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Chapter 1
Hunter
After a grueling twenty-four-hour shift at the fire station, all I want to do is take a long, hot shower and go to bed. The last thing I want to do is sit through a homeowners’ association meeting. With a deep sigh, I push open the door to the neighborhood clubhouse. I am a few minutes late which earns me a reproachful glare from the HOA president, Betty Lou McMillan. I flash her an apologetic smile, but she narrows her eyes and taps her watch with a fingertip.
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. The seventy-two-year-old grandmother of three has always been a ball-buster. She was Mercury Ridge’s longest-sitting mayor before she retired more than a decade ago. Now she rules her HOA with an iron fist.
My father tried to warn me that living in Betty Lou’s neighborhood was a bad idea. But did I listen? Nope. Of all the houses I had looked at, the one in this neighborhood was a standout with a two-car garage and a large backyard. It also offered the most bang for my buck. Paying the HOA fees and following a few rules seemed like a small price to pay for access to the neighborhood’s exclusive swimming pool, sauna, and gym.
And it totally would be—if I hadn’t been roped into serving as an officer.
I’d tried like hell to refuse the appointment, but when Betty Lou gets an idea in her head, she won’t take no for an answer. She’d thought the HOA leadership needed younger blood. She was right about that. As I glance around the room for an empty seat, I can’t help but notice the gray-haired women and bald-headed men. Most of them are twice my age, retired, and have nothing better to do than police their neighbors.
But the truth is Betty Lou wanted me because of my name. Griffin carries a lot of weight in Mercury Ridge. My grandfather was the first fire chief, succeeded by my father. Now, my older brother, Phoenix “Griff” Griffin has the job. Betty Lou had high expectations for me—expectations that I continually fail to meet.
As the secretary of the HOA recites the minutes from the last meeting, I bite my cheek to stay awake. I’m almost exhausted enough to get a cup of the sludge that Betty Lou tries to pass off as coffee. Almost. Griff says I’m a coffee snob, but I’ve caught him using my espresso maker at the firehouse more than once.
Finally, the secretary finishes reading the minutes from the last meeting and Betty Lou says, “Do we have any old matters to discuss before moving on to new business?”
Margaret Marx, Betty Lou’s best friend and HOA vice president, raises her hand. “The Murphys still haven’t repainted their front door. I think it’s time to discuss sanctions.”
I groan loudly, and all eyes turn to me. I try to keep my mouth shut in the meetings as much as possible, but sometimes, I just can’t help myself. “We approved their request to paint their front door gray, and they painted it gray.” It’s not like they painted a giant penis on their house.
Margaret purses her lips. “It looks blue when the sun hits it just right.”
I lean back in my chair, trying to channel the calm, cool demeanor of my older brother. “If I remember correctly from the last meeting, your complaint is that for one or two minutes a day, the door appears slightly blue?”
She nods emphatically.
“And the rest of the day, it’s gray?”
“Yes,” she concedes, “but when I walk Ollie in the afternoons, I always notice it.”
“If it’s causing you stress, why not try walking your dog at a different time of day?” I suggest. “Or perhaps you and Ollie could walk the other direction and avoid passing the Murphys’ house altogether?”
Margaret’s mouth falls open and her cheeks turn pink. “But… that’s… the door is blue!”
“For one or two minutes a day,” I say agreeably. “Fortunately, no one else in the neighborhood seems to look at the Murphys’ door at that precise time of day, or they don’t think the shade of blue looks out of place in the neighborhood. Unless there have been other complaints that I’m not aware of?”
Margaret’s mouth opens and closes like a fish. Her eyes dart to Betty Lou for help.
Betty Lou clears her throat. “Hunter’s right. No one else has lodged a complaint. So, let’s table the matter for now. Time for new business then—”
“Fine.” Margaret folds her arms across her chest. “But something must be done about Avery George. I’m sure we can all agree on that.”
Avery George? My pulse quickens at the mention of my new neighbor. The deliciously curvy redhead moved into the house across the street from mine about a week ago. I haven’t had a chance to talk to her yet, but I’ve stolen enough glances to have committed her curves to memory.
“As you all know,” Margaret says, “her father, William, owns the property. He was a delightful neighbor, but he suffered a heart attack last month and moved into an assisted living facility. Now, Avery is living there, and she’s made an unsightly addition to the home.”
“Has she?” I ask, my eyebrows shooting up in surprise. “I saw her planting flowers in the front yard, and it certainly wasn’t unsightly.” I clear my throat, realizing what I’ve said. “The flowers aren’t unsightly, I mean.” I catch the eye of a man across the room, and he grins knowingly. So, I wasn’t the only one staring at Avery’s juicy derrière as she bent over the flowerbeds.
Margaret sniffs. “The flowers aren’t the problem, though she should wear more clothing when she’s doing yard work.”
I frown at her. “She was wearing jeans and a t-shirt.” They were form-fitting and hugged her curves just right, but she was fully clothed.
Margaret’s nose wrinkles in distaste. “Her clothes are too tight for a girl her size.”
A girl her size? A wave of anger surges through me. Avery’s body is perfect, but a stuck-up snob like Margaret wouldn’t see it that way.
