.
They smiled at each other. Her eyes sparkled. “We’ve still got the name thing down, chili-dog. But this time…you first.”
He grinned, and then when he opened his mouth to speak, he found himself reaching for a real future, he found himself believing in it for the first time since he’d left Afghanistan, and he finally felt one hundred percent alive, ready to leap for that silver horizon ahead that was waiting for him in Jane’s eyes. “Marry me. Please, honey-pie, marry me.”
And then he knew there was indeed magic at Beach House No. 9, because his beloved took her own leap, trusting that he would always be there to catch her, to be the one who never let go. Without another hesitation, she said, “Yes.”
# # #
Dear Reader:
Thank you! I hope you enjoyed the second book in the Almost series. Jane and Griffin are two of my favorite story people and I hope you feel the same. I loved writing their romance.
Continue on to read some information about the real-life place that inspired the fictional Crescent Cove as well as view some photos of the area. If you want to hear my audio introduction to the story and your device does not support audio, you can find the mp3 file in which I talk about the book at my website, www.christieridgway.com.
Interested in sharing your thoughts about Jane and Griffin’s romance with other readers? I hope you’ll leave a review here for the book and look for the first in the series, ALMOST WONDERFUL, as well as ALMOST EVERYTHING and ALMOST PARADISE, coming soon.
To not miss out on new Christie Ridgway releases and to get other information about upcoming books and specials, sign up for my my newsletter. You can also follow me on Facebook, Twitter, or visit my website.
I’ve also included here an excerpt of LIGHT MY FIRE (Rock Royalty Book 1) and TAKE ME TENDER (Billionaire’s Beach Book 1).
All the best!
Christie Ridgway
Excerpt – LIGHT MY FIRE
Rock Royalty Book 1
© Copyright 2014 Christie Ridgway
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Chapter One
The children of America's premier rock band learned early to sleep through anything. Late night jam sessions, liquor (and worse) -fueled arguments, raucous parties raging from dark to dawn that were peppered with wild laughter, breaking glass, and the squishy thud of fists against skin. At twenty-four, Cilla Maddox had not lost that skill, though she'd recently come to view it as something less than a gift.
Still, she didn't stir from her curled position on the edge of the king-sized bed when a tall, broad figure entered the room in the middle of the night. No streetlights disturbed the darkness this deep in Laurel Canyon and the newcomer found the bed only by deduction. When, at his sixth cautious step, his shin met an immoveable object, he dropped the motorcycle boots and duffel bag he carried to the plush carpet and took a leap of faith by tipping his long body forward. Finding firm mattress and feathery pillow, he instantly fell into sleep.
Hours later, Cilla came awake to the sound of birds tweeting and chirping their odes to another Southern California morning as they flitted through the shrubbery and tall eucalyptus trees that grew inside and outside the canyon compound where she'd grown up. Eyes closed, she breathed in the country-scented air, such a surprise when the famous Hollywood Boulevard and its twin in notoriety, the Sunset Strip, were less than a mile away. Flopping to her back, she stretched to her full five-feet, five inches. Then she pushed her arms overhead and swept them back down until her fingertips met—
Something solid. Warm. Alive.
On a gasp, her eyes flew open and her head whipped right. She yanked her hand from a man's heavy shoulder to press it against her thrashing heart.
As it continued to beat wildly against her ribs, she stared at her bedmate. Though his body was plastered to the mattress belly-down, his face was turned toward hers and it only took another instant to realize he was no stranger. But recognition didn't calm the overactive organ in her chest that continued sending blood sprinting through her body.
She blinked, just to make sure her eyes weren't deceiving her. They apparently had told the truth, she decided. After years of adolescent fantasies, she was actually sharing a bed with him. With Renford Colson.
No mistake, it was her teenage fantasy man. His glossy black hair that tangled nearly to his shoulders. His days'-old stubble of beard that made his mouth look softer, fuller, more kissable if that was even possible. Those were his spiky lashes resting against his sharp-angled face.
Yet...was he really here? To make herself believe it, she mouthed his name. Ren.
As if he heard the silent syllable, his eyes flipped open.
She started, their distinctive color—a silvered green, just like eucalyptus leaves—jolting her to the marrow.
Dark brows met over his straight nose and she watched the drowsiness seep from him as his gaze sharpened. "Priss?"
She frowned. He was the only one to call her that nickname and it had annoyed her since she was old enough to understand it telegraphed something about the way he viewed her. "Excessively proper," she remembered reading in the dictionary. "Prim."
"Cilla." Her voice sounded morning-husky as she made the correction.
One corner of his mouth kicked up. "Priscilla."
Ugh. That was worse. To her mind, Priscilla was the name of some old-fashioned china doll that was deemed too nice to play with and so grew dusty on a high, forgotten closet shelf. As the youngest "princess" of rock royalty (an article in Rolling Stone had described the nine collective children of the Velvet Lemons in just such terms), she'd often been overlooked. Likely Ren hadn't given her a single thought in the nine years since she'd last seen him.
"Why are you here?" she asked, sitting up.
His gaze dropped from her face to the size XL T-shirt she wore, an authentic Byrds concert souvenir, one of the several such clothing items she'd collected (read: purloined from her careless father) during her lifetime. "Priss," Ren remarked with a note of mild surprise, "you've grown up."
Grown-ups didn't react to the red flush they could feel crawling over their skin. Grown-ups didn't check out their chest to determine if it was a modest B-cup that led him to such a conclusion. So ignoring both compulsions, she repeated her question. "Why are you here?"
"Couple reasons." Ren flipped over then jackknifed on the mattress to face her. Both palms rubbed over his eyes and down his cheeks, his beard making a scratchy sound. He'd fallen asleep in his worn jeans and wrinkled dress shirt. On the floor near
him were a pair of battered boots and a leather bag, both as black as his hair. His hands went to the buttons marching down his chest.
She swallowed. "What are you doing?"
"I've been wearing this damn thing for—Christ, who knows?—it's got to be a couple of days. However long it took me to get here from Russia with a fucking long layover in Paris."
Her gaze didn't leave his nimble fingers as they continued unbuttoning to reveal a stark white undershirt beneath. "You didn't stop off in London?" That was where he was based. Ren had started as a roadie for the band, then moved into concert tour planning and security. When he'd left the employ of the Velvet Lemons, he'd set up shop across the pond and continued doing the same thing—just not for their fathers' band.
Cilla couldn't blame him for that. The three Lemons might as well have been named the Odd Ducks. They'd achieved superstardom in the 1970s and when they were nearing forty, somehow decided they wanted more than sex, riches, and scandalous reputations. Each had produced three kids before declaring their paternal urges satisfied. No mothers came attached to the children they'd fathered. They'd been bought off or wandered off and as long as Cilla could remember the nine rock progeny had spent their childhoods in the expansive Laurel Canyon compound that consisted of three separate houses and then this smaller cottage where she and Ren had chosen to sleep.
Inspecting the hand-tied quilt covering the bed, Cilla ran her fingers over the psychedelic-inspired design. "You know about Gwen?" she asked, referring to Guinevere Moon, an original Velvet Lemons groupie who'd been the closest to a mother figure the band's offspring ever had. This had been her house.
"Of course," Ren replied. "I couldn't get here for the memorial service, but I came as soon as I was able to make arrangements for my replacement."
As head fixer for some other band's tour, Cilla supposed. "Her real name was Donna Carp," she said, her heart squeezing to think that the spiral-curled, caftan-wearing gentle soul was now gone. "Gwen's, that is."
There was a short silence, then Ren laughed. "Baby, you didn't think she really had Guinevere Moon on her birth certificate?"
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