Jim, framed in the doorway and backlit with the foyer chandelier, smiled down at him, and Griffin tried not to burst into hysterics. Tears or laughter—he had no idea which would come out if he opened his mouth.
“Like the first time we met,” he managed before Jim reached out and pulled him into the house—and his arms.
“Luggage,” Griffin said against his chest, but Jim—big, silent, beautiful Jim, whose hands felt like a gift on Griffin’s body—manhandled him through the foyer and into the living room and then down on the couch.
“I’ll get it. Just relax, okay?” he murmured as Griffin sprawled back on the pillows and throw blanket on the long couch. Griffin realized a second later that Jim had been waiting for him here.
“Oh God.” Griffin closed his eyes and let the sound of Jim moving back to get his bags soothe him. He was here, and Jim was here, and all the distance was almost over.
Griffin woke with a start, jumping a little when he opened his eyes and realized he was home and not in a hotel room or the near-empty loft. He sat up slowly, running both hands through his wrecked hair as he twisted the kinks out of his back. It took a minute, but he realized his clothes—save his underwear and socks—were gone, the air toasty warm and the blanket from their bed laid over his legs.
And the sun was out.
“Jim?” Griffin called quietly. He moved the blanket as he swung his legs over the side of the couch.
A sound from the direction of the kitchen drew Griffin to the other side of the house.
In their gourmet kitchen—domain of the housekeeper unless you counted putting leftovers away as cooking—Jim stood over the stovetop, poking at something in a frying pan.
Griffin slid his socked feet over the smooth wood floor, making as little noise as possible. He admired Jim’s strong shoulders and muscular legs, currently on display in an outfit of gym shorts and a tank top. He revisited the back of his fiancé’s neck, so excellently built for nuzzling or biting, depending on what Griffin was doing back there.
Nothing about Jim had changed since they met—at least not on the outside. No, it was the revelations of who he was on the inside that made Griffin’s insides flutter.
“You’re just standing there staring at my ass,” Jim said suddenly. Griffin jumped at the sound. “I feel cheap,” Jim added, not turning around.
“Actually I was thinking about your big heart and super-smart brain, but now I’m thinking about your monstrous ego.”
Griffin wandered over to slip his arms around Jim’s waist and bury his face against that fabulous patch of skin. “Thank you for taking care of me last night,” he murmured, dropping kisses between words. The smell of eggs and bacon wafted up to his nose.
“Are you grinding up against me because you missed me or because you smell breakfast?” Jim asked dryly.
“Um—I love you?”
They both laughed and Griffin’s exhausted disorientation lifted a bit more; making the movie had been an amazing opportunity, but God, he was just glad to be here, in this moment.
THEY ATE in the dining room once Jim moved the stacks of books, mail, and tile samples to the opposite end so they had room to put their plates.
“Do I want to know?” Griffin asked, fork poised and expression wary.
“Your mail, we need another bookcase, and Daisy said you have to pick tile for the bathroom,” Jim recited obediently. He ripped his slice of toast in half, then began transferring half the jar of apple butter to its crispy surface. Nirvana.
“Right. Crap.” Griffin sighed as he shoved some of his scrambled eggs in his mouth.
Jim watched him chew, then reach for the hot sauce. “Eggs should not be spicy.”
“Spicy is debatable but taste is not.”
“Fine. Last time I make you breakfast.” He defiantly put another layer of apple butter on his apple butter.
“Salt is not a spice, James.”
Jim’s scowl became hard to maintain as Griffin began to trail his foot up his bare leg under the table.
THEY LEFT the dirty plates on the dining room table, which was how Griffin knew Jim had reached a state of “sex-starved” that overruled all his other functions. On the couch, Griffin pushed Jim down among the blanket and pillows and cushions, dropping to his knees between the V of his fiancé’s legs.
“I missed you so much,” Griffin murmured, rubbing his hands up and down the furred length of Jim’s thighs, dipping under the leg of his shorts.
