He chuckled at that. Always the practical thinker, his Abby. Well, not his Abby anymore.
Bradley made another one of his aggravated huffs, and Griffin finally shifted his eyes from Abby to his apprentice, who’d just scaled down from the oak. Abby twisted to face the tree as well, her intoxicatingly familiar scent shifting downwind to meet him head on. Torture. Pure torture. He moved to stand even with her. Better, he thought. But also, worse—since now he could feel the heat radiating off her tanned arms.
He concentrated on the task in front of him like a doctor assessing an injury. It didn’t take a certified arborist to determine that the tree had seen better days. Much, much better days. Days he remembered fondly. With Abby.
“So, you’re the one he hired to write the repeal report?” Her voice shook ever so slightly as she spoke to him.
“The assessment report, yes.”
She wouldn’t look him in the eye now, her gaze fixed only on the tree. “I’ve scheduled all the services for the tree for the past two years and kept all the records. You can see the file. It’s all there.”
“I’m sure you have it all in order.” After all, she was Arnie’s daughter.
She dropped her voice to half volume, as if speaking to herself. “There’s no sound reason the council will grant a repeal, not when we can prove it’s healthy and strong.”
He didn’t miss the side-eye she shot him at her accidental slip of we. But yes, he had indeed caught it. Just like he’d caught her restless fingers playing an invisible piano solo on her hip. A nervous tic he used to tease her about in their teen years.
He removed his hat and ran a hand through his cropped hair. Maybe the action would reattach his brain to his skull. Because he hadn’t come here to reminisce. He’d come for closure.
Exhaling, he plodded to the left side of the wide trunk, following the buckled root system that extended toward the foundation of the inn’s screened-in porch. He frowned.
“It’s all a tangled mess, boss,” his apprentice, Jason, pointed out unhelpfully. “And the crown’s not much better. Think I saw some blight on a few of the leaves near the top, too.”
Griffin nodded stiffly, hoping the kid would take his silence as a cue to shut his trap. If only Jason’s mouth had come with a mute option when he’d first hired him.
“Blight?” Abby’s attention was on them both now. “No, that’s impossible. I’m always checking for signs of sickness. And this tree isn’t sick.”
Griffin saw the instant Jason registered the beautiful woman speaking to him.
“Ah, so you must be Abby, then? It’s a pleasure. I’m Jason.” Jason’s introductory handshake-and-grin routine was one Griffin had watched him use on many a female. But little did Jason know that Abby Brookshire would never be won by charm alone. “Well, ma’am, no offense, but the diseased leaves I spotted were up pretty high. So, unless you want me to give you a boost, there’s no way you could spot it from down here.” He looped his thumbs through the belt loops of his climbing harness and leaned back on his boot heels.
Idiot.
If Griffin could have thrown a tranquilizing dart right then, he’d have aimed it straight for Jason’s neck.
“Jason, is it?” Abby asked in a tone that could have frozen the extra-hot drip coffee Griffin brewed for himself every morning. “How long have you worked as an arborist?”
“Uh . . . about five months.”
“And how many century-old oak trees have you assessed in that time?”
Griffin muttered a choice word under his breath and shook his head. This wasn’t going to be good. Abby rarely got worked up enough to speak her mind fully, but when she did, a man should be given a warning to take cover.
“This is my first, ma’am.”
“Right. Well, that big, burly tree right there once weathered a tornado that nearly obliterated our entire town. It’s stood tall through blazing August heat and frigid December ice storms. It’s been abused and neglected and greatly undervalued throughout the years”—she shot a fierce look at Bradley—“but this tree has proven one thing over and over again: It’s stronger than anything nature or man can throw at it. So don’t think for a single minute that some little patch of blight you may or may not have seen up there will be what takes it down. Because it won’t. It will heal, and then it will outlive you and your great-grandchildren.”
Jason’s gulp was likely audible to the early wedding guests arriving in the parking area behind Griffin’s work truck.
