Page 86 of A False Start
His fingers squeeze mine, and his length thickens beneath me as his gaze rakes over my body, the way I’m straddling him, before landing back on my face. He looks at me with such heart-wrenching softness that I almost turn to a puddle right on top of him.
“I must be a crazy person, too...because I am head-over-heels for you, Wildflower. Please be patient with me.”
In that moment, I realize I’d wait around forever for another look like that, followed by another confession like that. My heart swells in my chest, and the bridge of my nose tingles as the thumping of his heart dances beneath our joined hands. It’s like, as unbelievable as it may seem, I can feel how much he loves me.
Lord help me, I am so far gone for this man. I swore I wouldn’t give anyone the power to take me down. But Griffin Sinclaire has been making a liar out of me since the first day I laid eyes on him.
29
Griffin
I wakein my house alone. Hidden away in the mountains. I only have a few weeks left to work at Gold Rush Ranch, and I know we just spent a weekend up here prepping for winter, but after that trail ride with Nadia, I needed some space. To think. To figure out what the fuck I’m doing. Because it seems like everything I’ve been running from is about to hit me full force.
My lawyer has warned me it will.
Anxiety coils in my chest. Digging my grave and lying in it never really bothered me, but with Nadia around, I’m suddenly overwhelmed. I should have dealt with this years ago.
The urge to drive to the local diner and order a drink surges inside of me.That’show I’ve washed my issues away for years. Well, before I started hiding from them.
But I’m turning over a new leaf. I’m thirty-five years old. It’s about goddamn time I pulled myself up out of this pity party.
I’m lonely in my bed for the first time in years. It seems impossible after nearly a week, but I swear I’m still getting whiffs of Nadia’s scent on my sheets. I fisted my cock last night thinking of her soft skin, her tempting moans, the way our souls wrap around each other at the same time as our bodies. And then I spent my night dreaming about her, all the things I want to give her, and about the type of man I want to be for her.
I know connections like ours don’t come along very often in life. And that fucking terrifies me.
So, I’m starting with coffee rather than liquor. I throw my duvet back and push my messy hair out of my face.I really need a haircut one of these days.I pad across the rancher to the kitchen, where I make my shitty plain coffee in my shitty plain coffee maker.
My lips tug up as I watch it pour out of the machine. I’m pretty sure coffee will forever remind me of my mother now. My sweet mom, who has stood by and watched me spiral but always lends her support. That scolding last weekend was the most incensed I’ve seen her over the state of my life in a very long time. Not since she picked me up at Neighbor’s Pub one night has she put her nose in my business. I’ll never forget that night. You’d think being as drunk as I was it wouldn’t register in my memory, but somehow it does. It’s fuzzy and warped, but a turning point all the same.
“Griffin Sinclaire, get your ass up. Now.” Her eyes flash with anger. My mom has never looked at me like this, and I recognize I’ve disappointed her so thoroughly that I’ve forced her to look at me with a level of contempt she never would have otherwise. Her head swivels, regarding everyone around us.
She’s embarrassed.
“Yup.” I wave a hand at the bartender whose name I currently can’t remember. “I’ll take one for the road.”
He shakes his head at me, a delicate blend of annoyance and pity taking over his face. A look that truthfully just pisses me off. “I’m a paying c-c-c-customer!”
The thing about being drunk is that my stutter is worse, but it’s also easily blamed on being intoxicated, which is less embarrassing in my twisted mind, where all that matters is how you’re perceived and how good you are at your job and how much money you make. Playboy quarterback. Super Bowl Champion. Highest paying contract in the league.
That’s what I was once upon a time. Now I’m a stuttering fucking mess.
The man polishes a glass and stares at me impassively. “A paying customer who has been cut off. Go home, Griffin.”
Home.A big empty house on a big empty farm. Turns out all that money and fame and notoriety doesn’t buy you happiness. It buys you people who you think are friends until they realize your star is no longer rising. Then they jump ship.
And your mom comes to pick your drunk ass up from a shitty small-town bar. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
“Griff,” my mom says, slinging her arm around my ribs, as though a woman her size could truly support me. “Let’s go. Your dad is waiting in the car.”
Great. Perfect. As if my humiliation wasn’t complete for the evening already. I groan and let my eyes flutter shut heavily. The room spins around me, and I waver in my seat.
Fucking pathetic.
I force my eyes open and hold my unsteady hands up in surrender as I push to stand. “Okay, okay. It’s past my bedt-t-t-ime anyway.”
The bartender nods at me, his shoulders dropping, like the prospect of me leaving is a relief to him.
“I’m really sorry,” I blurt out, sounding a little teary.
