Page 17 of Under One Roof

Grace copies her brother, shaking my hand as well. “Welcome.”

“Thank you,” I say, wanting to wrap her up in a hug, but the stiffness of her posture tells me she wouldn’t like that.

Griffin’s voice cuts through the awkward silence. “All right. Each of you, help Miss Andrea and grab a bag to bring downstairs.”

They both immediately reach for one of my bags without complaint and head to the basement. Griffin hoists my boxes back up and carries them downstairs as well, so there’s nothing left for me to do but follow. By the time I get downstairs and place my guitar on the bed, Logan and Grace are standing by the steps as if waiting to be dismissed.

It’s strange, but I slap on a this-isn’t-weird-at-all smile. “Thanks so much. It’s nice to have it all moved in one trip.”

They don’t reply, and I glance to Griffin for help, who tips his chin to his kids. “Dinner’s in two hours. I’m back to work tomorrow, so make sure all your chores are done.”

With terse, mumbled acknowledgments, they take off, leaving Griffin and me alone in my new little apartment.

I turn to him, eyes wide. “They seem very—” Disciplined? Rigid? “—respectful.”

Griffin’s face remains impassive. “As they should be.”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I force a smile and let my gaze wander about my room before meeting his again.

“After dinner, I’d like to go over the schedule for the week and show you a few more things.”

“Uh, yeah, sure.”

His eyes trek down the length of me, his jaw ticking in that way that makes me think he’ll explode at any moment, but of course, he doesn’t. Captain Stone is nothing if not in control at all times.

He nods once. “I’ll leave you to get settled. Make yourself at home.”

After I’m alone, I let out a long exhale and sit down on the edge of the bed, absently tracing the geometric pattern on the comforter, my mind spinning. The kids’ distant politeness, the sterile house, Griffin’s no-nonsense demeanor, it’s all so jarringly different from the easy rapport he and I have shared. I feel off-balance, like I walked onto a movie set and everyone knows their lines except for me.

I shoot a few texts to Dahlia and spend a good long while contemplating if I should call my mother before deciding it’s a no from me, dawg. I unpack my clothes, making a mental note to buy a few things to make it feel homier once I get my first paycheck. In the bathroom, I set up my toiletries and find hiding spots for my curling iron and hair products before checking my reflection in the mirror above the sink. “You can do this,” I tell myself. “You’re smart and capable and have really great eyebrows.”

Running my finger along said eyebrows, making sure each hair is in place, I mentally repeat my mantra.You’re smart. You’re capable. You’re smart. You’re capable.

Because if there is anything I learned from my time in LA, it’s if you tell yourself something long enough, you might just start believing it. Fake it till you make it and all that.

Then I go upstairs to begin this new job.

Dinner is about as odd as our meeting in the hallway. Griffin asks the kids questions, which they give yes or no answers to, and everyone pretty much ignores me. Griffin explains that when he’s home, he doesn’t expect me to stick around the house, but if there is an emergency with the firehouse, he’ll be on call—ergo, I’ll be on call. I notice Logan roll his eyes and tuck that away for later.

After we eat, the kids do the dishes as Griffin takes out the garbage, and I feel terrible sitting there twiddling my thumbs so I brush off imaginary crumbs from the table until the kids are finished loading the dishwasher.

“Can I hire you two to clean up my room?” I joke, and the twins turn to look over their shoulders with the same bland expression.

I force a laugh. “Or not.”

They stalk off, shoulder to shoulder, and I thump my forehead on the table, trying to remember what it was like when I was ten. Working on the ranch. Running around. Learning to play the guitar with Mimi.

“Feeling okay?”

I lift my head at the sound of Griffin’s voice. “Oh yeah. Fine. I’m fine. Just tired.”

“I get that.” He drops into the seat next to me, his forearms on the table, his right hand over his left fist, and some of that intimidating veneer fades away to reveal a dad. A hot dad. But a dad, nonetheless. One who’s exhausted and in need of help.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he says quietly. A secret. And when he hits me with those magnetic eyes of his, we’re suddenly back in the cab of his truck, and I have an overwhelming desire to put on his sweatshirt. The one that I have draped over the small dresser downstairs.

The one that’s mine now.

I try to bite back my dopey smile, keep it from growing, but I can’t. He raises his hand to my face, his fingers barely grazing my jaw, the tip of his thumb skating back and forth below my mouth until I release my lower lip from under my teeth. That’s when he places the pad of his thumb there, pressing down on the roundest part of my lip, dragging it down. Unconsciously, my tongue follows.

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