Page 47 of Mess With Me

I begin crossing the yard to the house, taking my time in case anything brilliant comes to me on the fifty-yard walk.

But I’m not even halfway there before my going-nowhere thoughts are interrupted by the unmistakable sound of a gun firing. Then a flock of birds is fluttering from the trees on the backside of the house.

And Sasha is shrieking.

Then I don’t think. I run.

CHAPTER12

Sasha

Ilook up from under the hand perched over my eyes to see Griffin tearing around the side of his house faster than I ever thought a man of his size could move.

“Hot damn!” the bearded, five-foot-nothing septuagenarian next to me hollers. He pulls off his straw hat and presses it against his chest. “Look at ’im go!”

Griffin stutters to a stop in front of us, then his face washes over in relief. And anger. He drops his hands onto his knees. “For fuck’s sake, Chester, seriously?”

I want to laugh. But I’m too touched by Griffin racing over here like I was in mortal danger. And too distracted by the sight of him in a pair of running shorts and not much else. I didn’t get to admire it last night. His body is thickly muscled, and I can’t help but follow the deep V dipping into his shorts.

I slept next to that all night and didn’t jump his bones?

Griffin’s neighbor plops his hat back on his white-haired head and gives me a wink big enough that his bushy white eyebrows fall and rise a full inch on his red, wrinkly face. “Miss Sasha and I here are talkin’ about havin’ a shotgun weddin’. And it ain’t a shotgun wedding if you don’t bring a shotgun, is it?”

I feel a little giddy. I’m not sure whether it’s from shooting a gun for the first time in my life or ogling Griffin. I turn my attention back to Chester, who’s my new favorite person in the world. “It sure ain’t,” I agree in my best Dolly Parton twang.

Chester howls with laughter, revealing a set of teeth at least three short of full. His mirth is contagious. I laugh, too, which feels so, so good after the twenty-four hours I’ve had.

Griffin, meanwhile, scowls at both of us, then walks up and takes the shotgun from the older man by the barrel and skillfully clicks it open, shaking the second shell out onto the ground before handing both to the older man. He comes over and stands next to me, looking me up and down.

I’m still wearing only his T-shirt. “You checking for bullet holes?” I ask, even as my stomach flutters with his presence. The man is sobig.I only come up to his shoulder.

Griff places his fingers at his hips, glowering at me. Then to Chester, he says, “You’re unbelievable. Didn’t I ask you to leave Louise at home when you come over here? You can’t just go shooting a gun anytime you like.”

“Actually it wasn’t Chester who shot Louise,” I say. “By the way, did you know Chester named his gun after his mother? Isn’t that sweet?”

Griff looks like he’s seeing red. “You let Sasha shoot your gun?”

Chester beams. “She’s a regular Annie Oakley, just like this sweetheart’s namesake.” He hugs the shotgun to his chest.

I have to bite back my laughter. But Griff looks like he’s barely holding it together, so I arrange my features into soberness.

“Hey, it’s okay.” I lay a hand on his forearm and suddenly wish I hadn’t. I touched it last night, but somehow forgot how thick and corded with muscle it would be against my skin. I take it away again. “I said I’d never shot a gun before, and Chester said he’d go back home and get Louise for me to try. Just one shot.”

Griff shakes his head. “This is all kinds of unsafe.”

“But it felt all kinds of good.” It did. I felt powerful for the first time in ages. “I finally see why people enjoy shooting guns.”

“Big galoots like Griff wouldn’t understand,” Chester says to me out the side of his mouth. “Ya don’t need help to feel intimidatin’ when you’re eight feet tall.”

Griffin shoots a murderous look at Chester, and now I do laugh.

“Don’t worry,” I say to Griffin. “One shot’s enough for me.”

“Never say never, girlie,” Chester says. “Ma learned how to shoot from her Pop, who lived in that very cabin I call home.” He points through the woods.

“Really?”

“Really. I’m a third-generation hermit. It’s a miracle my family line made it this far.”

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