Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 92069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
“For a while.”
“I could tell. So what changed? Why the big blow-up?”
I rolled my eyes. “I take it Lanette called you.”
“I saw her at the game tonight.”
Shrugging, I tipped my beer up again. “It was bound to happen.”
“Was it? I had lunch with Blair last week, and all she did was gush about you the entire time. I literally almost vomited in my lap, it was so disgusting. She has real feelings for you, Griff.”
“What did she say?” I asked, then immediately regretted it. “Never mind. I don’t want to know.”
“She called you a real man. She said how much she admired you for your work ethic, and your honesty, and your commitment to Dad’s legacy.”
“I said I didn’t want to know,” I snapped.
“She mentioned your bravery, the fact that you served your country. She hadn’t heard about your Silver Star, but don’t worry, I filled her in about that.”
I breathed hard, my nostrils flaring.
“And then there was all this stuff about your blue eyes, or maybe it was your big hands or your muscles—I don’t know, I was pretty grossed out, so I made her stop talking.”
“Can I make you stop talking?”
“My point is,” she went on, “the woman wants to be with you, Griff. Like, really, really wants to be with you.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but it’s not possible.”
She stared at me, took a sip of her beer, and sighed. “I wasn’t going to do this, but okay.”
“Do what?”
“I know about the parts.”
“What parts?” I asked, although I had a sinking feeling I knew exactly.
“The parts for her car that came in more than a week before you actually installed them.”
Furious, I finished off my beer and cracked open another. “Fucking McIntyre. He told Emily?”
“Uh huh.”
I shook my head. “I swear to God, there is no privacy in this town.”
“I’m not judging you, brother.” She held up her hands. “I get it. You didn’t want her to leave. What I don’t get is why you didn’t want her to stay.”
There was no way to make her understand without telling her the entire painful history, and I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. I loved my sister, but I couldn’t share everything with her.
Not like I could with Blair.
The realization that I trusted Blair more than I’d ever trusted anyone made me squirm. “I realized I’m better off alone, okay? Let’s leave it at that.”
She sighed. “Whatever you say.” Then she looked around. “Where’s Bisou? You’ll be glad to know I think I found a home for her.”
“Already?”
“Yeah. Just waiting on final confirmation.” Then she looked at me. “If that’s okay. You can keep her if you’d like. I just thought—”
“I’ll keep her.”
Cheyenne’s eyebrows rose. “Really?”
“Yeah. I want to keep her.”
What the hell was I doing? That damn cat was just another reminder of Blair, and I didn’t need it.
I already had one hanging in my closet.
Twenty-Two
Blair
I could not have asked for a better start to my new life.
My carriage house apartment was adorable, fully furnished, and perfectly sized for one person. Frannie’s parents, John and Daphne Sawyer, could not have been nicer or more welcoming. The evening I arrived, they insisted I join them for dinner along with Frannie’s family. On Sunday, I was invited to supper again, and I got to meet all five Sawyer sisters, their significant others, and Frannie’s niece and nephews.
They were a huge, loving, noisy bunch, and they made me feel right at home.
But something was missing. I felt like I’d left a piece of me behind.
It wasn’t that I was unhappy—I wasn’t. I just missed him. I wanted to hear how he was doing. Was business picking up at the garage? Were people excited about the anniversary event? Did anyone ask about me? Had they won their old man baseball game?
More importantly, did he ever think of me? Did he lie awake remembering things we’d said and done? Did he regret pushing me away?
Or was he happier being alone?
The unanswerable questions tortured me endlessly.
Thankfully, I had work to distract me, and I threw myself into making a fresh start with everything I had.
The coffee shop opened at seven, and I’d arrive by six, turn on the oven, throw on my apron, put my hair up with a bandana, and get to work. Frannie’s kitchen actually had windows, which was amazing because many kitchens can feel like dungeons.
The morning routine, performed like a ballet while the sun came up, was comforting to me. First, I’d pull the yeast doughs from the cooler. While they were proofing, I’d start the scones. Frannie and I had discussed the menu and decided on two batches of sweet and one savory each day.
While the scones were in the oven, I’d fill the case up front with items made the day before—cakes, shortbread, galette, strata. At this point, I’d often enjoy a quick cup of coffee, inhaling the scent of baking scones and my favorite dark roast with a little cream. Frannie would arrive by seven to greet customers, and I loved hearing them ask who the new baker was and compliment my pastries.