Light My Fire (Man of the Month Book 11), Page 3

  The scars rose in twisted ridges, the color almost like Texas granite, mottled shades of black and pink. She didn't know whether this was the result of his reaction to the skin grafts or simply the healing of the burns.

  She didn't know, and she supposed it didn't matter. She was seeing the depth and the extent of the horror that had happened to him as a child. She was seeing the suffering that he had lived with for over a decade.

  It looked painful, and she knew that it was. Not all the time, maybe, but in weak moments she had seen him shift uncomfortably in his chair, and she’d watched as he went into the kitchen, without mentioning it, to take the pain pills that she had once glimpsed tucked in behind the boxes of Earl Grey tea bags.

  Her throat thickened with tears, and she longed to touch him. To run her fingers over the smooth skin on the left, soaking in his strength as she moved on to trace the ridges and pattern on the right.

  She wanted those strong, muscled arms to pull her close. And she wanted his right arm wrapped as tightly around her as the left with no hesitation or shame or fear.

  But that, she knew, wouldn’t happen. She was seeing something he kept hidden. Something forbidden.

  Guilt rose within her. She should've eased away sooner. She shouldn't be seeing this. He wouldn't want her to.

  Finally spurred into action, she took a step back and heard the crunch of gravel beneath her heel. The sound cut through her like a live wire, and she flinched even before he turned, his eyes first going wide and then narrowing with anger.

  “Jesus, Bev! What the hell are you doing here?"

  Chapter Three

  Griffin’s words slammed against Beverly with all the force of a slap, and she stumbled backward, tears pricking her eyes. “I’m sorry! I was going to wait for you in the backyard because you hadn’t answered the door or your text, and I—“

  “Shit.”

  The word wasn't directed at her; that was the only consolation she could take. Instead it was under his breath.

  Even so, she didn't wait to see what he said next. Her cheeks flamed, she felt terrible, and she turned and ran back toward the street. Back toward the safety of her car.

  Once inside, she tried to start the engine, but her hand shook too badly. She was still trying to get the key into the ignition when she heard the hard tap on the glass and saw his shadow fall over her.

  Beverly froze, her fingers tightening on the keys. She didn’t want to look left. Didn't want to see him standing there and catch the anger in his eyes. Or, worse, the humiliation that she’d seen something private that he didn’t want to share.

  She blinked back tears, realizing in a flash of violent awareness, that what hurt the most was not the shame and anger she felt for violating his privacy, but the hard, cold loss that came from knowing that the thing she desired the most was his open willingness to share with her. More, even. She wanted shared secrets. Confessions. She wanted to truly know him, this man with whom she’d spent so much time, and whose imagination she admired so much.

  But all she’d done today was hurt him.

  Schooling her face into a bland expression, she finally turned. He stood there, as stiff as a statue, then made a twisting motion with his left hand, indicating that she should roll down the window. To do that, she had to start the car, and as soon as she had, she considered simply pulling away and running from this sad, embarrassing, heartbreaking nightmare.

  Instead, she pushed the button to make the window descend at the same time as she drew in a breath, intending to let loose with a stream of apologies.

  But before she could speak, his words reached her. “Sorry,” he said simply, his voice level and even. “I got distracted working on the car and lost track of the time.”

  “Why were you working on the car?” The moment she asked the question, she wanted to call it back. That was hardly the point.

  He lifted a shoulder, and she noticed that the blue t-shirt he was wearing was on inside-out. Presumably he’d grabbed it in a hurry from the dryer. “I wanted—doesn’t matter. At any rate, I should have been waiting for you. Should we head in and start tackling revisions?”

  For a moment she just sat there. She wanted to tell him that it did matter. That he could tell her anything. That she didn't care about his burns.

  She wanted to reassure him that not only was everything the same between them, but it could be better if he only wanted it to be.

  But all she said was, “Sure.”

  What the hell was wrong with him?

  He’d known she was coming. Had been perfectly aware that she’d be only an hour behind him.

  So what had possessed him to change into work clothes and settle in under the Mustang’s hood?

  The easy answer was that he’d wanted to work off some of the excitement and stress from the meeting, and so he did what he always did—he’d dived into a project that required working with his hands.

  The harder question was why had he still been there when she’d arrived? That answer wasn’t nearly as easy. After all, he’d only intended to open the hood, make a few tweaks, then head back inside. He’d told her an hour, after all. But he’d let himself get lost in the machinery. In the beauty of the engine and the way it was put together. He’d lost track of time, and that had been stupid. Careless. And he was never, ever careless. Not even around Megan, with whom he’d become good friends.

  They’d hit it off when she’d come into The Fix one day with Reece Walker, who back then had only been a manager, though now he was a co-owner of the place. Reece had needed to take care of a few things—most important the unexpected arrival of his best friend and secret crush, Jenna Montgomery.

  Since it had been late, Griffin had offered to walk Megan home, and they’d bonded on the streets of Austin. She was a great girl—now happily in love with Parker Manning—and Griffin counted her among one of his closest friends.

