Unexpectedly Mine (Birch Crossing Book 1)

by Stephanie Rowe

  "Jackson? Sorry I'm late." A woman with long blond hair streaming down around her shoulders waved from the entrance to the bar. She was wearing a thick sweater, but there was no obscuring the swell of her belly. She smiled at Jackson, her face beaming at the sight of him.

  Shit and damn. Griffin had never had a woman look at him like that. Jackson was a lucky bastard.

  "Trish!" Jackson bounded out of his chair, his face glowing. He was by her side in an instant, his arm around her shoulders and his hand resting protectively on her stomach. "How are you?" His question was earnest, and he said no more as he waited for her answer.

  She smiled and touched his cheek. "I'm great."

  "Good." Jackson tucked her against him and turned toward Griffin. "Trish, this is Griffin Friesé. Griff, this is my wife Trish."

  "Nice to meet you." Griffin nodded at her. "You've got a good man."

  "Oh, I know." Trish smiled warmly at Jackson before turning back to Griffin. "It's great to meet you. We're so glad to have you here." Trish beamed at him, and Griffin was surprised to see sincere welcome on her face. No judgment like there'd been from the others in the store. No fear that he would murder her unborn child or her grandma. "I've heard so much about you," she said cheerfully.

  Griffin laughed softly, spinning his beer between his palms. "If you've heard that much about me, you shouldn't be talking with me."

  "Griffin." Trish walked over and took his hand, holding it between hers. He was so startled by the contact he almost jerked his hand away before she squeezed it with genuine affection.

  "Thank you for taking care of Clare and the kids last night," she said earnestly. "They were so lucky you were there for them.

  Griffin stared at her for a second before he could muster up an answer, momentarily undone by the strength of her welcome. "It's no problem," he finally muttered, embarrassed but pleased.

  She smiled cheerfully, a twinkle of mischief in her blue eyes. "Jackson and I are so glad that you're in town and staying with Clare. She needs you."

  Griffin's warmth at her welcome faded as he registered her comment. What did she mean that Clare needed him? Was Clare in trouble? No, no, no. He couldn’t go there. "I'm just renting a room at Clare's. Nothing else."

  Trish's smile widened. "No one just rents a room in Birch Crossing."

  "I'm only going to be here a couple days." Maybe less. "I'm just passing through."

  "So was I," Jackson said. "Twelve years later, I'm still here." He slung his arm around Trish's shoulders, and kissed her temple. "Gotta get my girl some dinner before she gets cranky. Talk to you later."

  "Yeah, sure." Griffin leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head as he watched Jackson and Trish head off toward the restaurant section. Their heads were bent toward each other, and they were talking quietly. Intimately.

  He pulled his gaze away, feeling like he was intruding, and he focused his attention back on the computer. Jackson might think the key to being a good dad was to be someone else's workhorse, but Griffin knew better.

  And as soon as he bought In Your Face and launched his new business, Brooke would see that he was the only father she needed.

  But as Griffin scrolled through to the next product line, he couldn't quite keep his gaze from drifting across the restaurant to the couple who'd just left.

  But Jackson and Trish were out of sight.

  With a resigned sigh, Griffin went back to work.

  Almost six hours later, Griffin paused on the steps outside the back door of Clare's home, listening for the sounds of activity inside the farmhouse. All was quiet, as he'd hoped. He'd worked until closing, and then he'd done another hour in his truck before driving back to Clare's.

  It was almost midnight now, and even Wright & Son had been closed and quiet when he'd driven by. Surely, Clare and Katie would be in bed by now.

  He frowned at the thought. Yeah, his goal had been to walk into the house and be left alone to do his thing, but now that he'd managed to make it work...he almost regretted it. Was walking into silence better than getting grief from Clare for bailing on dinner? He thought of those intense blue eyes and wasn't sure anymore.

  Not that it mattered. He'd set it up the way it needed to be. He had one job to accomplish up here, and he was going to get it done, without distraction. Plus, as soon as he got inside, he was going to hook up to the Wi-Fi and send the emails he'd written to Phillip while at the bar, and get that moving as well.

