A Man for the Summer (21 page)

“
All
of them hated me,” Junior said doggedly. “They were all city-perfect, you know, real polite even while they were looking over my shoulder. Well, some of them were okay,” she added, remembering the bride, her quick, sly glance between Griff and Junior, the way she’d given Junior an impulsive squeeze before being swept off by other guests.

Rosie waved her hand. “Come on, honey, they’re just people. I may not have lived in the city but I’ve been there, and seems to me they’ve got most of the same problems we have around here, boredom and getting tired and crabby and paying the bills and yelling at the kids.”

“Maybe,” Junior said. “Course, they don’t have their families around. I mean, the whole reason I think Griff’s mom hated me was she hated anyone who was close to her son.”

“Hey, do yourself a favor and forget her,” Rosie said. “Once you and Griff get everything worked out, you can invite her down here and fix her a casserole or something.”

“Rosie, you can be so dense!” Junior said, exasperated. “Griff
left
. It’s over.”

“Well, actually, it seems like you’re the one that left. He’s still in your house. By the way, how do you think you’re going to pay your hotel bill?”

Junior waved away her question, though she’d wondered the same thing.

“Right there, seems like a good reason to move back in. And seeing as he tore up your house, you might want to ask him to fix it for you. I can guarantee you don’t have the budget for Martha Stewart to come out here and give your place a makeover.”

“I don’t care what it looks like. I don’t care what he does. I just don’t want to be anywhere near him.”

“Oh, you terrible child,” Rosie said, standing and smoothing her skirt down over her thighs, “when did you become such a coward?”

“I am
not
a coward!”

“Oh, but yes you are, missy. Here you have the man of your dreams in your house and you can’t even get over there and take advantage of the situation. So to speak.”

Junior couldn’t help it. She blushed, evading Rosie’s gaze.

“We’re too different. He’s neat, and I’m messy.”

“Who made the mess in your house?” Rosie demanded.

“He’s city. I’m, you know, not.”

“So go up on the weekends! I’ll watch the kids. When you have them.”

“He doesn’t want kids!”

“Neither do you, at the moment,” Rosie pointed out. “The idea will grow on you both. Trust me. I’ve seen the man with the twins. He’s got Daddy written all over him.”

“But see, he’s got all these issues—”

“--As if you don’t? Hah!”

“Rosie!” Junior’s voice was raised, and anyone passing in the street could hear her shrieking at her aunt—but she didn’t care.

“What!”

“I
hate
it when you’re right!”

He was an idiot. Gloria was right. Now that he’d saved his skin by getting the damn file sent to her, maybe he ought to call her up and ask her what his next move ought to be.

Because he sure didn’t have any clue himself.

He’d taken a cold shower—not by choice, but it seemed he’d done something to the water valves—in the dim light of the upstairs bathroom window. He’d spotted her shampoo on the rim of the tub and let some bubble down the drain, just to breathe in the familiar smell.

He’d had three meals in a row over at the diner. When the locals asked him how it was going, he was pretty sure they knew just about as much as he did.

He was about to go to a poker game, and he’d stolen all of Junior’s loose change out of a chipped porcelain tray on her bureau to fund it. It clanked in his pocket and tugged one side of his shorts down. Combined with his lack of a shave, Junior’s T shirt, and his hair, which was overdue for a cut and twisting itself determinedly across his forehead, he was pretty sure he looked like a derelict.

Course, none of these guys would likely care.

Griff caught himself. Was that true? Or was it just that he didn’t much care what they thought of him? In a good way, that is—–he didn’t need to impress them, just figured they’d take him as he was, like he’d gotten in the habit of accepting them, warts and all.

Or was it, most likely of all, that he was slowly but oh, so certainly, losing his mind?

Griff grabbed his car keys off the table and snapped off the light.

It wasn’t until he was halfway across town that he realized he hadn’t locked the front door.

This was stupid. It was
her
house, not his. So why did she feel like she was sneaking in?

Maybe, Junior admitted to herself, because she’d spent the evening playing amateur detective, following Griff’s trail around town, looking for clues. Where was he? Was he thinking of her?

Would he be here tomorrow?

She’d cruised by the fire station to make sure Griff was at the poker game, speeding up when she saw his rental angled into a muddy rut next to a row of pickup trucks. Even earlier she’d stopped by Carlton’s on a thin pretense, then tried to pry the details of Griff’s visit out of Carlton.

“He didn’t say nothin’ special, Junior,” Carlton mumbled, his mouth full of lasagna. “He just said he had to send some file. He’d messed up the boot sequence, so I fixed it for him. Reinstalled a few things.”

Junior breathed deep, in, out, in, out, trying to control her anxiety before speaking.

It didn’t work very well.

“You let him just walk in here and fixed his computer? You didn’t ask him what the file was? Or what the hell he was doing?” Junior sputtered.

The family looked at her carefully, like she’d lost her mind. Seconds ticked by, as everyone chewed and swallowed and considered her carefully. Junior picked up a roll and began crumbling it to shreds.

“Now Junior,” her brother finally said, slowly, as though he was speaking to a child. “This is Griff we’re talking about. Your boyfriend, remember? Not some crazed axe-murderer—”

“How do you know that!” Junior had practically shouted.

After that, they’d all finished their dinner in silence and stared at her as she rained crumbs down on her plate.

And now she was standing on her porch and her heart was pounding, but it wasn’t fear, exactly.

“
My
house,” she reminded herself in a whisper. She poked at the front door and it gave, which was a good thing, because Griff had her only set of keys.

