Page 4 of Bound to the Griffin
My brain finally caught up to the overflowing crate, and I held up my hand like I could physically stop the tide of generosity-slash-command. “Wait, no, hold on. I… This is all really helpful, but I can’t afford all of this. Not now. I didn’t come in expecting... all of this.”
Luther set down the box of cleaning solution a little harder than necessary, then slowly turned to look at me. The stare he gave me was pure, distilled frostbite. Not cruel. Just... so done. I winced. “I mean, I appreciate it, I really do—” I couldn’t blame the man for being frustrated, even if I totally blamed him for being an unwelcoming, mean bastard—at least until the sheriff came in.
He turned to Jackson with all the weight of someone demanding an explanation. I spun, too, expecting some grand reason, a justification. But whatever passed between them was silent. Not a word. Just one intense exchange of looks. Nothing about this interaction made any sense; nothing so far in this town made sense. I was worn to the edge, confused like the shopkeeper, and frazzled because every time Jackson looked my way, I felt like I’d been struck by lightning.
Then Luther sighed, as if he were the one being put out, and said flatly, “It’ll go on store credit.” Jackson nodded resolutely, as if this was exactly what he’d wanted, but I struggled to parsethe words. From flatly lying and telling me he didn’t have what I needed in stock to this?
I blinked. “Wait, what?” I asked, my head swinging from the store register to the handsome, but oh-so-cool, shop owner. Then I looked back at Jackson, wondering what kind of power he had. As sheriff, it was certainly quite a lot, but enough to make a shop owner do whatever he wanted?
“You may pay it off in installments,” Luther said, and he didn’t even look at me. “If need be.” The words were loaded, hanging between us like a sword, sharp and cutting.If need be, as if he fully expected me to struggle to pay for any of it at all.
My mouth opened and closed a few times, a goldfish floundering in disbelief. “But I didn’t even ask...” He might have thought I was the dirt beneath his boot, but the sheriff didn’t seem to agree. I wasn’t too proud to take the offer, certain it was going to be the only way I’d get ahead of this disaster before it spun completely out of control.
“Miss Avery,” Jackson said smoothly, stepping forward and picking up the heavy crate as if it weighed nothing, “you need the supplies. And it looks like you’ve had a long day.” He gestured at the door, took a step to lead the way, but waited just long enough to let me catch up with him. Luther had already vanished into the shadows of the store like a silk scarf sliding off a mirror.
“I…” My throat went dry. “Yes. I did. I mean, I have.” He smiled at me then, and it was like being handed a lit match while standing in a room full of kindling. That smile didn’t belong in a cold, half-dead town; it belonged in romance novels, daydreams,and dangerous places you weren’t sure you wanted to be rescued from.
“Come on. I’ll carry this over for you.” His tone was kind and warm, and I eagerly soaked it up. Still dazed, I pushed through the door, balancing the overstuffed basket in my arms. He followed behind me with the crate, and together we crossed the street, snow crunching under our boots, breath misting in the air.
If I closed my eyes and forgot about the heavy basket of supplies, it almost felt like I was out on a romantic stroll. Jackson matched his long-legged stride to mine, his body blocking the cold wind. Then I caught a flicker of movement behind the glass front of the plumber repair shop. Someone was watching, and it was like a splash of ice water down my spine.
That surly guy with the crooked cowboy hat wasn’t the only one staring. I could feel them: eyes. From the diner windows, from the little office above the plumbing shop, and from behind curtains I hadn’t noticed before. They were all watching.
I tried to listen—I really did. Jackson was talking, his voice low and easy, smooth as honey, but the buzzing in my ears drowned out half of it. I caught only scattered pieces: “Rough first day... town’s been edgy... not your fault.”
My fingers tightened on the basket. So many eyes, why were they staring? Where had they all come from? It had been so deserted before… “I’m sorry,” I blurted when we were almost to the B&B’s back gate. “I didn’t catch that. I think the townsfolk are trying to burn holes into my back.” It was so easy to say things to him that my first thought just slipped right from my mouth.
