by Tawna Fenske
“You could try taking the pressure off a little,” I tell him. “Maybe suggesting a game that lets conversation flow more naturally. Or what about a book of questions that you take turns asking one another?”
He shrugs. “I tried that once. The book thing, I mean. I asked stuff like, ‘if you could take a one-month vacation anywhere in the world, where would you go?’ or ‘tell me what you like best and least about your life.’”
“Those are terrific.” I’m seriously impressed he took the initiative. “How did it go?”
Griffin frowns down at the table again. “She rolled her eyes and shut the bedroom door in my face.”
Ouch.
This is worse than I thought. I’m debating how best to broach the subject of emotionally abusive relationships, but Griffin’s on a roll now. He looks up, blue eyes earnest and a little melancholy.
“The thing is, I’ve tried reaching out. Like, buying her gifts and stuff?”
“Oh?” I swallow back my judgements, knowing he needs to be heard. “How did that go?”
“Not great.” He snorts. “Probably my fault. How the fuck was I supposed to know stuffed animals aren’t cool?”
“Um, well.” Yikes, what do I do with that? “When a gift is given with good intentions and love—”
“And seriously, I’ve tried talking with her about her period because I know that’s a thing, and God knows I don’t want her getting bad information from friends, but she shuts me out completely. It’s like I’m damned if I do, damned if I don’t, you know?”
I stare at him. This is the first time in seven years of private practice that I’ve honestly been at a loss for words.
“Griffin.” I say his name slowly, stretching it out, stalling for time as a faint buzz begins in the back of my brain. Something’s off here.
“Yeah?”
“Are we—” Lord, where do I start? “Um, well. That is, do you think it’s possible we’re having two different conversations?”
He frowns. “What the hell conversation do you think we’re having?”
The buzz in my brain grows louder; hornets, maybe. It’s dawning on me that I may have just stepped in the world’s largest pile of excrement. “I thought,” I begin carefully, “that we were having a conversation about improving your skills talking to women.”
Griffin stares at me. “Women? Like—to date?”
My brain rewinds with a squeal as I scramble to figure out where I got off track. I glance down at the first page of his packet, scanning for anything to help me dig out of this hole.
It hits me like a tire iron to the forehead.
“Sophie!” I shout, slapping my palm on the table so hard he jumps. “Your twelve-year-old daughter, Sophie.”
He stares at me, unblinking, unflinching. I’m braced for him to stand up and walk out of this room. He has every right to.
Hell, he’d be entitled to his feelings if he threw in the towel right now and quit the show. God knows I’ve given him zero reason to think his emotional well-being is in good hands.
But instead, a slow, warm smile spreads over his face. Then a sound bubbles up, so deep, so unexpectedly musical, that it takes me a moment to identify it as laughter.
He’s laughing. Griffin Walsh is laughing.
“Huh,” he says, scratching his chin again. He’s still smiling, and ohmylord the man has dimples. “That’s pretty damn funny.”
I try to smile back, but I’m mortified. Never, in all my years as a psychologist, has anything like this happened.
“I’m so sorry.”
For misinterpreting his question about girls. For making assumptions. For a million other things including the way my heart is flinging itself against my ribcage like a rabid bird.
“Truly, I apologize,” I continue. “If you’d like, we could discontinue this session and—”
“Hey, Doc?”
I swallow hard, tasting shame on the back of my tongue. Shame and the unmistakable, irrefutable sprinkle of lust.
Goddamn those dimples.
“Yes?” I manage weakly.
Griffin leans forward, hands stretching across the table. He’s close enough to touch me if he wanted, and it’s all I can do not to reach for him.
“This was fun.” He grins, and my heart flops over and sighs. “Wanna try again?”