  He tested the door knob, wondering if would be open. Clare hadn't given him a key, claiming that she never locked the door, and she'd ignored him when he'd questioned the wisdom of that (murderers abounded in this small town, yes?). Would she really leave it unbolted? Or was she going to punish him for bailing on dinner and lock him out?

  But the chipped white knob opened easily, and Griffin stepped inside.

  He was immediately assaulted with the scent of baking cake. The air was filled with chocolaty sweetness, swirling so thickly he could almost taste it. It reminded him of walking into his house as a kid, and having his mom in the kitchen. It had been years since he'd smelled cake baking in his own house. Domestic as hell. And it smelled damned good. He smiled. More cupcakes from the lawyer, apparently.

  The house was dark, except for a faint glow coming from beneath the kitchen door. There were no lights from upstairs where Katie's room was, or from Clare's bedroom at the end of the hall. Just the kitchen.

  Griffin shut the back door and headed down the corridor toward his room. But he paused outside the kitchen when he heard someone typing on a computer. Clare?

  He reached for the kitchen door to push it open, then dropped his hand. For what purpose? So she could berate him about how he'd ditched everyone? How the kids had waited for him and he hadn't been there? Screw that. He was going to bed—

  "There are leftovers in the fridge if you're hungry," Clare said, her voice just barely audible through the closed door.

  Griffin froze, waiting for more, for the recrimination, for the blame. But she didn't say anything else. And she hadn't sounded mad.

  He'd walked out without an explanation or an apology. Was he really such an ass that he'd ignore this offer as well, and head to his room without acknowledging her?

  Hillary would say he was.

  Eppie would hope he was.

  Katie would predict he would be.

  And Brooke... would she even care anymore, or was she too busy with her new father? Dammit. He wasn't the ass they all thought he was. But would Clare think he was if he ignored her this time?

  He thought of her concern when he'd skipped out on dinner, the way she'd stood up for him in Wright's, and suddenly he wanted there to be one person in the world tonight who didn't think he was pond scum. And he wanted that person to be Clare.

  So, he shouldered his brief case, shoved open the kitchen door and walked inside.

  Griffin was well aware of how much he liked Clare's captivating blue eyes. He was on board with his physical reaction to her in the store. He knew that she'd brought out the hero-wannabe side of him.

  But he was still unprepared for the potency of his physical reaction to her when he walked into the kitchen and saw his disheveled and utterly unpretentious landlord hunkered down for a night at home. Her hair was up in a messy bun on top of her head. She was wearing faded jeans and a light pink tank top without a bra, revealing the soft curve of her shoulders and the decadently temping swell of her breasts. No makeup, just her natural features. A silver chain with a heart pendant hung from her throat, nestled against her chest. There was white flour dusted across her shoulder, and pink frosting in her hair.

  She was leaning back in her chair, knees propped against the table, her feet dangling to reveal rose-pink toenails. A folder was on her lap, a pen in her hand, and her laptop was open on the kitchen table.

  She looked studious, intelligent and innocently sexy, all at the same time. He had a sudden, driving need to walk across that floor, ease his hand through those dan
gerous locks of hers, and allow his primitive side to take over.

  She looked up at his entrance and gave him a weary but welcoming smile. "Hey," she said.

  "Hey." He leaned against the door jamb, content to just watch her. The aggravation of the evening, the frustration of trying to arrange dinner with Brooke, the judgment by Hillary, the pressure to get a bid in place for the company he wanted to buy... it all seemed to melt away as he stood there, breathing in the fullness of Clare and her kitchen.

  The cabinets were painted a shade of green that reminded him of the pine trees in her yard, and their carvings told him they'd been made back in the day when people took the time to create beauty and personalization in their work. The counters were old wood, polished and gleaming.

  There was nothing new. Nothing pristine. No glitz. No glam. As far from his condo as it was possible to get. He'd spent a lot of money creating his haven, but this place...something about it eased him. Something about Clare eased him.

