Page 2 of Griffen the Mountain Man
Damn, that’s quick.
The calendar might have just flipped to October, but it’s my life that got flipped upside down.
CHAPTER TWO
HEIDI WAGNER
So, this is how I go.
Not by old age or freak accident, but by a fucking blue and white gingham ribbon that will be the death of me.
“No matter how many ways I maneuver the fabric, the edges keep flipping,” I growl in frustration, untying the damn thing for the fourth time to start again.
“It doesn't have to be perfect, dear,” Greta says from a floral-covered sofa where she’s filling out the form for her entry into the Picnic Basket Auction.
“I don’t need perfect,” I mutter, “I’d settle for pretty, or not looking like it’s been mangled to death.” My fingers loop the ribbon carefully, determined to get it right this time.
This isn’t my first stint helping Greta with a project, but I’m beginning to regret offering my aid on this one.
Damn, stupid ribbon.
When I started volunteering at the Suitor’s Crossing Senior Center a few months ago, Greta and I immediately bonded over a mutual love forDesigning Womenreruns—a random fact we discovered while an episode aired during my first visit to the center.
“Trust me, no one will notice the ribbon. Bidders only care about the food.” She folds the form in half then tucks it into theotherwise finished picnic basket in preparation for the auction in an hour.
It hearkens back to the town’s early days. An old-fashioned way of dating when a man would guess his sweetheart’s basket by its contents then bid to win a picnic with her.
Greta already has a beau, but that doesn't mean her basket can be a slouch, which is why she asked me to assemble it with all of his favorite items since her arthritis has been flaring up.
“Okay, how's that?” I tie off my last-ditch effort at a bow, and Greta smiles.
“It looks great. He's not going to know what hit him when he gets that basket.”
“Well, I think he's going to have an idea,” I tease, carrying the finished basket to the side table by the door. A glimpse at my reflection in the wall mirror has a grimace pulling at my mouth.
Tendrils of hair have fallen from my braid and glitter shimmers on my cheeks like a middle school girl heading to her first dance. I must have touched my face after messing with that damn ribbon. It only has hints of sparkle, but apparently, it’s enough to leave traces wherever it lands.
Ignoring the glitter for now, I tug the band from the end of my braid to redo my hair into a semblance of pretty and respectable.
Greta may not think things need to be perfect, but there’s more than impressing Mr. Caldwell at stake.
I'm also hoping to impress his grandson.
Not that he’ll know you made the basket, or will notice your hair, or is aware that you even exist.
Griffen and I see each other around the senior center when he accompanies his grandfather, but we've never really spoken. The quiet giant likes to keep to himself, unless he's surrounded by his grandpa and his friends.
Sometimes one of the Caldwell siblings will visit, but for the most part, Griffen sticks to himself.
An attractive recluse I’d like to know better.
Maybe one of these days you'll gain the confidence to strike up a conversation.
Finishing the braid, I double-check every stray hair is in place then smile. Until then, I'll stick to the sidelines—looking as presentable as possible—in the hopes he'll notice me.
CHAPTER THREE
GRIFFEN