***
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In the meantime, have you read my Ponderosa Resort Romantic Comedy Series? It’s heaped with humor, heart, and hilarious family hijinx. You can start anywhere, since the books are written as standalones, but here’s a glimpse at the novella Snowbound Squeeze where readers first met some of the Judson clan…
Your exclusive peek at Snowbound Squeeze
Gable
I don’t know if I’ve ever been this tired. Bone deep, balls dragging the floor exhausted.
As I sag against my buddy’s front door, he drops the key into my palm. I curl my fist around the metal lifeline and hold tight.
“Stay as long as you need to.” James’s voice is pitched low, and I hate the pity in his eyes.
Pity and whatever it’s called when a dude has three sparkly red lipstick marks on his face.
“Thank you.” I force the words past the tightness in my throat and try not to stare at the kiss print just above his jaw. Did Lily miss his mouth on purpose? “And—uh—no one else knows about this? Me being in Oregon.”
James braces an arm against the cedar-planked wall of his cabin’s foyer. He has questions, and I’m grateful he’s not asking them. Grateful we’re doing this here. That he’s not luring me in for wine and friendly catch-up.
I’m not feeling friendly. Just tired. Tired and really fucking raw.
Also confused about the lipstick. Seriously, does he not know it’s there?
“Lily knows,” James says, and it takes me a second to remember what we’re talking about. “I told her you were headed this way. She’s been worried since we saw everything on the news.”
“I’m fine.” I don’t know if I’m trying to convince him or me.
“The rest of resort management doesn’t know you’re here,” he assures me. “And they definitely don’t know about that.”
He nods at the key, and I clutch it tighter. “Thanks.”
I’ve met most of James’s siblings and love the crap out of them, but right now, I need discretion. “Privacy’s sort of key at the moment.”
“You’ll have that in spades at the cabin,” he says. “To be honest, I think everyone forgot it exists. We inherited it together, but it’s so far in the middle of nowhere that no one ever uses it.”
Perfect.
James rubs a hand over his chin, narrowly missing a smear of lipstick. I debate mentioning it but decide not to. I won’t be here long, and there’s no sense embarrassing him. I’m sure he’s eager to get back to whatever produced the lip prints in the first place.
A gust of wind hurls ice chips at the door behind me, and I glance out the window to my left. Trees sway in the darkness, their needles flickering with moonlight.
“The snow’s not supposed to hit until tomorrow night,” James says. “You should be fine.”
“I will be.”
I’m not sure we’re talking about snow.
He studies my face for a moment. “I wasn’t sure you were still coming.”
“It took me a while to get out of town. LA traffic, you know?”
He nods, making the lipstick on his left temple flash in the light from the sconce beside the door. “Right. Still, I was worried.”
James isn’t the only one. It’s my agent who finally persuaded me to get out of town. “Perhaps you should find someplace to lay low,” he suggested on the phone last week. “Just stay out of the public eye until things quiet down.”
My brother, Dean, was more direct. “Get the fuck out of Hollywood,” he growled. “Hide out until we tell you to come back. Or fuck it, don
’t come back. God knows I’d love to get out of here.”
So that’s what I’m doing. Getting lost, at least for a little while.
The key feels warm in my palm, its metal ridges biting into the fleshy undersides of my fingers. I should get going.
“Thanks again,” I say, taking a step back. “I’ll get out of your—”
“Gable!” James’s fiancée swoops in wearing a silky red kimono belted at the waist. Lily pulls me into a soft, fragrant hug, reminding me again that my college pal is one lucky son of a bitch. “We weren’t sure you’d make it. How’s your family?”
“Great.” I channel as much enthusiasm as possible into that syllable, adding a smile for good measure. “Lana and Lauren say hi. They keep asking when you’re coming back to visit.”
“We’re hoping they’ll come see us this time.” She smiles and glances at James. I see her register the lipstick on his face the same instant he pushes off the wall and launches into full-on CEO mode.
“I really think you’d be better off staying here.” He’s pacing like a courtroom lawyer, which he was once upon a time. “We’ve got a full-time security team at Ponderosa Resort.”
