Unexpectedly Mine (Birch Crossing Book 1) Page 11

Griffin let out his breath, his restlessness easing as he thought of the previous evening. He'd enjoyed working with Claire in the kitchen. There had been no pressure from her to be a certain way, a certain type of man. He'd liked working with cupcake paraphernalia strewn all over the place in casual domesticity. The lasagna had been damn good. Best he'd ever tasted.

  Sitting next to Clare, breathing in that delicate fragrance he was coming to associate with her, had been an intimate, easy comfort. He'd been distracted from his own work too many times, watching her forehead pucker as she worked through a difficult document, listening to her laughter when he made a joke...yeah. It had been a good night. He'd woken up energized and ready to attack his work.

  Griffin had been so involved in going through the documents for In Your Face this morning that he'd missed breakfast, and the house had been empty when he'd walked into the kitchen. But there'd been a note from Clare on the table, telling him that there were fresh muffins on the counter and coffee was loaded into the coffee maker, ready for him to start it. Again, no judgment for the fact he'd missed breakfast, just an acceptance for who he was.

  She'd written the note in green pen, and her handwriting had been flowing and womanly, as if she'd enjoyed the mere act of creating the words.

  Yeah, a great night. Unexpectedly so, and he smiled.

  A gray squirrel raced across the driveway, drawing Griffin's attention to his ex-wife's Mercedes. The flashy coupe was a stark contrast to the neighbors' driveways, which had practical well-worn cars that were a quarter the price and half as shiny. Hillary might claim to have it all with her little Maine existence, but the fact she was still driving her Mercedes said she hadn't totally abandoned all affection for the finer things in life, which meant Brooke was probably feeling the same way. Those were the things Griffin could provide, and the new man in their lives couldn't.

  Calm determination settled inside him at the reminder of what he had to offer. See? This was going to work just fine. He had the goods, and he knew damn well he wasn't as bad of a guy as everyone said he was. If he were, he was pretty sure he wouldn't have gotten the lasagna offer last night from Clare when he'd tried to sneak past the kitchen. Clare wouldn't put up with shit, and she had invited him right into her space. So, yeah. It was good.

  Griffin flipped his door open, swung out and headed up the brick steps. He knocked on the door, and stepped back. Six o'clock. Right on time, just like he'd said. Let them try to give him grief for always being late. Not anymore.

  He heard rustling inside and sudden relief rippled through him, nearly staggering him with its intensity. Brooke was really home. She hadn't skipped out. He was going to see her.

  Suddenly on edge, Griffin shoved his hand into his pocket and wrapped his fingers around the jewelry box holding the necklace he'd bought for Brooke. Should he give it to her right away, or wait? Should he hug her or shake her hand? Should he tell her that he'd missed her, or play it cool?

  The doorknob turned, and Griffin cleared his throat—

  A man pulled the door open. Not Griffin's ex-wife. Not his daughter. A man.

  Son of a bitch.

  The guy was tall with shoulders like a freaking mountain and a beard like a grizzly bear on growth hormones. His jeans were baggy, and his hands and arms were splattered with lavender paint, as if he'd been painting the bedroom of a certain teenage girl. He had an attitude of ownership about him that suggested he wasn't a hired contractor, but the man who'd replaced Griffin.

  "I'm here to see Brooke." Griffin pulled his shoulders back, raising himself almost to the man's height. "I'm her father."

  The behemoth stuck out his hand. "Dan Burwell. Brooke's stepfather."

  Stepfather? Something dark rippled through Griffin, but he managed a grim smile as he grabbed the beefy fist, keeping his own grip just as strong as the mountain man's. "Griffin Friesé."

  "Figured." Burwell scrutinized him intently.

  Griffin shoved his sleeves a little higher up his forearms. "I'm here to see Brooke."

  Burwell shook his head once. "She's not here."

  Fierce disappointment jabbed Griffin in his ribs, but he kept his voice even, even as his daughter's present burned in his pocket, taunting him. "Well, where is she?"

  Dan narrowed his eyes. "Listen, Friesé. You walked away from this family. I didn't."