  But even she had only gotten a peek here and there at his scars. Why? Because he’d become an expert at protecting himself.

  Which begged the question of why he’d been working in the open and wearing short sleeves when he knew damn well that Beverly was coming by.

  Had he been testing her? Had he wanted to see if she’d run screaming in horror?

  Or had it been all about him? Was his subconscious intentionally trying to disgust her so that he would once and for all rid himself of the fantasy that maybe somehow, someway, in some magical parallel universe, he could end up with Beverly Martin in his arms?

  God, he was a fool.

  He turned as she entered the house, her eyes darting away from his the second they connected. He felt that horrible twisting in his belly and wanted to beg her to look at him—to just look—and to see him the way no one else did.

  But all he said was, “Coffee? Or do you want champagne to celebrate? Which I don’t have, but I think I have some white wine chilled.”

  “I think pretend champagne sounds like a great idea. I—”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” The word came out fast and clipped, followed by an uncomfortable laugh. “I’m not even sure what I meant to say.” Her smile seemed overly bright, and his chest tightened, like a sinking man who needed oxygen but wasn’t going to get it.

  “Right. Okay, then. I’ll be right back.”

  She nodded, and when he returned, she was settled in her usual chair behind the massive desk that took up most of the far wall of his living room. “So I had a few ideas for the scene where Hammond first sees Angelique,” she said. “I love what you’ve already got, but I have a way to build on it. Can we start there?”

  “Sure,” he said, then handed her a glass. He was tempted to give her the glass in his right hand, just to watch her reaction. Because damned if he didn’t want a reaction. Hell, he expected one. And yet she hadn’t said one thing about what had happened outside, although the room seemed filled with unspoken words.

  On the contrary, he was certain that she was intentionally avoiding the to
pic, because when had they ever dived straight into work?

  Was she trying to be polite? Or, more likely, was she so disgusted by what she saw that she’d do anything to erase the memory and avoid the conversation?

  That probability was the one he feared. The one that had the power to hurt him more deeply than any of the flames that had scarred his body. He’d let her live too long in his fantasies, spinning movies in his head where she was in his arms, her hands touching him, her lips kissing him. Her face revealing only love and not the slightest bit of disgust.

  He should never have given in to those thoughts, he knew that. But he couldn’t change what he wanted anymore than he could change the skin on his body.

  None of it mattered, though. That was the world of fantasy. In reality, she couldn’t even look at him. Hadn’t this evening proved that? And if the best they could manage was friendship … well, he could live with that. What other choice did he have?

  He forced himself to sit in front of the monitor, then tried to control his heartbeat when she rolled her chair up beside him. “Hang on,” he said, “and I’ll find that section.”

  “No prob.” She licked her lips, another sign that she felt nervous and awkward. Great. She’d seen his skin and everything had gone weird between them.

  “Do you want to ride to The Fix with me?” she asked. “You and Megan are probably hanging out afterwards, right? So she could give you a ride back if you don’t want to wait for me. I’m going to watch Spencer and Brooke’s premiere tonight.”

  “Sure,” he said, his heart sinking a little with the question. She knew he and Megan were friends, and only friends. Everyone at The Fix did. Not only had they tried to be clear about that from the get-go, but as soon as she and Parker became an item, they’d doubled their efforts.

  In light of all that, he suspected that Beverly had asked the question as a way to telegraph her desire to jump on the friend wagon, too. Friends—and nothing more.

  He exhaled slowly, allowing his fantasies to shift into a more realistic pattern. And then he turned his chair to face her, mentally sprinted forward, and jumped straight into the deep end of the pool anyway.

  “You’ve seen more than she has, you know.” He watched her eyes as he spoke, those chocolate brown eyes so wide it seemed as though he could drown in them.

  “More?”

  “Of my scars.”

  She blinked, but otherwise her expression didn’t change. “Oh.” She swallowed. “I’m sorry about that. I didn’t mean to—”

  “No,” he interrupted. “It’s okay.” He leaned back, sighing as he tried to wrap his head around his mess of thoughts. “I never—I hate everything about them, you know. Hate the memory of the fire—not that I have much memory. Hate myself for being stupid enough to try to start a grill with gasoline.”

  She cringed, but didn’t say anything, and he pressed on.

  “For a while, I hated the doctors. They should have been able to fix me, right?”

  Her mouth opened, and she silently said his name. But that was all, and so he continued. “But this is what I’ve got. This is the best that they could do. Even with an experimental protocol, what you saw was the best that it’s possible for me to be.”

  “You say that like there’s something wrong with you.”

  He cocked his head to the side. “Don’t patronize me, Beverly. We know each other too well.”

  One perfectly groomed eyebrow arched up. “Screw you, Griff. And I say that with tons of affection. But you’re an idiot. Yeah, I get that it’s hard and people stare. But being different—even being damaged—isn’t the same as having something wrong with you. From where I sit, you’re pretty damn amazing. I mean, have you read one of your scripts lately?”