The tense muscles, the mouthwatering bulge pressing against the seam of Jim’s shorts—Griffin made a little sound of want as he leaned down, breathing in the scent of masculine arousal, nuzzling against the inside of Jim’s thigh.
“Stop playing,” Jim whispered, hands on his waistband. Griffin looked up to see the sheen of sweat on his fiancé’s face, the way he trembled as he lifted his hips and began to push his shorts down.
Griffin moaned as he grabbed a handful of cotton and helped divest Jim of his shorts. They didn’t even get them entirely off—the shorts hung off Jim’s knee, as Griffin couldn’t wait to get his mouth around Jim’s straining cock.
The sound Jim made as his dick hit the back of Griffin’s throat unraveled something desperate in him. He was home, Jim was his, and everything was going to be all right.
AFTER THIRTY-SIX hours of reconnecting with Jim, Griffin felt ready to turn his phone back on.
Only 111 texts, e-mails, and voice mails. He considered himself lucky.
On the ride to Manhattan, Jim drove and Griffin managed his life on his smartphone. He tried to chat with Jim at the same time, keenly aware of the growing tension from the driver’s seat.
“Almost done,” he said cheerfully. “Just a few more.”
He forwarded things, delegated, demurred, and delayed. Anything he wanted to brag about died on his tongue; Griffin didn’t miss the irony that the case that had brought him to the love of his life was currently opening a valley of strain between them.
“Gosh, I’m so glad to be back on the East Coast,” Griffin enthused, answering yet another question for the movie’s media coordinator. “All that lousy sun was giving me a headache.”
Jim made a sound of agreement. Or he was being attacked by a bat.
Griffin snuck a look. No bats.
“We have a ton of stuff to do, so I hope your schedule is clear. Wedding plans, of course, and let’s just get that bathroom done,” he rambled. “Maybe spend a weekend at my dad’s house?”
“He’s in Atlantic City next weekend with Dotty. Then he has that reunion thing with his friends from high school in Maine,” Jim said, changing lanes as they sped toward the city.
“Oh.”
Jim knew his father’s schedule better than he did. Also…. “Who’s Dotty?”
JIM HAD the pleasure of explaining to Griffin that his long-widowed father was now dating a woman named Dotty, who owned a yarn store in the next town over—and he had actually been dating her for almost two years. Dating her with carnal relations being had, that was for damn sure. The sisters didn’t know yet, and Jim demurred from taking on that responsibility.
Eight women, one father’s girlfriend—he didn’t have riot gear anymore.
“Oh.”
It was the only thing Griffin said for the next twenty minutes.
JIM PARKED in the underground garage of the Midtown building where Bennett Ames’s new offices were housed. The view of Bryant Park—gorgeous. The proximity to great restaurants and all the city had to offer—obvious and generous.
The need to move offices yet again, including a full renovation?
Well, Jim had no clue.
While the money filled the coffers of his and Matt’s business, he didn’t see the point. There was some story about being close to the theater where Bennett’s latest production had found a home, but frankly Jim thought that was bullshit.
Whatever. Not his money.
Griffin finally finished his business on the phone and the thing disappeared into his
pocket—something Jim was grateful for. Throwing it out the window while they went over the Tappan Zee Bridge seemed like the best idea he’d ever had at the time.
“So I’m going to have this meeting with Bennett; then we’re all going to lunch,” Griffin said for the eleventh time. The Dotty story had clearly left him flustered as he fussed with his hair in the side mirror.
“I know. I brought a book to read to fill my lonely hours,” Jim said lightly, but Griffin straightened up and gave him an awkward look over the hood of the car. “So you can take as long as you need,” he added.
Griffin nodded and then walked toward the garage elevator.
Okay, then.
Jim caught up with him in two quick strides and slid his hand into Griffin’s, linking their fingers together.
They didn’t talk, but Jim couldn’t help noticing Griffin holding on for dear life.