  Griffin ground his jaw to keep from growling. He was getting really tired of that rumor. "Hillary took Brooke away from me," he snapped. "I didn't leave them." He still remembered that day he walked in after work and found the condo empty. The furniture had still been there, but the soul was gone. He'd known instantly that they'd left, and he hadn't had to look in the closets for missing clothes to know the truth. It had taken him almost a week to track them down, and he'd nearly gone mad with worry during that time. "I don't know what Hillary has told you—"

  "I'm taking care of them, and it's my job to protect them. That includes Brooke."

  Griffin's hands curled into fists. "My daughter doesn't need to be protected from me."

  "No?" Dan set his arms over his chest, his huge forearms straining against the folded cuffs of his plaid shirt. "You make her cry. That's not okay with me."

  Griffin's aggression faded at the idea of his daughter crying. Brookie? Crying? Because of him? "I don't make her cry—"

  "You do." Dan jerked his chin at the road, silently telling Griffin where to go. "Hillary and Brooke aren't here, and they won't be here no matter how many times you come by, so take a hike."

  Griffin gave the man a steady, hard stare. "You can't keep my daughter from me." It was true, and they both knew it. "I will not hesitate to enforce my rights."

  "Yeah, you can call in the law," Dan said, his voice dark with challenge. "But are you willing to destroy Brooke by forcing her?"

  Griffin faltered. Destroy his own daughter by enforcing his right to be her dad? He would never do that to her. Ever. Suddenly, all his plans, his well-laid, infallible plans began to unravel around him, and he had no idea how to stop it.

  Dan closed in on Griffin's hesitation. "Listen, Friesé. I've got nothing personally against you, but we both know that the only reason you're here is because another man took your place, and that pisses you off." He slapped Griffin's shoulder. "It's a guy thing. I get it. But get over it. Your job with them is done. It's mine now, and unlike you, I love every damn minute of it."

  Griffin stared into the ruddy face of the lumberjack who'd taken over his family's life. There was pride gleaming in the man's eyes. And ownership. Unyielding, fierce, protective ownership.

  Shit.

  This was a complication he hadn't anticipated.

  Clare bolted upright in bed, her heart racing.

  Wind was howling. Rain was pounding at the shutters. Was that what had woken her up? Bad weather? It was just another spring storm in Maine, and this time her daughter was safe at home, not stranded in the mountains. A little inclement weather wasn't worth vaulting out of bed in a panic.

  Chill out, Clare.

  She flopped back on the blankets, staring at the ceiling as she listened to the sound of water pouring off the roof, like a waterfall right outside her room. Branches were scraping against the side of the house, and the wind was whistling through the gaps in the window frames. Was Griffin still out in this weather?

  He still hadn't come back by the time she'd gone to bed, and after the last evening's late night, she'd been too tired to work past ten. Katie had needed help with her math homework, and a new client had needed a will before surgery in the morning, so cupcakes (and the rest of her work) had been abandoned for the night.

  Clare sighed. No delivery for Wright's tomorrow. No assortment of sweets on her counters. No wonder she'd been woken up by a little feisty weather. She always felt a little off if she didn't get a chance to bake. She hadn't even had time to go through her emails, let alone frost a single dessert.

  She knew the lack of baking wasn't the only thing bothering her though. The house felt e
mpty without Griffin, and she didn't like that. This was her home. She loved it. She treasured every moment in it, and she was so proud that she'd managed to buy it. Katie had a home. She had a home. And it was perfect.

  So, why did it feel so empty without Griffin? How could she have let that happen in a single night with him? One night of camaraderie, and he was already destroying the sanctity of her dear home.

  Clare rolled over onto her side, facing the windows, so she could watch the water hammer against the glass, trickling in little rivulets down the panes. She needed to forget about the condoms. Emma was right. She couldn't get involved with Griffin in that way. He was already invading her oasis too much, and her world was too fragile and too precious to risk it for a week of nookie, as Emma had put it, though she had to admit the idea was tempting in an unnerving way—

  A loud shout from Griffin's room caught her attention. Relief flooded her at the realization he was home, but it was quickly chased away by concern. It was nearly two in the morning. What was getting him worked up at this hour?