Thankfully, Jackson did not appear offended. He let out a low laugh, amused. “That’s small-town life. Don’t worry, they’ll get bored eventually. Or find someone new to glare at.” I seriously doubted that. This place didn’t appear to have changed much in fifty years, maybe even a hundred. When did someone new ever come? I was probably the first new arrival, and they were hoping I was the last.
I swallowed and finally turned to face him fully. “What did you ask me?” No matter how I racked my brain, I couldn’t recall what he’d said, just that he’d apparently tried to ask something. We had stopped at the gate, turned to look at each other, and for the first time, I felt sort of sheltered from the eyes. Now, they had to be boring straight into the sheriff’s broad back.
“I said,” he repeated, clearly not offended, “what made you come here? Why buy the B&B?” His smile was warm and friendly, his amber eyes glowing at me from beneath his blond, military-cut hair.
The words were barely out before I snapped, “I’m not leaving.” He paused, eyebrows slightly raised, his handsome face full of surprise. I cleared my throat, heat rushing to my cheeks. “I mean, I bought it because I wanted a fresh start, because I liked it. The views, the potential. It just felt like it could be home.”
That was better, but it was still embarrassing. He shrugged, easy as anything, clearly not bothered. “Good.” Just that. One word, and it unraveled the defensive speech I’d been bracing myself to unload, like it had never existed at all.
I stared at him, caught completely off guard. “Good?” I echoed, uncertain. What did he mean by that? Good that I wanted tostay? Good that I liked it here? I hoped it meant he wanted to see more of me, and then I felt silly for wanting to flirt with a guy when my life was in utter chaos. I had no time for romance.
“Yeah.” He gave me a half-smile and nodded toward the B&B. “Let’s get this inside.” And just like that, the world shifted again. The basket in my hands suddenly felt lighter. The snow, not quite so cold. Because somehow, this stranger—the sheriff—had said one word and meant it. No judgment. No edge.
That one word didn’t have to mean anything except welcome. That was what I needed it to be, and that was exactly what it was. After all the rejection today, that one word almost brought me to tears. Which was probably why I rushed to fumble with my keys, inviting him in before I could think about the consequences.
A strange man—even if he was an officer of the law—in my house? Now I was alone with him, out of the way of those prying eyes, and a very different set of nerves fluttered through my belly. I did not lock the backdoor as I gestured for him to head on through to the living room.
The crate hit the floor with a solidthunk, stirring up a puff of dust from the old braided rug that had probably been there since before dial-up. I stood by the window, sunlight filtering through the worn lace curtains, and watched Jackson straighten up; tall and broad in that forest-green uniform. The golden sheriff’s badge caught the light, but it was his eyes that held mine.
Amber. Sharp, like a hawk mid-dive.
I rubbed my palms on my jeans before I realized I’d been staring. “Living room’s not much yet,” I said, my voice a little too high,too bright. “But she’s got good bones.” I cringed as the words left my mouth, wishing I could take them back. God, when was the last time I’d had a man in my home? A man as sexy as this one? Probably never, actually. Back home, I’d lived under my mom’s shadow. Alone was a foreign concept.
He gave the room a long look, his eyes scanning over the faded floral wallpaper, the scuffed baseboards, and the fireplace I’d scrubbed with enough lemon oil to choke a citrus grove. His gaze paused there—on the stonework and carved wood—maybe impressed, maybe just polite, and then drifted back to me.
“It’s got heart,” he said simply. That shouldn’t have warmed me the way it did, but I was pleased anyway. It sounded so genuine, so honest, and it made me feel relieved, like I wasn’t making a huge mistake by digging in my heels and staying in a house with morecharacterthan waterproof roof tiles.
“You want some tea?” I asked, already halfway to the sideboard where I had unpacked my favorite teacups last night. That was a bit more than just letting him walk me home with that pile of things; that was inviting him to stay. My heart stuttered in my chest as I waited for his answer.
He hesitated, just a beat, then gave me a slow nod. “Yeah. Thank you.” He peeled off his jacket—military neat—and draped it over the arm of the couch like it was sacred. My fingers fumbled with the tin of loose-leaf I’d bought before I came here. Lavender chamomile. Soothing. I probably should’ve offered coffee. Something strong. Masculine. Normal. But tea was all I had. I was a total nut when it came to tea blends, and this one was my go-to when I was nervous.