In the dark, the place looked a little better. The moonlight from the kitchen streamed through the place, and Griff’s stacks of supplies and tools looked dim and harmless. Junior felt her way to the stairs, automatically snapping the light switch, but of course nothing happened.

“Damn that man,” she muttered half-heartedly.

Upstairs she could see pretty well, the moonlight augmented by the glare of the outdoor spotlight the neighbors next door had put up to scare raccoons and deer out of their garden. She paused in the bathroom, and found Griff’s razor and shaving cream still on the sink. A damp towel lay puddled on the floor and Junior picked it up and put it to her face, breathing deep. It smelled faintly of Griff.

In her room she plunged her hands into the drawers Griff had borrowed, trying to ignore the brief elation she felt to find that his few clothes were still there.

He was still present. In her house.

Downstairs she went to the sink and poured a glass of water, trying to sort through her thoughts. After she finished drinking, she picked up the phone. She hadn’t checked her messages at home in a few days.

“Griff. Gloria. Do you have any idea what I’ve gone through to get this number? Have you forgotten how to text? Did you lose your phone? Oh, thanks for the file, by the way. I like it, I like it. I’ll save the gushy stuff for when I talk to you in person. Which is why I’m calling and why you need to call my back
now
, as in yesterday. You’re off to Nepal, baby! And you can thank me later. Marketing came through with the whole
Armchair Trekker
series. I’m thinking parkas, ice picks, those big sheep things with the horns—”

Junior recoiled as the throaty voice dissolved into a hearty guffaw which ended in a series of hacking coughs.

“Damn it, I gotta quit smoking. Anyway, you got to get your ass here now. Editorial meeting Tuesday and then we’ve got you on a noon flight. You don’t want to
know
about this itinerary, Griffy—turns out there’s no red carpet club in Nepal either. But hey, anything for the craft, right? Okay, I’m waiting.”

The click was abrupt, and Junior had a mental image of Cruella DeVille blowing a cloud of smoke from a long ebony holder.

It could have been funny.

Too bad it wasn’t.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Griff rolled over and pressed his face flat against the pillow. The light was getting brighter, seeping into his skull and cranking up the headache that had been brewing ever since Buddy had dropped him off at two in the morning.

Beer. There had been a lot of beer. And chili, Gert Hollins’ five-alarm recipe that had won a blue ribbon at the fair four years running.

Griff moaned as his stomach did a slow dive. That second bowl of chili would kill him for sure if the headache didn’t.

Standing, Griff felt a stab of pain flash from his temples through his brain and out his spine. Yup, there was his punishment for deciding he could arm wrestle Hank Hollins. He glanced at the knuckles on his right hand—black and blue, from where Hank had mashed it down onto the table.

Then there was the card game. He didn’t even know how to play poker, though the guys had taken great interest in educating him. He had no idea how many hands he’d lost—enough that the guys had had to spot him a few extra bucks in change.

“Don’t worry,” Buddy had said, chuckling, “We know where to find you. Or I’ll just hit Junior up for it next time I’m in for a cleaning.”

The thought of Junior almost forced Griff back down in the tangle of bed linens. So much for putting her out of his mind for the night. The guys had kept after him like a bunch of hens, cracking jokes and making sly asides.

Griff stumbled down the stairs and poured himself three glasses of water, gulping them down in quick succession. He rubbed his eyes fiercely and started getting the coffee going when his phone rang.

His hand was on it before the first ring ended. It had to be her, unable to reach him because his phone battery had died last night. He was like a damn teenager, blood suddenly coursing through his veins, his heart pounding. He knocked over a coffee cup, sending it shattering into the sink, cursing as he pressed the receiver to his ear.

“Watch who you’re cussing out, boy.”

Damn
. “Gloria.” Griff’s shoulders sagged, and he leaned against the counter.

“Yeah, who did you think it was? What happened to you, anyway? You take up chewing tobacco or something? You sound like you’ve been floating in the East River.” Griff could practically hear the faint echo of a grin in the raspy voice. “Thanks for calling me, by the way.”

Griff sighed heavily. “I didn’t.”

“No shit. Don’t you ever check messages? I’ve texted you about a thousand times.”

“Gloria, I’ve been a little busy—”

“Look, spent most of the day yesterday chasing you down. When you didn’t pick up your cell, I started calling all over town. I’d be pissed, except I kept getting distracted by all these strangers dying to tell me all about your personal life.”

“Gloria—”

“…Starting with the guy at the motel. It was kind of hard to hear him because he had some sort of cowboy music going full tilt in the background. He seemed to think I should call the diner but first he had to tell me all about this woman you’ve been running around with. By the way, I’m just dying to know exactly what constitutes ‘a little wild’ out there in the Land Before Time—”

“Gloria, stop right there. I don’t want to talk about Junior.”

“Junior?” Gloria laughed heartily. “That’s her
name
? That’s rich, Griff, that’s really rich, and I demand to know every last detail possibly with pictures but at the moment I just don’t have time.”

“Awww, too bad.” Griff sloshed coffee into one of Junior’s rainbow colored mugs and settled into a chair at the table. “Well, another time then. So why exactly are you harassing me today?”

“Harassing? After you made me wait until the very last minute with that file I cannot
believe
you are saying that. Now here’s the deal. You’re going to Nepal, sweetheart. I sold the
Armchair Trekker
series. I got you booked here on Tuesday and out of Kennedy first thing Wednesday. And don’t bother to say thank you, okay? You know I can’t stand that gratitude stuff.”