No Knight Needed (6 page)

Emma’s gentle inquisition made Clare’s defenses fall, and she sagged down in her chair, unable to stop the aching loneliness from cascading through her. “I’m a wreck.”

Emma laughed softly. “A wreck because you met an appealing guy? I’d probably be the same way.”

“Or are you a wreck because you finally want to break out of that shell of yours, and you’re scared?” Astrid asked. “It’s okay to be terrified about men. Why do you think I never get serious with one? It’s all a facade for the fact that being in another serious relationship terrifies me beyond words.”

Clare smiled at her friend’s confession. “We’ve been telling you that for years, Astrid. You need therapy.”

“To talk me into a husband? Never. My jewelry is all I need.” Astrid smiled gently. “But you, my dear, don’t even date. That’s not normal. Raw, debilitating terror is not a reason to skip out on a chance to get in touch with your womanly side.”

“I’m not terrified.” Clare thought back again to last night, but this time, the memory of Griffin’s lean and well-muscled body striding across the sodden earth toward her didn’t flood her with warmth and peace. Instead, tension tweaked her chest, her belly churned and fear rippled through her body. Well, okay, maybe a little terrified. She’d lost so much already, and she couldn’t afford to lose anymore. She knew it would break her beyond what she could take.

Eppie might be an overly protective gossip, but the older woman was right. Clare
had
made a grievous mistake fifteen years ago, far more than anyone, even Astrid and Emma, knew. And Griffin was that same kind of mistake.

She’d come too far, and she was clinging to a thread that was too perilously thin to be able to afford another mistake, or take a risk, any kind of risk. Astrid was right. She
was
terrified. But for all the right reasons.

“Clare?” Emma prompted. “I want to hear the details.”

Clare turned on her computer, the bleak void in her heart so powerful that her chest actually hurt. “It was nothing,” she said quietly. It had to be nothing. She couldn’t handle it being anything more.

Her friend gave her a skeptical look, and Clare knew she didn’t believe it.

Unfortunately, Clare didn’t either.

The situation was intolerable.

Griffin could still feel the skittle of little claws across his forehead as he drove down what was apparently Main Street. Not that he had a problem with rodents per se, but waking up to find one trying to pluck out a few hairs for its nest had not been exactly what he’d had in mind when he’d asked a local for a place to crash last night.

He did not sleep with rodents. Period.

He should have known better than to take directions from a man wearing ear flaps in the middle of April, especially one who had taken such a long and skeptical look at Griffin’s truck and asked him point blank whether it had cost more than his house. But the man who’d been standing roadside at ten o’clock when Griffin had driven into town had been the only resource in sight, and Griffin had been wet, muddy and yeah, a little distracted by the prior two hours.

Hence a night with the rats.

Griffin slowed his truck as he saw a crowd of cars ahead. He’d expected the town of Birch Crossing to still be asleep at seven thirty on a Sunday morning, but the number of cars and people crowding in front of Wright & Son told him that he might find a reference to better lodging.

He parked his truck and reached in back for his leather jacket, but his fingers hit something softer, wetter, and fluffier than should ever have been in his vehicle. Instinctively, he jerked his hand back, but nothing squeaked in outrage.

Cautiously, he peered over into the rear of the truck and saw a hot pink scarf sitting on his back seat. His mind flashed back to last night, and he remembered that Clare’s daughter had been wearing that scarf when she’d gotten into his truck.

He picked it up, turning it over in his hand as he recalled the previous evening. He thought of Clare. Of Katie. Of all the kids that had been piled in his vehicle. Fighting over his blankets. Teeth chattering. All of them talking over each other, trying to tell Clare what had happened and how they’d ended up stranded in the woods. A feeling of rightness settled over him as he recalled the chaos that had reigned in his truck last night.

For those twenty minutes it had taken to get them back to Clare’s car, his truck had been overrun with people, with teenagers. He’d forgotten what that felt like to have the windows steam up because there were so many people in his space. He hadn’t remembered what it felt like to have someone’s foot accidentally knock his arm off the arm rest. He’d lost the memory of what it sounded like to hear teenage laughter. Their screeches of protest ringing in his ears.