  Another shout, mumbled words, and foreboding rippled over Clare's arms.

  He was in trouble. Something was wrong.

  Clare leapt out of bed and hurried out the door. There were more shouts, and undecipherable words. He sounded like he was in pain. He sounded the same way her dad had those last nights before he'd died.

  Sudden panic hit her, and she raced down the hall to his room. She flung the door open without knocking and ran inside. The room was dark, and all she could see was Griffin's shadowed outline in the bed. He was thrashing and groaning. "Griffin!" She ran over to the bed and touched his face. He was drenched in sweat, and he sounded like he was in horrible agony. "It's okay," she said urgently. "Calm down."

  He rolled over, still tossing and moaning. Cold fear gripped her, and her hands started to tremble. Was Griffin sick? Like really sick? Like her father had been before he'd died? "Griffin!" She grabbed his shoulders and shook him. "Wake up!" She had never been able to get her father to wake up, because it hadn't been a dream that had been consuming him. It had become his reality, a horrible illness taking his mind and his body away from him.

  Not again. Please, God, not again. "Griffin!" He fought her, shoving her hands away. His skin was hot, and his hair was plastered to his head. She shook him again, desperate, frantic. "You have to wake up!"

  "Clare?" His voice was thick and confused, but his eyes opened. He was awake.

  "Griffin." Relief surged through Clare, and she sank onto the bed beside him, suddenly too weak to stand. "Are you okay?"

  "Clare," he mumbled. Still sounding dazed and mostly asleep, Griffin rolled onto his side, facing her, and she set her hand on his shoulder. He was trembling, his powerful body shocked into submission by whatever he'd been dreaming about. His skin was slick with perspiration.

  "Let me get you a towel." She started to slide off the bed.

  "No." His arm clamped around her waist and yanked her back beside him. "Stay." He shifted so his head was on her leg, using her thigh for a pillow. He kept her anchored against him, like a terrified child in desperate need of comfort to ward off the monster under the bed.

  "Okay." She settled back against the headboard and began to stroke his head. "It's okay, Griffin. It was just a nightmare."

  He said nothing, and she let her hand still, suddenly feeling a little silly about comforting a grown man as if he were a child.

  "Don't stop," he said quietly, his voice harsh with anguish. "Please."

  She realized that he needed her: her touch, her comfort, and her help. Tears filled her eyes, and a powerful feeling surged through her. She immediately began to stroke his head again. "I won't stop," she said. She weaved her fingers through his hair, the damp strands slippery and soft beneath her touch. "I'm here, Griffin. You're safe."

  He reached for her free hand and entwined his fingers through hers, holding onto her with a weariness that spoke of a soul that couldn't survive by itself for one more minute.

  She snuggled deeper against the pillows, moving so her body was against his. Letting him feel the reassuring strength of human contact. Of being held. Of not being alone.

  He draped his leg over hers, his body heavy as he pinned her to his mattress, still holding tight to her hand.

  Clare smiled gently and continued to stroke his hair. "Whatever is chasing you," she whispered. "It can't get you right now. I have you. It's okay."

  Griffin said nothing, but as she held him, the tremors began to ease from his body, and his muscles began to relax. But his breathing didn't change, and she knew he was still awake.

  He shifted, nestling his head more snugly against her hip, and he wrapped his arm around her leg, as if to ensure she didn't sneak away. His hand was gripping her inner thigh, and suddenly she became aware of exactly how little she was wearing.

  A pair of silky shorts and a camisole top. Griffin was wearing only boxers, and his legs were bare against hers. Skin to skin, over the lengths of their bodies, wrapped so intimately around each other.

  His breathing shifted, and she knew that he had just noticed the same thing. His arm tightened around her thigh, ever so slightly, but even that small movement was enough to send ripples of awareness over her body.

  She didn't need this. She really didn't. He needed comfort right now. Not sex. She needed space. Not sex. She shifted, trying to extricate herself. "Griffin—"

  "I dreamed she was drowning," he said, his voice muffled and hoarse.

  Clare stopped, frowning at the shadowy figure tangled around her. "Who?"

  "Brooke. My daughter."