JIM HAD indeed brought a book: the new Dan Brown in paperback, a grocery receipt for a bookmark somewhere in the middle. Griffin’s heart fluttered as he leaned over to drop a kiss on Jim’s mouth.
“I love you,” Griffin said, taking the smile Jim rewarded him with all the way back to Bennett’s office.
Of course everything was gorgeously decorated, masculine and bold, with a view of the park that looked straight out of a movie. Bennett greeted him from behind a parson’s table, looking like a supermodel in tight blue jeans and a lightweight V-neck sweater.
“Welcome home,” Bennett said as he gave Griffin a hug. “How are you doing?”
“It’s weird—I kinda feel like an astronaut that just returned to earth. How was that my life once upon a time?” Griffin sat down in one of the two wing chairs in front of Bennett’s desk.
Bennett dropped into the chair next to him.
“Well, your life is here on the East Coast now, and unless that changes….”
Griffin was already shaking his head. “No. I want to be here.”
“Wonderful.”
They chatted for a bit about Daisy (considering another play) and Sadie (walking and talking and eating like a champ) and then dove into the postmortem on the movie’s production. All of Griffin’s fears about his first producing job, his carefully and lovingly crafted script, began to melt away as Bennett went on a spree of praise and congratulations.
Test audiences were being booked, music and effects were almost finished, the media campaign was revving up. It was finally going to happen.
Griffin’s heart beat like a wild drum in his chest. “Thank you for this opportunity—” he started, but Bennett cut him off.
“No. Don’t thank me. You did a wonderful job—everyone had something positive to say. I should be thanking you for adding another person to my community of creative friends,” he added, winking as Griffin blushed.
How different a working relationship from when he worked for Claus, Daisy’s first husband and a supreme asshole.
“Well, if you need anything else,” joked Griffin.
Bennett’s grin got wider. “Actually, I was thinking you might want to take a look at some old projects that I haven’t had a chance to develop.”
Griffin blinked. “What?”
“I have properties I purchased with the hope of doing something, but life got in the way and some really amazing stories got lost in the bottom of the filing cabinet. How’d you like a shot at them?”
“To… produce?”
“Yeah. You’ll have to take a promotion, though.” Bennett laughed, tipping his head back. “God, Griffin—your face.”
“Never play poker with me.”
“Actually, I should—I’d make a fortune.”
The meeting concluded with a strapping fair-haired young intern named Lars bringing Griffin a file box stacked with folders and scripts.
“Not yet converted to digital file. My apologies,” Bennett said as Lars put the box on the leather sofa in the corner.
“No, no, it’s fine. I’d rather read them this way anyway.” Griffin ran his fingers over the box like they held a treasure. Because maybe they did. Maybe he could find another gem in all the noise, something he loved and wanted to bring to the world.
Maybe he could find another piece of his career puzzle.
Bennett dismissed Lars, who did a sauntering runway model thing that Griffin noticed (he was engaged, not dead) and then noticed that Bennett did as well.
A little hum of concern niggled at Griffin’s brain, but before he could speak, the door opened again.
Daisy and Sadie entered wearing matching pink floral dresses and identical bright smiles, and Bennett’s attention became entirely focused on his “most beautiful girls.”
A second later, smothered with hugs and kisses from his best friend and his goddaughter, Griffin’s fleeting concern was lost to the best kind of distraction.
THEY ATE in a private dining room at the Bryant Park Grill, devouring lobsters and Israeli couscous and a few bottles of wine. Jim smiled at least two genuine smiles—Griffin counted—and everything felt right.
Daisy fed Sadie mashed sweet potatoes and sautéed spinach. The toddler cooperated about 50 percent of the time—the rest she devoted to playing peekaboo with her adoring godfather. Griffin let the “adult” conversation drift away, concentrating on the little girl and her charming grin as he ducked behind his raised linen napkin.