  And there it was. More proof that they were riding the friendship train. She’d never be interested in him physically. She was all about his three-act structure.

  “Yeah, well, my scripts aren’t tattooed on my body. Damaged? Hell, yeah, it’s damaged. More than most people even realize. Not even Kelsey, because, you know, it’s not like I want my sister to see me naked.”

  Good God, had he actually said that out loud?

  From the bright red color on her cheeks, he was going to assume that he had, and that was damned unfortunate. Because although his right hip and side were in pretty bad condition, all of his necessary parts worked just fine, thank you very much.

  Not that he told Beverly any of that, though. Because he could only ride the friendship train so far.

  “I do get what you’re saying,” she said, her eyes hard on his. “It’s just that I don’t see you the way you do. Not wrong. Not damaged. Just smart and funny and talented.”

  That tightness was back in his chest, and he quenched it by polishing off the rest of his wine. “I think we need more.”

  “Maybe we do.”

  He started to rise.

  “Griffin?”

  He paused, looking at her.

  “Can I—” The question came with an extended hand, and he shook his head, flinching back as if he feared she’d touch without permission. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. I’m just not—”

  “Ready?”

  “Comfortable.” Ready suggested there might come a time when it was okay, and he didn’t see that happening.

  As if she understood his thoughts, she nodded. “Right. Okay.” She stood. “Let’s go get refills.”

  They ended up drinking the next round in the kitchen, pairing the lovely Pinot Grigio with the Chips Ahoy cookies he had stashed in his pantry. The conversation drifted to his Mustang, and he was relieved. He wanted to talk to her—loved the way she listened and asked questions and got into it even though cars clearly weren’t her thing.

  He was enjoying the casual conversation so much that he lost track of time, though he was consoled to realize that she had as well when she jumped up with a sharp, “Oh, hell! I’m going to be late. I was supposed to meet Megan for my make-up five minutes ago.” She pulled out her phone. “I’m texting my ETA. Want me to say you’re coming, too?”

  “Sure.”

  Her smile bloomed as he stood up. “Good. Because we should be together when we tell everyone the good news about Hidden Justice, and I don’t want to have to wait for you.”

  “Fair enough.” He stepped closer so he could grab her glass off the table to carry it to the sink. But she reached out, taking his left hand in her right before he’d picked it up, and the shock of the unexpected connection sizzled through him, an electrical storm sparking inside him in all the right places.

  “I really am sorry about earlier,” she said softly. “But please believe me when I say that nothing I saw bothers me. And most of all, I want you to know how much I love the script and how excited I am that we’re moving forward.”

  It was the right thing to say. A kind thing to say.

  It was also the kind of thing a friend would say, and as they headed out the door to her car, Griffin let go the last small hope that something more than friendship might bloom between them.

  Chapter Four

  “You’re staring,” Megan said, sliding in beside where Griffin was sitting.

  “Not staring. Watching.”

  “Yeah? Well, you’re watching Beverly.”

  “And your point?”

  “No point. Just an observation.” Her words were bland, but he heard a hint of humor underneath. “So how’s it going with you two and the script? You texted that you had good news and revisions. Did you get any work done today?”

  “Not much,” he said, trying to sound casual as he glanced back toward Beverly, who was inviting yet another contestant to join her on the stage. “We talked a bit. But we didn’t have much time. We needed to get here so she could do her emcee thing.”

  “Hmm.”

  He turned from Beverly to look at Megan. “Hmm,” he repeated. “What do you mean by hmm.”

  “Not a thing. Should I mean something?”

 
He stared at her a second longer, then turned back to the stage again.

  “Okay, fine,” she said. “I just want to know that you’re okay?”

  Once again, he looked at her, trying to keep his expression bland. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know. But I’m getting a vibe from you.”

  “There is no vibe.” He said firmly.

  “Oh, trust me, there really is.” Her arms were crossed, and her brows were lifted. She looked like a woman prepared to go to the mat to prove to him that there was a vibe. Honestly, all things considered, there probably was. But he didn’t intend to share the reason for it with Megan.

  As she spoke, Parker Manning approached from behind, then slid his arms around her waist and pulled her close. With one hand he brushed her long dark hair away from her neck and pressed a gentle kiss there before looking up at Griffin and saying, “There better not be a vibe between you and my woman.”

  Megan laughed, then twisted her head to meet Parker’s mouth for a long, deep kiss. When she came up for air, she was grinning. “Only with you,” she said, her fingers sliding up to twine in his perfectly trimmed black hair as she pulled him closer, obviously moving in for yet another kiss.

  Griffin cleared his throat. “Get a room, you two.”

  “If you insist,” Parker said, the amusement clear in his voice. “There’s probably a vacancy down the street at the Driskill. If not, I can give Derek a buzz and see if we can get a suite at the Winston.”

  “Oh, no,” Megan said. “Not even for you am I going to miss Brooke and Spencer’s premiere.” She glanced at the clock over the bar. “It’s about to start in the back. You ready to go?”

  “Lead the way,” Parker said.