  "Everything okay?" The buzzer from the stove rang out, and Clare hopped up, padding across the wood floor in her bare feet. Her voice was calm, her body relaxed as her hips swung gently as she walked. She was so natural, so comfortable in her own skin, so completely at ease that his entire body sizzled with the desire to claim her and lose himself in the magic that seemed to emanate from her.

  "Yeah." He realized that she really wasn't mad at him. She wasn't going to give him grief for bailing on dinner, which immediately made him want to apologize. "Sorry about taking off like that."

  Clare picked up a pink potholder with hearts on it and slipped it over her hand, looking at him carefully, as if debating whether to believe his sincerity. "You're a boarder here, Griffin. Your life is your own."

  Griffin frowned as she pulled a tray of cupcakes out of the oven. They were a decadent chocolate brown and smelled amazing. "Yeah, well, I just wanted to apologize because I said I'd be there for dinner, and I wasn't." He did mean it, and for some reason, he wanted her to believe him. It mattered to him.

  Clare set the tray on the counter and turned to face him. She gave him an understanding yet quiet smile. "Griffin. You rent a room here. You come and go as you please. I'll always make enough food for you, and you can grab leftovers whenever it works for you." She met his gaze, and her eyes were full of emotion he couldn't decipher. "You will be leaving soon," she said carefully. "And that's good."

  He scowled, sudden resistance roaring through him at the idea of leaving, at the notion of her wanting him to leave. "Why is it good?"

  Wariness flickered through her eyes. "Never mind." She turned away and began removing the cupcakes from the tray. He noticed there were already several dozen spread out over the counters. "Have some lasagna and don't worry about missing dinner. It's totally fine."

  "I already ate." Why was it good he was leaving soon? Was she mad at him? He studied the relaxed curve of her shoulders and knew she wasn't. So why did she want him to leave?

  "Then go to bed," she said, not looking up from her dessert-fest, setting a visible distance between them. "Or go work. Or whatever it is you wish to do."

  Griffin ground his jaw at the wall she'd thrown up between them, cutting him off from her warmth and inner circle. She was giving him exactly what he wanted. Space to do his thing. But for some damn reason, he didn't want to go back to his room.

  He wanted to stay right where he was.

  No, not where he was.

  He wanted to walk into that room, sit down at that table and insert himself right into the moment. He wanted to rip down that wall she'd erected and shove himself back into her sphere. He wanted her to look at him as if he ignited fire in every damn corner of her being, like she'd done at the store and earlier in her living room. And then, he wanted to wrap his hand around the back of her neck, lower his head, and kiss her until there was nothing between them but raw, raging heat, and desire so intense that it consumed them both, sucking them into a kiss so fierce that they were both lost in it forever.

  Yeah. That was what he wanted to do.

  Chapter 8

  Clare wasn't looking at Griffin, and she wasn't even facing his direction, but she knew the moment he decided to stay. Maybe it was a current in the air that suddenly came alive. Maybe it was a shift in his breathing from relaxed to something more intense. Maybe it was simply her own desire for him to stake a claim in her world. Whatever it was, her belly clenched in anticipation even before he took that first step into her kitchen.

  His feet were heavy as he walked across the floor, and the sound of his briefcase landing on the table made her jump. "Mind if I work in here for a bit?"

  She stole a peek at him. His hair was messier than it had been when he'd walked out hours ago, and his dress shirt was crinkled. He looked more reachable, less perfect, and utterly appealing, and he was watching her intently. Why did he look at her like that? Why? "Yes, sure, that's fine," she managed. "I'll be up for a while."

  He said nothing as he opened his briefcase and booted up his computer, but she was so conscious of his presence. When he'd left tonight without a word, it had been good. Really good. It had served as a much needed and very powerful reminder of exactly who he was.

  After Katie's embrace of him, his support of the MIT program, and his humorous wit as he'd helped her bring in logs, Clare had started to relax. She'd begun to enjoy him. She'd forgotten about all the warnings, rules and plans she'd lived with for so long.