“We’re not making any official diagnoses yet,” Griffin said pointedly at Jason. “We’re simply taking in information. Lots of information.” He held his palms out to her. “Nobody here wants to put a healthy tree in an early grave, Abby.”
The instant it was out of his mouth he wished he could take the words back. Stupid. So, so stupid.
The tension crease between her eyebrows went slack, and there was little wonder where his careless statement had taken her thoughts, down a road paved with grief and regret. Griffin reached out his hand to—
Everybody jolted as a fiery comet with burnt-red hair, dressed in spiked heels and a tailored black pantsuit, broke into their group. Annette, Bradley’s high school sweetheart and recent ex-wife, jabbed a finger in the direction of the wedding setup.
“I told you this had to be cleaned up by five. It’s now ten after. There’s a wedding starting in just over an hour, and strangely enough, the bride’s family did not pay for this yellow murder-scene tape to be in the background of all their ceremony photos.”
“Sorry, Annette,” Griffin offered cautiously, giving his cousin a moment to collect himself—though he likely didn’t deserve one. “The delay is my fault, but I promise we’ll have the whole area cleaned up shortly.”
Immediately, the fierce redhead switched her southern charm to ON and grinned up at Griffin. “Which is exactly why you continue to remain my favorite ex in-law.” Her shrewd eyes flicked to Bradley and back. “If only chivalry was passed through bloodline.” She reached up to pat Griffin’s cheek, which was quite the reach considering she barely hit the five-foot mark. “Success looks good on you, Griff. I always knew you’d make it.”
He dipped his head in thanks, noting the flicker of interest that crossed Abby’s face. “Thanks.”
Annette’s gaze drifted to the only woman Griff had ever loved. “Oh, and, Abby, before I forget, that keepsake you created for the bride’s late mother? It. Was. Stunning. Everyone in the bridal suite had to get their eye makeup redone before we could start pictures.”
“I’m glad she liked it.” Abby’s humble nod was indication enough that whatever she’d created was obviously something meaningful.
How long had it been since he’d seen Abby’s full talents on display? Far too long.
Annette’s charm dimmed to gray as she turned back to address Bradley with all the warmth of a striking cobra. “No more tacky caution tape while there’s a paying wedding party on the premises. Get it taken care of.”
Bradley’s face reddened. “It’s a liability to have the tree exposed to the public, Annette. We’ve already discussed that.”
“And as we have also discussed, I will make a formal announcement during the reception. I’ve got it covered. Remove the tape.”
The air crackled between them as they all waited for Bradley’s response. He waved a hand at Griffin and spoke in a sharp staccato. “Fine, get this stuff cleaned up. We’ll start fresh in the morning.”
Without another word to each other, Bradley and Annette stormed off in opposite directions. Fitting.
“Aye, aye, Captain,” Griffin mumbled as he searched for his employee to put him to work. Not shockingly, Griffin spotted Jason several yards away, speaking to a giggling young woman in a bridesmaid dress. Also fitting.
“I hope your little Romeo over there is better with the ladies than he is at tree work.” Abby’s words dripped with sarcasm.
“Listen.” Griffin faced her. “Jason may
not be the most socially aware at times, but he’s a good kid. Dependable and honest. One of the best recruits I’ve had thus far.”
She gazed up at him with a curiosity that made his blood thicken. “And how many is that?”
“Employees? I have five that are full-time now. Most are back near San Antonio, finishing up some storm work.”
She glanced at some point he couldn’t identify in the property beyond them. “I heard that was a big one out there.”
“It was.” And so was the paycheck his company had collected. But it wasn’t trees or storms or even his growing business that he wanted to discuss with Abby. This wasn’t the conversation he’d been rehashing in his head since the night they’d spread her father’s ashes. “How ’bout I buy your pizza tonight so the two of us can . . . talk.”
“My pizza?”
“Yeah,” he answered confidently. This was an Abby Challenge he could win easily. “Your favorite Veggie Delight on thin crust with added salami and double pineapple. The same pizza you order every Saturday night during wedding season.”
