The dusty floor has been replaced by stunning hardwood, with a checkerboard dancefloor installed in the center of the room. The high ceilings have been expertly restored, the exposed beams maintaining the rustic charm without looking like the roof might collapse at any moment. Twinkle lights have been strung between the beams, with a wagon wheel chandelier providing the majority of the warm glow basking the room. In short, it’s every southern belle’s dream.
Through the doors at the far end of the main room is the winding red brick walkway that leads to the grounds. As Iapproach the final curve, I hear a deep male voice.“Yeah, I’m meeting some event planner here for a walkthrough, one of Margo’s kids shoved a dime up their nose. Again.”
Surely this is a joke. That can’t possibly be the voice I think it is. But when the owner of the voice finally comes into view, I freeze–and nearly fall flat on my face. The contractor is none other than Griffin Hart.
Engrossed in his phone call, he didn’t hear me approach, and I let myself take him in the way I wanted to at the coffee shop. This is the closest I’ve been to him since we were twenty three, and good lord has time has been good to him.
In addition to the brown locks and broad shoulders that grabbed my attention a few days ago, I’m close enough now to see the way his arms have only gotten stronger and more toned through years of manual labor.
I swear if he sneezes wrong he’s going to rip right out of that t-shirt.
My eyes rake slowly down his body, as if I’m subconsciously trying to memorize every slope of taut muscle, every place the fabric of his shirt clings to him, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. Even though I can only see his back, there’s no doubt in my mind that his chest muscles are straining against his shirt the same way his biceps are.
Traveling further south, I suck in a sharp breath when I get a glimpse of what has always been my favorite part of him to ogle–that tight ass in those damn Wranglers.
Thank God that some things never change.
I can feel the critical thinking leaving my brain as memories of deep kisses and hastily removed clothing surface, followed by the alarming thought that I’d like to rip those clothes off him in the middle of this barn and see if he feels as good as he used to.
I take a small step forward, desperately wanting to be closer even as the last sane brain cell in my head is imploring me to get it together. My foot finds a rogue pebble, a scraping noise on the brick finally alerting Griffin to my presence. He turns around, jaw dropping at the same time as his phone goes clattering to the ground. I can hear the voice on the other line yelling“Bro what was that? Hello? Griffin?”and recognize it as David’s.
We stare at each other in silence for a few moments, his jaw still hanging open as I give a tentative smile and wave. Without taking his eyes off me, he bends down to grab his phone, bringing it to his ear and quickly saying, “I gotta go,” before slipping it into his back pocket.
“Hi, Griffin,” I say with anervous laugh.
No response. Clearly I’m the last person he was expecting, and his brain seems to have short circuited with the shock.
“Um, I’m the walkthrough. I guess they didn’t give you a name.”
He shakes his head twice, still unable to get words out. After another few seconds of silence, he manages to clear his throat and say, “No, they sure didn’t.” Besides shock, the other emotions on his face are indecipherable. It hits me like a freight train that not only am I the last person he expected, but I might also be the last person he wants to see.
“I can come back when Margo is here,” I stammer, cheeks heating with embarrassment. “You didn’t sign up for this.”
I turn on my heel, ready to get out of here like a bat outta hell, but he says, “No, it’s okay, really. I was just surprised is all.”
Spinning back around, I force myself to look directly into the dark eyes I spent so much time getting lost in. There’s no anger or bitterness–a bit of wariness, but they’re still just as warm as they were the first day I met him.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Eleanor, I’m sure.”
My heart skips a beat hearing my name in that familiar southern drawl. It’s been years since anyone has called me Eleanor, let alone Griffin Hart.
“Okay,” I say in a near whisper.
He motions his head to the entrance of the grounds, and I fall in step next to him, unsure how to ease the unbearably awkward tension.
“So you’re the contractor, huh?”
Sneaking a glance at him, I see him nod his head, features still unreadable. I wish he’d say something–literally anything would be better than this silence. Conversation used to be so easy between us. How did we get here?
You know exactly how, Ellie.
“I took up my old job again when I came home from Tech,” he says. “The old man is basically retired, I run most of the major projects now. This was my first big one.”
“I didn’t know you went to Tech,” I blurt, unable to hide the surprise in my voice.
“Only for two years. And that was one and a half years too many. Wasn’t for me.”