  Tonight when he'd walked out on her like that, it had been all too reminiscent of the day Ed had left her. Ed hadn't been able to stay in Birch Crossing, and neither would Griffin.

  If she got involved with Griffin, it would end badly, and the repercussions for Katie and herself would be significant if they became accustomed to having him around. Eppie and Judith were right. She had to stay focused. Be safe. Protect her space—

  "What's with the cupcakes?"

  Heat washed over Clare at the sound of his deep voice. Dammit! What was wrong with her? Why was she reacting like this? There was a man in her kitchen. So what? She was smarter than this. She really was. "These are for Wright's. Norm sells them for me." She pointed to a batch at the far end of the counter that was already frosted. "Those are for a boy in Katie's class. It's his birthday tomorrow, and I made the cupcakes for him to take to his classroom."

  Griffin walked over to the counter and inspected them. "Red Sox cupcakes? You have every player on there."

  "I repeated a few." Clare sighed as she looked at the vast quantity still left to be frosted. "We had too many kids in the class, so I doubled up some of the stars."

  "These are incredible."

  Warmth flooded Clare at the genuine admiration in his voice. "Thanks."

  "Seriously." He ambled down the counter, looking at some of the others that she'd already finished. He picked up one of the loon ones, and then the pink rose. "These are works of art, not cupcakes."

  She smiled at his enthusiasm. "Well, I don't know about that—"

  He looked at her then, and there was something burning in his eyes. A fire. An intensity. Her body responded instantly, thrumming with energy and heat. "What?" she asked.

  He held up one of the cupcakes. "It takes passion to make these."

  "Passion?" Interesting word choice. She swallowed, unable to stop the heat building low in her belly, the awareness rippling through her of his broad shoulders, the strong angle of his jaw, the way his lips curved in a half-smile. What if he kissed her? What if he put that cupcake on the counter, closed that distance between them and locked her down against him for a kiss that shook her to her very core?

  "Yeah." He set it down and studied her, his eyes dark with heat as his gaze flicked briefly to her mouth, as if he were imagining that same kiss. "I specialize in buying and rebuilding companies in the fashion industry. I have no design skills myself, but I have a visionary ability to identify creative brilliance. And you've got it."

  "Really?" She grinned at his genuine admiration. "No one's
ever called me brilliant before. I like that."

  "You must love making cupcakes." He folded his arms over his chest, his face thoughtful. "You can't create that kind of magic unless you love it."

  "Well, yes, of course I do." Clare was unsettled by his intensity, so she tossed the potholder back on the counter and retreated to her computer. "I don't have time to do it as much as I would like, though." She held up the folder, trying to remind herself of what she needed to focus on. "I need to pay the bills, you know?"

  Griffin sat down next to her, too close. He braced his arm on the back of her chair and leaned forward, into her space. "Why don't you pay the bills with the cupcakes?"

  Clare burst out in nervous laughter. "Pay a mortgage, student loans, rent for my office and my daughter's summer program on cupcake proceeds?"

  "Yeah, sure." His gaze went to her mouth again, and heat crashed through her. "I made millions on slippers. It happens. No reason why cupcakes can't turn a good profit."

  She stared at him. "Make money from my cupcakes?" For a split second, something flared inside her. Hope? Desire? Interest? What if— Then she laughed, knowing it could never happen. What if indeed? "The fastest way for me to lose the joy I get from baking is to try to earn money from it. It's my respite, and if I taint it by trying to profit from it, then it won't be fun anymore."

  He frowned, as if he couldn't understand. "Why not?"

  Clare held up her folder. "I'm good at being a lawyer, but it drains me. I need to refresh. There's no way I could work late at night if I wasn't getting up every twenty minutes to work on the cupcakes. It energizes me. But if I had to bake and had to make them beautiful, then they become another source of stress and pressure, and another opportunity to screw up. I get enough of that with the day job already."