Lily nods, choosing to ignore the lipstick in favor of ganging up on me. “He’s right. The resort’s full for Valentine’s weekend, so we’d have lots of eyes and ears watching out for you.”
This sounds as appealing as smashing my testicles in the cutlery drawer. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m really looking for some alone time.”
The two exchange a look I can’t read. That’s possibly because the red smear beside James’s mouth makes his polished façade look vaguely clownlike.
Lily lifts a hand to wipe it at the same moment James turns and sweeps a hand toward their living room. “We have a guest suite that’s very private,” he insists. “You could have meals brought in and would never have to interact with anyone.”
Dropping her hand, Lily gives an infinitesimal shrug and regards me with a bemused smile. “We’re very discreet.”
The kindness in her eyes is almost enough to change my mind.
Almost. “This cabin will be perfect.” I shove the key in my pocket before they can snatch it back. “No phones, no internet, no television.”
No calls from my agent, no hate mail, no televised reminders of my great fuckup.
James sighs and yanks at his tie. Tries to anyway, but there isn’t one. Whatever they were doing when I got here jettisoned his ever-present neckwear.
Lily sticks her hands in the pockets of her kimono and regards me with concern. “We sent someone out to the cabin to get it ready for you,” she says. “It’s clean, but it’s really rustic. You know how to chop firewood and all that?”
“I’ve got some dynamite left over from that last action flick,” I deadpan. “Figure I can use it to fell a couple trees.”
Lily laughs, then whips a tissue out of her pocket and raises it in triumph. She edges toward James, poised to swipe.
And misses, because now he’s pacing again. “Look, we’re just worried about you.” He rakes his fingers through his hair, smearing the lip print at his right temple. “Maybe if you talk to someone about—”
“I’m fine,” I insist, more urgently this time. “Really, I promise. I just need to go somewhere no one recognizes me and no one’s reminding me of what happened.”
There’s that look again, that silent exchange between two people who know each other well enough to have a full conversation with no words. I’d envy them if I weren’t a jaded asshole intent on being alone.
Lily looks back at me and sighs. “At least promise you’ll be careful. And that you’ll go into town at least once to call and let us know you’re okay.”
“Promise.” I put a hand on my heart the way James and I used to do when reciting the school pledge, and my heart twists at the memory. How did life get so messed up?
“Fine,” James says. “Can we at least feed you dinner?”
“Not hungry.” My stomach chooses that moment to rumble like a gravel crusher.
Lily arches one eyebrow. “Really?”
I reach behind me for the doorknob, determined to flee before they tie me to a dining room chair and force coq au vin down my throat. I wrench the door open, walking backwards in case they try to tackle me. “Fine, I’m starving. I haven’t eaten since I left LA. I promise I’ll eat on the way. I just want to get—”
“Whoa! Heads up, big guy.”
The female voice registers half a second before I crash into the female body. The very soft, very warm female body.
I whirl around, stumbling as I turn to face—
“Holy shit.” The words slip out before I consider this is not the way to greet a total stranger.
But this stranger is the most stunning woman I’ve ever seen. Hair the color of warm caramel is piled on her head in a swoopy, loopy bun. Eyes like blue sea glass spark with light from the porch, and there’s a dusting of cinnamon freckles on her nose. She’s wearing—clothes, I think. I can’t look away from her face to check out the rest of her.
She laughs and flips a stray lock of hair off her face. “Okay, not the greeting I’m used to, but hello.” Her smile is warm, and there’s not a trace of makeup on her face. “Gretchen.” She extends her hand to me. “Sorry to startle you. I just came over to borrow dill.”
“Dill.” I pat my pockets absurdly like I might have some tucked away. “I—um—”
“I’ll get it.” Lily hustles away. “What are you making?” she calls from the kitchen.
“My famous salmon chowder.” Gretchen gives me that smile again, and my guts turn to chowder. “It’s a family recipe.”