Sadie didn’t tire of the game and neither did Griffin. He’d missed her terribly. She was another on a long list of people he wanted to see more often, and not over FaceTime on his phone between meetings. Once upon a time, he’d lived three thousand miles away from everyone he loved except Daisy—a different Daisy, a brittle and self-absorbed woman who barely resembled the happy sprite with the pixie cut who was wiping down a dirty toddler without blinking.
Now—now he was tired of being away. Tired of Hollywood and living alone. Tired of things that took his attention away from his family.
Sadie was his family. Sadie was a representation of so much.
When Jim slid his hand onto Griffin’s leg and took his hand, Griffin swallowed hard and blinked.
Sadie was a symbol of what he really wanted.
Chapter 4
“EVAN?”
Up to eyeballs in paper, Evan didn’t even look up when he heard his name. There wasn’t much urgency in the tone, so he let himself finish reading the last paragraph of the report before turning his attention to…
Casper Vaughn.
Evan smiled. This was the right kind of distraction. “Hey.”
Casper walked into the office and shut the door behind him, silencing the mild chatter of the squad room. Evan pushed his work to one side as Casper sat down.
“How goes the dynamic world of Midtown South?” Casper asked, a smirk teasing at his lips.
Evan gestured at the files on his desk. “I have signed my name three hundred times today and it’s not even two in the afternoon. What do you think?”
Casper covered his mouth with his hand, smothering a cough/laugh in an entirely unconvincing way.
“Tomorrow I have two luncheons to attend and a meeting about excessive horn honking in the Garment District. There are talking points. About excessive honking.”
“Riveting.” Casper looked at his watch, then at the sad rumpled bag of popcorn on Evan’s desk. “Is that lunch?”
He frowned. “What? It’s low-sodium.”
“Oh God, that’s so depressing.” Casper reached into his pocket and pulled out a phone. “I’m getting us a table at Ai Fiori. Fix your tie, we’re getting actual food.”
AI FIORI buzzed with late lunchers, including Evan and Casper at a corner table. In Evan’s life, “Italian” generally meant pasta and meat sauce, maybe some garlic bread, but he found nothing even vaguely close to that on the menu. Casper ordered for them—butternut squash soup and then spaghetti with blue crabs. Evan demurred on the wine and had water instead.
Casper ordered the house red.
“We should work out a plan for your meeting with
the community board,” Casper said, laying the pale pink napkin across his lap. It seemed like he coordinated with the gray-and-pink interior of the restaurant in his black pinstripe suit, pearl gray shirt, and striped tie.
Evan checked his white shirt and black suit pants for wrinkles as he mimicked the napkin move. “Or you could just go for me,” Evan said, a note of pleading in his voice.
“No. You need to make an appearance, reassure these business owners that you give a shit about their vandalized alleyways and gridlock.”
“Two things that have existed since the island was settled,” Evan grumbled, counting pieces of silverware on the table. “They have one of the lowest crime rates in the city—I feel we should have a little gratitude.”
Casper shook his head as if Evan were slightly stupid. “No one feels gratitude in this city, Evan. It’s a dangerous emotion. You feel lucky, you let down your guard, and bang—someone steals your tires while you’re waiting at a light.”
“That is a terrible analogy. I’m definitely writing my own remarks for the meeting.”
Their soup arrived. Evan poked around the puree while he and Casper made small talk about the precinct and the quiet few months they’d had since Evan took over. Things stayed simple until their entrées arrived and Evan paused the conversation to answer a text from Matt.
“He’s in Baltimore until tomorrow,” Evan said as he put his phone facedown on the table. “Business trip. I swear, I see him as much as the TSA at LaGuardia.” The words were light, but Evan didn’t mask the reality—he missed Matt, missed coming home to him. The business doing so well meant good things for his boyfriend, but it meant upheaval to their neatly organized schedule of the past few years.
Sometimes Evan let the thought creep into his mind. It was better when he was home all the time.
Casper seemed overwhelmingly involved with his plate for a moment, then looked up, serious in a way Evan wasn’t used to seeing him.
Truth & Tenderness Page 3