He laughed softly, remembering the teens competing to tell the story of Jeremy falling into the river, trying to talk over each other to be the one to deliver the final blow to the poor kid’s dignity, explaining how he’d been peeing into the river at the time he’d fallen in, and he’d had an all-too-revealing zipper in his jeans when the girls had pulled him out.

Griffin’s smile faded as he looked around his truck, suddenly aware of its emptiness in a way he hadn’t felt when he’d bought it. It had been perfect. Pristine. Flawless. Exactly as he liked it. Now, there was dirt on the seats and floor and smudges on the windows. He nodded. Yeah, that was how a truck should be. Lived in.

On the floor of the passenger seat were thick chunks of dirt on the mat. From Clare’s boots. His adrenaline spiked as he recalled her sitting in that seat, gripping the dashboard like it was all she had to keep from falling apart. He’d felt like a fucking hero when he’d seen her stumble out of the car and hug her daughter. He’d fixed something and made it right, something he felt like he hadn’t done in a long time.

The high he’d gotten was addictive as hell. What if his own daughter could have seen him in that moment? Maybe she would look at him the way Clare’s daughter and her friends had, like he had delivered them from the very bowels of hell into salvation, instead of being that hell himself. But she didn’t. She hadn’t looked at him like that in a long, damn time.

Scowling, he clenched the scarf in his fist, and a few drops spilled out and dripped on the leather console.

Like the drops that had been dripping down Clare’s cheeks when she’d climbed into his truck and pushed back her hood.

For a moment, he hadn’t been sure whether they were tears or raindrops. Still wasn’t, in fact. But he could still recall with vivid clarity those huge blue eyes staring at him in desperation, in a silent plea for help.

He laughed softly, remembering his asinine inspiration to drive his truck up the side of a damn cliff. Anything to take the strain off the face of that petite female who’d been ready to climb over a monstrous tree and hike eight miles in a storm to find her daughter.

In that moment, when Clare Gray had climbed into his truck, drenched his new seat, and turned toward him...he would have driven off a damn cliff for her.

Getting caught up in playing the hero for a woman was something he didn’t need. Not now. Not ever. He’d learned his lesson, and he’d learned it well. It was a role he didn’t fit.

The only female in his life from now on would be his daughter.

As soon as he got her back.

Until Brooke was home, there was no time for thinking about a woman like Clare. Even if she did have the most expressive blue eyes he’d ever seen.

“Hey!” A man about Griffin’s age wearing a faded army jacket and an old flannel shirt smacked the hood of Griffin’s truck. “You like her?”

“Her?” Griffin shot out of the truck as the man flattened his palm on the gleaming paint. Was the man talking about Clare? Did he know where she was? “Who?”

“This truck.” The man stroked his hand over the hood again. “I’m saving up for one of these babies. Ralph is going to let me know if someone turns one in at his lot. If it’s got less than seventy thousand, I’m getting it.”

The truck? Griffin scowled, trying to pull his thoughts back from the woman who’d been on his mind all night. It was guy time. Truck talk. A much safer topic. “Less than seventy thousand? Miles?” Griffin hadn’t kept a truck past thirty thousand in twenty years.

“Yeah, man, that’s when she gets into her prime.” The man stuck his hand out. “Jackson Reed. Welcome to Birch Crossing, my man.”

Griffin hesitated, then clasped Jackson’s callused hand. “Griffin Friesé.”

“I know. Nice job last night, my man. Nice job.” Jackson clapped his palm on Griffin’s shoulder. “You going in for a cup of coffee before you kill them off?”

“Kill them off?” Griffin was too surprised to come up with a more coherent response. He’d heard a lot of comments in his day, but this was a first for him. “What are you talking about?”

“The rumors are going, man. The rumors are going.” Jackson nodded at the market. “I’d stay and introduce you, but I’ve got to get to work on the new rec center. Grand opening in a couple days, and it’s not ready.” He slapped Griffin’s back. “But if you need anything, you give me a holler. I know what it’s like to be the new kid.”

Griffin raised his brows at the offer, surprised that anyone would think he needed someone to pave his way. “Thanks, but I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

Jackson laughed. “Yeah, I’ll remind you later that you said that.” Still chuckling, Jackson strode past Griffin, his heavy work boots thudding on the sidewalk as he headed toward an ancient red pickup that was loaded with fresh lumber, covered in rust, and armed with enormous, brand new tires.