I’m too dumbstruck to think of a response, so James comes to my rescue. “Gretchen is my brother Jonathan’s sister.”
“Your sister,” I repeat, only catching some of his words. Seriously, I had no idea sweatpants could be so sexy. How have I never met this woman?
“Not his sister.” Gretchen shoves her hands in the pockets of her blue hoodie, which matches her eyes almost perfectly. “The Bracelyn family tree is kind of a mess. Jon’s the second oldest, but we have different dads. I’m not a Bracelyn at all.”
Lily rushes back to us with a glass jar and presses it into Gretchen’s hand. “Gretchen’s been staying out here while she’s at OSU Cascades. She’s an adjunct professor and an absolutely brilliant researcher.”
“A researcher.” I look back at her, watching as her eyes scan my face. I brace for the flicker of recognition in her eyes. For what comes next. What always comes next.
Wait. Didn’t I see you in an article about—
Aren’t you the guy who—
Don’t I know you from—
“Want some soup?”
I blink as Gretchen holds up the glass jar of dill. “This is the finishing touch. I made a ton of it and I heard you say you were starving.”
I did say that.
But I also said I was leaving. Hitting the road, getting far, far away from here as soon as possible. I should definitely do that.
“I’d love some soup.”
What the hell?
“Great.” Gretchen grins. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name. And I’m hoping you’re a friend of James and Lily and that I didn’t just invite the vacuum cleaner salesman to dinner.”
“Gabl—Gabe,” I stammer.
God, that was dumb. Even with the abbreviated version of my name, she’s going to recognize me. Put two and two together and figure it out.
Weren’t you the one who—
“Gabe and I are friends from school,” James supplies. “And Gretchen—reads a lot.”
I’m trying to figure out what that has to do with anything when she laughs again. “That’s his polite way of saying I don’t get out much. Probably why I’m accosting strangers with dinner invitations. It’s okay, you don’t have to come in and sit there making awkward dinner conversation if you don’t want. I can package up the chowder for you to take whe
rever you were going.”
Where was I going?
Right. The cabin. The remote cabin in the woods more than an hour from here. I should be getting on the road.
“I’m not in a hurry,” I hear myself saying. “I’d love to join you.”
“Great.” She quirks an eyebrow at James and Lily. “You’d tell me if he was a serial killer, right?”
My gut twists at her words. I’m grateful she’s not looking at me. That she missed the wince, the flash of guilt I’m positive flickered in my eyes just now.
But James catches it. He’s staring at me, icy gaze boring hard into mine. “Not a serial killer.” He speaks the words to me, like he’s willing me to believe them. “Not a murderer of any kind.”
Gretchen cocks her head, eyeing him curiously. “You know, it’s a little hard to take you seriously when your face is covered in lipstick.”
“What?” James swipes a palm over his face, missing the biggest smear by half an inch. “Where?” He turns and frowns in the mirror by the door, then makes an exasperated noise. “Was someone going to tell me?”
Lily shrugs and turns with her tissue to mop her handiwork off his face. Gretchen regards me with a curious look. “Not a very good friend, Gabe. Letting your pal walk around with lip prints on his face?”
“I’m kind of an asshole.” Might as well put it out there.
Gretchen smiles. “In that case, should I rescind my dinner offer?”
“No soup for you,” I quip, doing my best imitation of the Soup Nazi from Seinfeld.
Gretchen blows a strand of hair off her forehead with a vaguely sheepish expression. “Okay, I’m guessing that’s a movie reference.”
“Television, actually.” Wait, she’s never heard of the Soup Nazi?
“I don’t watch that, either.”
“What?”
She shrugs, hands fisted in her hoodie pockets. “Movies, TV—any of it. I don’t even own a television.”
I’ve never heard of such a thing. “Are you Amish?”
She laughs and shakes her head. “I’m a research scientist. And a PhD candidate. And a professor. Not a lot of time in there to add TV junkie to the list.”