Page 56 of A False Start
My body is tired, which means my mind feels still. Having something to do with my hands has been what keeps me out of trouble for the past six years. It’s one thing to be tired at night but being physically exhausted after a full day of putting your body to use is the best feeling. I’m relaxed from head-to-toe even though the muscles in my back ache after tossing hay bales.
“Why not?” Stefan takes a sip of his wine, looking genuinely confused.
Nadia’s whiskey-colored eyes widen, and she stares at her brother like he’s stupid. “This”—one finger lands with a thump on the tabletop—“is your first night away and alone in almost two years.”
Mira shifts in her seat, a pink blush blossoming on the apples of her cheeks.
“And I don’t want to be stuck in there listening to you call herKitten.”
Nadia shudders dramatically, and her brother bursts out laughing, smiling and shaking his head at her.
Earlier, they spoke quietly while he stood over the grill. I watched my best friend’s mouth turn down into a sad frown while Nadia offered him a tight smile. I watched their eyes fill with unshed tears. I watched them hug tightly. They exchanged words between them that erased the awkwardness of Nadia making us all look like amateurs during what I meant to be a fun and lighthearted round of target practice in the forest.
“Do you have no filter?” Stefan asks.
I snort. I can’t help it. Kinda rich coming from my friend, who truly calls his wife that pet name an awful lot while looking at her like he could burn away her clothes on the spot with the power of his mind alone.
His brow quirks in my direction. “Got something to say, Griff?”
I take a swig of my soda, cheeks tugging up as I do. “I have...” I hold up two fingers, not wanting to risk back-to-backtwords, “tents I can set up outside for Nadia and me. The house is small.” I swallow a chuckle because Mira looks like she might hide underneath the table and hide from such a blatant conversation.
Stefan has no such qualms.
The night wears on, and we move over to the big fire pit that Nadia stocked with kindling earlier today. Surrounded by three people who know me, who don’t consider me a disappointment, who treat me like I’m just one of them, the words flow freely. I hardly stumble. I hardly even think about it.
I enjoy myself in other people’s company more than I have in years. Especially with Tripod curled up in my lap. My hand trails over his back, where his hair has grown back in curly.
I, Griffin Sinclaire, a man’s man and former football God, have a fluffy white dog as a pet. It’s hilarious, but I don’t care. I fucking love this dog.
When the light dims and the sky blazes pink, Mira yawns. “I’m sorry.” She slams a hand over her mouth. “Toddler schedule means this is past my bedtime.”
Slapping my palms over my knees to stand, I say, “Let’s get everyone set up, then.”
“What can I do?” Nadia asks as the other two wander toward the house. She’s all fresh faced, the bridge of her nose and high points of her cheeks touched by the sun, hair falling in soft waves over her shoulders.
“Just grab bedding from inside the closet beneath the stairs or whatever is on the sofa. I’ll pitch the...” She stares at me, waiting, but not pushing. “Tents. Won’t take me long.”
She nods, eyes flitting over my face, and I wish I’d put my cap on after my shower. At least the brim gives me a place to hide from her scrutiny. Right now, I’m completely exposed to her gaze. It’s unnerving.
Her eyes drop to my lips, and I wonder what’s running through her beautiful head. After a few beats, she turns slowly, like it takes some effort for her to peel herself away, and wanders up the path to my house like she’s spent day after day here with me. Like she knows this land.
I watchherwalk intomyhouse like she belongs here. And it makes my chest ache.
In the shed near the driveway, I pull out the two small tents that I last used when Stefan and I went hunting. I’ve put them together so many times that I could do it with my eyes closed. By the time she returns, arms loaded with sleeping bags and pillows, I already have one set up.
I point at it. “Yours.”
She snorts, tossing the rolled sleeping bags down and placing the pillows on top before shaking out the gray wool blanket she must have grabbed off the couch. “You have an impressive vocabulary, Sinclaire. Will you say something if I make a joke about you pitching a tent?”
I chuckle, reveling in the way she can gently poke fun at me. There’s no bite, no cruelty—just a friendly sort of teasing.
“People don’t like me for my words, Wildflower.”
She stills but doesn’t look at me. She doesn’t need to. Her aim is effortlessly accurate even as she turns away. Her quiet words are a fucking shot to the heart as she wraps the blanket around her shoulders and ambles toward the rocky ridge overlooking the valley.
“I like all your words, Griffin. It’s what you don’t say that kills me.”
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