Page 36 of Griffin
And somewhere in the back of my mind is the image of Griffin in that ridiculous apron, icing cupcakes like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The grin to my face instant.
I did it. I opened my very own bakery. Just how I always wanted.
I rub my belly, knowing the next hurdle now awaits, so I push off the door and get straight into cleaning up. Because I can’t rest. Not yet. I still have the prep work to do for tomorrow, and by the looks of today, I’ll need a lot more bread.
“Want me to stay?”
I look at Melissa, knowing one of us has to rest before we do it all again tomorrow.
“No. Go head home. Thank you so much. I’ll see you back here in the morning?” I question, not blaming her if she doesn’t turn up again after how busy we were.
She grins as she grabs her things and walks toward me. “I’ll be back. See you then.”
I open the door for her and watch her walk down the street before I close it and lean against it. I take a big breath before a knock startles me, and I turn to see Griffin.
He came back, just like he said he would.
16
Griffin
I got up early and left Savannah to it and attempted to keep busy all day.
But the nerves I had for her opening never left. I saw the crowds gathering on my way to do another site visit at the distillery and decided to stop by. She was busy. Completely run off her feet. So I did what I thought I could do to help and iced some of her cupcakes. I’ve built houses, barns, decks, and half the damn distillery. I could fix anything with my hands. But apparently, the one thing I couldn’t do was pipe frosting onto a cupcake without making it look like a toddler was finger painting.
Were they perfect? No. Not by a long shot. I ruined at least five cupcakes. Maybe six. It was hard to tell where the frosting ended and the crime scene began.
My spoilage rate alone probably doubled the second I touched a piping bag. But if ruining a few cupcakes meant she breathed easier, I’d ruin a hundred more.
The truth is… I don’t care about the cupcakes. I care about her.
The way she’d looked this morning—overwhelmed, breathless, trying to do everything at once—hit me harder than I expected.
So if I had to ruin a few cupcakes to make her day easier, then fine. Let the spoilage rate climb.
I’d fix anything for her.
After my first foray as a baker, I spent time at the distillery, looking over the new accommodation and talking with Victoria about a few new projects coming up before I decided to grab some materials from Bob at the hardware store. Needing to keep myself busy, I went to my place on Billionaire Boulevard and got to work.
I had to do anything to keep my mind off her. I probably should’ve flown to Sundown Valley. Or even to Colorado to look over a build my team is doing, but leaving after just getting back here feels wrong. Even though I’ve done it numerous times before.
It’s not uncommon for me to be in three or four different states per week. The miles of air travel I have racked up is beyond anyone’s wildest imagination. I’m always on the go. Always building, quoting, managing, reviewing. My workaholic nature has won me awards, made me millions. There’s nothing I want for.
Until now.
I want Savannah to succeed today. I want the bakery to be amazing. I want her to smile, to laugh. I want her to sleep well. I want her to look at me with those big eyes and never stop. I want to hold her hand. Touch her. Be with her.
That’s probably why I slipped into her bed last night. Refusing to leave her alone and refusing to attempt to fit myself into the poor excuse of an armchair she had at her bedside any longer. So I stayed on the top of the blanket and watched her sleep until slumber took me under.
My sleep was restless. It usually is. But it was also one of the more peaceful experiences I’ve had. Hearing her soft breaths and little snores all night had me feeling content like I haven’t felt before. Despite the usual night terror that woke me.
It should’ve been weird sharing her bed. I don’t share beds with women. I don’t cuddle, don’t caress. I sure as hell don’t hold hands and touch baby bumps. But it felt right. I’ve got friends, acquaintances, but she’s different. We click. It’s easy with her. She doesn’t pry, doesn’t want more than I’m willing to give. She doesn’t demand a thing from me, and because of that, I want to give her more of me than I’ve given anyone else.
Perhaps that’s why, in the middle of the night, I shared more with her than I have with any other person. She didn’t prod too much, didn’t look at me any differently. I appreciated it.
Now with my new project at home underway, and not able to stay away from her for a minute longer, I knock on the bakery door, seeing her leaning against it.