  "Oh." Clare's heart tightened, and she scooted down on the bed so she could look at him. Her eyes were adjusting to the darkness, and she could make out the features of his face. Enough to see the tendons rigid in his neck and the agony in his eyes. "I'm so sorry," she whispered. "It's terrifying to imagine harm coming to our children."

  His head was resting on the pillow now, facing her as he anchored his leg over hers again. "I dreamed that I was standing on the shore of the ocean, and there were huge waves," he said, his voice raw. "Brooke was in the water, being tossed around. She was screaming for me, waving her arms. 'Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!' Just screaming my name over and over and over again. She kept getting sucked under, and I thought she was gone, and then she would come up again, screaming for me."

  "Oh, Griffin." Clare laid her hand on his cheek, trying to ease his torment. "That's a horrible dream." For years after Ed's death, she had been haunted by the nightmare that she was dying, and her little girl was crying for her, left behind without anyone to take care of her. A shudder went through Clare as she remembered the depths of the terror that would grip her for days afterwards, not fear of her own death, but fear of the devastation it would do to Katie if she died. No wonder Griffin was still shaking. She rubbed his shoulders the way she'd wished for someone to rub hers all those times. "But it's just a dream—"

  "I was shouting for Brooke," he continued, his tension rising as he relived it, working himself up again. "I kept trying to get through the waves to her, but they kept throwing me back to shore." He was starting to tremble again, and she knew he was getting sucked back into the terror of the nightmare. "The waves were crashing all around me, and I couldn't see her and I couldn't get to her, but I could hear her screaming. I was shouting her name, reaching for her, but I couldn't get to her." His voice broke. "My baby was drowning, and I couldn't save her. I was too late. Too fucking late." He stopped suddenly and rolled onto his back, throwing his arm over his face. "Fuck!"

  Clare stroked his arm, trying to soothe him. "It was just a dream, Griffin. She's not drowning. She's okay."

  "No, she's not! She's not okay." He swore and punched the pillow.

  "Yes, she is!" She grabbed his arm, her heart breaking for his anguish. "Listen to me, Griffin! It was a dream!"

  "She's not okay, and I can't get to her. I can't reach her. I can't fucking help her!" He punched the pillow aga
in.

  "Hey!" Clare climbed on top of him, grabbed his forearms and shoved them back against the bed. "Stop it! Your daughter is okay, and you haven't done anything wrong!"

  Griffin grabbed her arms and in a move quicker than she could prevent, he rolled over, pinning her beneath him. He pinned her hands against the pillow above her head, his hips weighing her down. He glared at her, anger rolling off him. "You have no idea what is going on with my daughter!"

  His body was rigid with fury and the residual trauma of his dream, and his face was angry. But Clare could feel his pain and fear, and she wasn't afraid. Despite what anyone else might say, there was no danger in this man. When Ed had died, she'd struck out in rage like Griffin was doing now, and she knew it was just the residual effects of the terrifying dream, the body's defense to a terror so deep it could break a person completely. "Griffin," she said quietly, trying to coax him back into sanity. "I'm not the enemy. It's just me."

  He stared at her, as if he couldn't understand her words, as if he couldn't grasp what was happening. Her heart bled for him, for this strong, powerful man who had been brought to the very depths of fear and panic because he was worried about his child.

  This was the man who Eppie had accused of being a murderer?

  This was the lunatic who had supposedly driven his family off with rages or abandoned them, depending on which rumor you listened to?

  No. This was the beauty of a father who loved his daughter, of a man with more passion in his heart than he knew how to handle. "You're a good man," she said quietly.

  He searched her face, and she saw the desperation in his dark eyes. She felt the intensity of his need to believe her words. "You don't know me," he said.

  "No, I don't."

  "Then you don't know if I'm a good man." His grip was still secure on her wrists, and his body was heavy on hers, but she sensed that he would release her if she asked. He was holding her down because of his own need to be connected, a need she suspected he didn't even comprehend.

  "I do know," she said. "You lost your connection to your daughter in the divorce, and you don't know how to get it back. That doesn't make you a bad person. It simply means you have a heart that actually works." She smiled. "That's a good thing, Griffin."