3. Griffin

3

GRIFFIN

M y axe swings in a perfect arc, muscle memory from thousands of repetitions guiding each strike. I’ve been at this since dawn, the pile of split wood steadily growing with each hour of work. My t-shirt clings to my back, but I keep going—there’s peace in this kind of work, in the simplicity of breaking something down to its useful parts.

Or there would be, if I could stop thinking about Jordana.

My mind keeps circling back to her—to the confidence in her hands as she inspected my engine, to those mind-blowingly gorgeous curves of hers, to the way she so generously offered me her truck. Her trust feels like a gift I don’t deserve, and that only makes it harder to get her out of my head.

The phone rings inside my cabin. I quickly drive my axe into the stump and head for the door, trying to ignore how my pulse quickens at the possibility it might be her.

It is.

“Griffin?” Her voice carries that perfect mix of professionalism and warmth. “I’ve got a full assessment of your engine.”

I lean against my kitchen counter, running a hand through my sweat-damp hair. “What’s the verdict?”

“The core repairs we discussed are non-negotiable. But I found some other components showing concerning wear patterns. They’re not critical yet, but they will be. I’d like to get your thoughts on which parts you’d like to replace.”

“What would you recommend?” The question comes naturally, despite how rarely I trust anyone’s judgment but my own these days.

She launches into a detailed explanation, her expertise evident in every word. “The timing chain assembly is the main concern. The current one isn’t on its last legs, but the teeth are showing uneven wear on the driver’s side, and the tensioner’s getting loose. If it were my truck, I’d replace the whole assembly while we’re in there. It’ll save you having to tear everything apart again when it eventually does give out.”

The thorough assessment makes me even more confident in her. “Makes sense. Let’s do it your way—you clearly know your stuff.”

“Oh?” A smile threads through her voice. “Is that an apology for questioning my diagnosis yesterday?”

“It’s just the truth. You know engines.”

“That I do.” Her tone stays professional, but there’s new warmth there that sends a pleasant heat through my body.

I should let her go now that we’ve handled business. Instead, I find myself saying, “I hope my rebuild isn’t causing too much chaos at your shop.”

“Nothing I can’t handle. Unexpected jobs come with the territory.” She pauses, and I hear metal clinking against metal in the background. “Just don’t hover in my garage watching my every move to make sure I’m doing it right, and we’ll be fine.”

Her words are light, but something in them catches my attention. “People actually do that to you?”

“More often than you’d think.”

A protective anger rises in my chest, surprising me with its intensity. “That’s completely out of line. I hope you call them out on it.”

She laughs, the sound genuine and unguarded. “I have a system. I grab the biggest wrench I can find, hold it out, and tell them, ‘Here, you seem like you know better—go for it.’ Nobody’s taken me up on it yet.”

I join her laughter, admiring her approach. It’s yet another thing about her that makes me drawn to her. Too drawn to her.

“Oh!” Her voice breaks through my thoughts. “I forgot to mention—the parking brake on my truck needs an extra hard pull to engage properly. Sorry, I should have told you yesterday.”

“Already noticed. I’ve got it handled.”

“Her name is Betty, by the way,” she adds with pride.

The corner of my mouth lifts. It’s the perfect name for her truck. “I’ll take good care of Betty while I have her.”

“You better,” she says, her words carrying a hint of flirtatiousness. Or maybe I’m imagining it.

I find myself wondering what she’s like outside of work. If she brings that same confidence to everything she does. If she’d look at me differently if we met somewhere other than her garage.

Those thoughts lead nowhere good. She’s just doing her job, being professional with a customer. The fact that she’s kind while doing it doesn’t mean anything more.

“Just a second,” she calls to someone in the background. Then, to me: “Sorry, I need to handle something here.”

“Of course. Have a good rest of your day,” I say, keeping my voice steady.

“You too, Griffin.”