Griffin studied the tires, impressed by the size and quality of them, especially in comparison to the old vehicle riding on them. Jackson Reed knew where to put his money at least. A foundation was the core to anything, and the man had four good tires holding up his payload.

Griffin shook his head in amusement as he turned toward the market. Damn if he didn’t like the guy already, just for his tires.

Still chuckling, Griffin vaulted up the stairs and threw open the door to Wright & Son. He stepped inside and stopped abruptly at the chaos that assaulted him.

People were everywhere, voices raised, pipe smoke drifting out the door, a damn dog barking by a tank of lobsters, and a well-oiled chain saw sitting on one of the tables, being ardently discussed by a trio of men with more gray hair than Santa Claus.

And then, like a whisper on the wind, one by one, heads turned toward him, conversations ceased and the world became focused on him. And none of the faces were friendly. He stopped just inside the doorway, adrenaline spiking at the obvious hostility. Exactly who had Jackson said was going to be killing off whom?

The door suddenly slammed into his back, and the doorknob jammed into his kidney.

“Norm!” A woman called out from behind him.

Griffin’s whole body tensed, and something sprang to life inside him at the sound of that voice. That lilting sound that struck a chord all the way down in his chest. A melody that made the chaos fall away, replaced by nothing but the sound of her voice.

He turned slowly as Clare Gray peered past him, looking across the store, and his breath literally stuttered in his chest as he saw the woman who’d invaded his dreams all night.

Clare was real. He hadn’t imagined her. He hadn’t exaggerated his response to her. Her energy, her fire, and her allure were every bit as powerful as they had been last night when he’d been unable to walk away from the hero role for the first time in his life.

“I accidentally left the cupcakes for Emma’s niece here.” She pushed past him, apparently too preoccupied by the cupcakes to glance his way and realize he was beside her. “You didn’t sell them yet, did you?”

Griffin caught a scent of lilac, fresh soap and subtle natural springtime as she walked by, and every cell in his body ignited. No heavy perfume for Clare, just purity and lightness, and it was perfect.

She looked so different than she had last night. Her face was vibrant and alive, instead of drawn and terrified. No longer pinned to her head in sodden clumps, her dark hair tumbled down around her shoulders, messy and free, as if she hadn’t bothered to tame it this morning. Her jeans curved over her backside in an altogether tempting way, and there was a spring to her step he hadn’t seen last night. She’d been compelling then, but now, she was vibrating with life, and she was utterly riveting, awakening in him a raw desire that had been dormant for so long.

She strode past him, her steps confident and sure. Her shoulders were pulled back, and it dawned on him that Clare looked like a woman to be reckoned with, not a woman to be rescued.

His adrenaline faded as he suddenly realized the truth. Despite last night, Clare was a strong, independent woman who didn’t need help or support. Not from any man. Not from him. Ever.

Just like his ex-wife.

Well, hell. Griffin shoved his hands in his pockets and narrowed his eyes, his good mood gone. Not that it mattered. He was there to get his daughter back, not to get caught up in a woman like Clare.

But as he watched her hips sway as she walked across the store, he couldn’t stop the rise of anticipation at the thought of her finally turning those decadent blue eyes his way and realizing he was standing behind her.

* * *

Clare was just lifting the box of cupcakes off the front counter when she became aware of the utter silence of the store. Even at the funerals of her parents, she hadn’t heard this kind of silence in Birch Crossing.

Awareness prickled down her arms, and she looked at Norm. She could have sworn that there was amusement crinkling his gray eyes when he nodded toward something behind her.

“Oh...” Astrid’s squeak of surprise told her that her friends had followed her into the store.

Clare spun around, and there he was.

Griffin Friesé.

Her mystical knight in shining armor.

Her heart began to race as she met his gaze. His stare was intense, penetrating all the way to her core. She was yanked back to that moment of his hands on her hips, his strength as he’d lifted her. The power in his body as he’d emerged from his truck after he’d defeated the cliff. Her body began to thrum, and his expression grew hooded, his eyes never leaving hers, as if he were trying to memorize every feature on her face.