After we hang up, I stay in my kitchen, still caught in the warmth of our conversation. I try to tell myself it was just business, just a mechanic updating her customer. But there was something else there—in her laugh, in the way she shared that story about handling difficult customers, in the way she said you better .

And now I can’t stop wondering what else there is to learn about Jordana Blake.

The broken suncatcher on my counter catches my eye. I tried fixing it with fishing line, but the repair looks worse than when the chain was broken. I can’t give it back to her like that. I’m going to need a better solution, one that shows I can be trusted with what belongs to her.

A few days later, I make the drive to Fairhope again in Jordana’s truck. My first stop is a jewelry shop on Main Street. The elderly jeweler takes one look at the broken suncatcher and assures me it’s an easy fix.

As I wait, I study the displays of rings and necklaces without much interest until a pale blue crystal pendant draws my attention. The shimmering stone hangs from a silver chain, reminding me of Jordana’s suncatcher in how it captures light. An image forms in my mind: the pendant resting against her collarbone, hidden beneath her coveralls while she works.

When the jeweler returns with the repaired suncatcher, I glance again at the necklace. But it’s a ridiculous thought, buying jewelry for a woman I hardly know. I pay for the repair and get out of there.

Next, I head to the grocery store for my usual supply run. I’m relieved to see a fairly empty parking lot when I pull in. Inside, fluorescent lights hum overhead as I grab a basket and begin my methodical loop through the aisles. Rice, beans, ground beef, eggs, bread. Everything basic and practical, chosen more for sustenance rather than enjoyment. The basket grows heavy in my hand as I add canned vegetables, coffee, and dry goods.

I’m nearly done when I reach the freezer section. Someone stands in front of the ice cream, door propped open as they contemplate their selection. I consider skipping my one indulgence and heading straight to the checkout. But I know I’ll regret it later if I don’t get my usual pint, so I approach the freezer, reaching past the lingering shopper.

“Griffin?”

My hand stops mid-reach. I know that voice.

Jordana stands there in jeans and a soft gray t-shirt, her hair loose around her shoulders instead of pulled back like it was at her shop. My whole body goes still at the sight of her. Her curves had been alluring enough in her coveralls, but in her street clothes, they’re enough to nearly render me speechless. Jesus, she’s beautiful.

“Hi.” The word comes out of my mouth awkward, stilted.

She looks equally startled to see me, color rising in her cheeks. “Hi.”

I point to the pint of ice cream I was aiming for. “Just needed to grab one of those.”

“Oh.” She reaches for the carton I’m pointing to, studying the label as she holds it. “I’ve never tried this flavor before. Is it good?” She immediately laughs at herself. “Of course it’s good, or you wouldn’t be buying it.”

When she hands me the ice cream, her fingers brush against mine. The warmth of her skin against the frozen carton jolts through me like a current.

She pulls her hand back, flustered. “God, I’m letting all the cold air out.” She grabs a pint for herself and shuts the freezer door. As she picks up her shopping basket, her eyes meet mine again, and I realize I’m staring at her. Fuck. I need to get my act together.

“How are you?” she asks.

“Good.” I focus on keeping my voice steady. “You?”

“Good.” Her smile reaches her eyes. “Just finishing up my shopping.”

“Same.”

We walk toward the checkout lanes together, our arms nearly touching. Neither of us speaks. I try not to, but I keep stealing glances over at her as we walk. She glances over at me too, and our eyes meet for a fraction of a second before she looks away.

She moves to the first open register, unloading her basket. When she finishes paying, she turns back to me with a genuine smile. “Bye, Griffin.”

I watch her walk away, trying not to focus too much on her gorgeous curves.

The cashier is in the middle of scanning my items when I notice a card on the floor near the credit card reader. It’s a library card with Jordana’s name on it. It must have slipped from her wallet. As soon as I’m done paying for my groceries, I hurry outside, searching the parking lot for any trace of her. But she’s already gone.

After driving around Fairhope aimlessly for a few minutes, I remember that Jordana lives above her shop. I drive straight there, park Betty in front, and climb the narrow stairs to her door, her library card clutched in my hand. My knuckles barely knock against Jordana’s door before she opens it.

“Griffin?” she says, blinking in surprise.

“You dropped this at the store,” I explain, holding out her library card.

Her face lights up. “Oh my God, thank you. This is as important to me as my credit cards.” She takes it from my hand, then hesitates. “Would you like some tea before you head back up the mountain?”

I should say no. Being alone with her feels…risky. But what comes out is, “Sure.”

Her apartment surprises me. Exposed brick walls frame windows overlooking Main Street, and potted plants thrive on every available surface. Several quilts are draped over comfortable-looking furniture, and she has a shelf stuffed full of books. It’s a stark contrast to the industrial workspace below—this space is purely Jordana, and I find myself wanting to understand every detail of it.

“Your place is nice,” I say.

“Thanks.” She moves to her kitchen, opening cabinets. “What kind of tea do you like?”

“I don’t really know much about tea.”

“Well, you’re in luck. I’m obsessed with it.” She opens a cabinet packed with colorful tins. “I love trying new ones.”

One catches my attention—something with ginger and citrus. When I point it out, she grins. “Perfect choice. That one’s new, actually. Haven’t even opened it yet.” She reaches for a drawer, presumably for scissors, then frowns. “Shoot. Where did I put them?”

“Here.” I pull out my pocketknife. The moment I flip it open, Jordana flinches and steps back.

The air changes instantly. My chest tightens as realization hits—she knows the rumors. They’ve made her afraid of me. All the warmth of the past few minutes evaporates.

I cut the seal on the tea tin and close the knife, slipping it back into my pocket.

“I’m sorry,” Jordana says, pink coloring her cheeks. “That was—I didn’t mean to?—”

“You’ve heard the stories about me,” I say, the words bitter in my mouth.

She hesitates, then nods. “People talk.”

“And you’ve been wondering if those stories are true.”

“Yes.” Her honesty cuts deeper than a lie would have. “But I also know gossip isn’t reliable.”

“They’re not true. Any of them.” I grip the edge of her counter, needing the stability. “That first day I came to Fairhope, I’d just finished a difficult call with one of my veterans. Usually I can keep their struggles separate from my own, but this time...” I draw in a breath. “It dragged up memories from my service. Before I knew what was happening, I was having an anxiety attack in the middle of Main Street.”

Understanding dawns in her eyes.

“I knocked over a cafe table. Yelled at people who were just trying to help. Not my finest moment.” The shame still burns. “After that, the rumors started. They got bigger, more elaborate. Completely disconnected from reality.”

“Griffin.” Her voice carries a gentleness I don’t deserve. “I’m so sorry. Both for what happened that day, and for how unfairly people have treated you since. It makes me angry that Fairhope would shun you like that.”

“It is what it is,” I say. But her defense of me also settles a feeling in my chest.

“No.” The firmness in her tone surprises me. “It can be different. People just need to see the real you.”

I study her, intrigued. “And how do you suggest that happens?”

She tilts her head, considering. “We’ll go out together. When people see that you’re my friend, they’ll have to question what they think they know.”

“Or they’ll start thinking the worst of you too.” The thought of damaging her reputation twists my gut.

Her smile hits me in the chest. “I’ll take that risk.”

Something changes between us in that moment. Something…opens up. The protectiveness I feel toward her collides with how much I want her, creating an intensity that sears hot through me. She’s close enough that I can see every little pretty detail of her eyes and smell the faint lavender scent of her shampoo. Her gaze drops to my mouth for just a moment.

“Griffin…” she says, my name on her lips clearly an invitation.

I lean forward a little. She doesn’t move away. Her breathing slows, and mine does too. The space between us pulses with possibility. Her eyes are soft, wanting, and I know without a doubt that she feels it too, this pull that’s been growing between us since the moment we first laid eyes on each other.

But just as I’m about to kiss her, we’re interrupted by an urgent knock at the door.