A reluctant smile sneaked onto her mouth as she crossed her arms over her chest. “Who says I haven’t changed my order?”
“Fifty bucks says it’s still your standing order and that it’s set to arrive at six thirty sharp.”
Something like defeat crimped her brow before she dropped her attention to her grass-covered boots. “You really should have called first. I hate surprises.”
“I know you do.” He lowered his voice. “But I can’t say that I’ve been the biggest fan of your voicemail, either.” And they both knew that’s exactly where she would have sent his call.
She bit the corner of her lip, guilt clouding her features.
There were a lot of things he owed her an apology for, but showing up today wasn’t one of them. “All I’m asking for is a slice of pizza. Possibly two.” He didn’t take a step toward her; he simply remained where he was, willing her to accept his offer. “What do you say, Bee?”
For the longest time, she said nothing at all. He could only guess at the battle happening inside her head right now, the weighing and analyzing of all her options.
When she finally lifted her twinkling eyes to his, his breath stilled. “I’ll tell Freddie to add an order of cheesy bread for you. Don’t be late.” And then she turned and started for the stone-paved path he’d laid with her father the first summer he’d worked at the inn.
He studied the way she strolled over each smoothed stone, her hips swaying side to side in a cadence he’d memorized long ago, the same way he’d memorized the flutter of her short hair against the nape of her neck in the breeze. A familiarity that sparked something inside him to question his original motive for coming today.
Because maybe he hadn’t only hoped for closure with Abby. Maybe, he still hoped for a second chance. To keep his promise to her father.
And maybe, just maybe, to win her back.
He stuffed two fingers in his mouth and whistled for Jason. They needed to get this area cleaned up. And then he needed to duck into the back of the cab of his truck and change into a clean flannel. If he only had one evening to spend with Abby Brookshire, he wouldn’t waste a single moment of it.
three
The instant the front door of her cottage latched behind her, she collapsed against it, her legs shaky and unwilling to support her for another minute.
He was here. Griffin. Her Griffin. In Oak Springs. And in less than an hour’s time, he’d be at her door and then inside her home and then sharing in her veggie, salami, and pineapple pizza . . . which he’d remembered perfectly.
Her breath came out in short, uneven pants, her chest rising and falling at an unsustainable rate. She squeezed her eyes closed. How had she forgotten the intensity of his gaze? His face? His . . . well, his everything. Her memory should be fired. Its one and only job was to recall such details accurately. And today it had failed at an epic degree. For nearly two years, she’d been dreaming of Griffin through a hazy lens. But staring into those fern-green eyes tonight while he said her name . . . it was all too much.
Too much.
Gahhh. “Stop it, Abby! Pull yourself together.” She glanced at the clock on her microwave. She had forty-five minutes. She looked down at her work clothes and gave a self-deprecating laugh. Who was she kidding? All she had in her closet was more of the same. Tired cotton T-shirts and faded work jeans.
She trudged to her bedroom, cursing herself for never taking Annette up on a single one of her shopping invitations, and slipped out of her gardening attire. She reached into her closet and selected a clean shirt—blue it was—and then tugged on a fresh, but certainly not new, pair of light denim pants.
Abby doubted Griff had any expectation that she would have transformed into some kind of fashion diva since their breakup, but the thought sparked a wandering trail in her mind . . . starting back at his fancy new work truck. And then to his shiny climbing gear and Asolo boots. And then to his confident demeanor as a boss of five employees. He’d done exactly what he’d said he would do when he left Oak Springs, and Abby, well, Abby had also done exactly what he said she would do, too . . . she’d stayed exactly the same. She shoved the condemning thought out of her mind the way she often did, and made a quick call to Galaxy Pizza to update her order.
After running a brush through her short hair and swiping some unflavored lip balm across her lips, she added a few strokes of who-knows-how-old mascara to her eyelashes. Somehow, even after all that, she still had fifteen minutes to spare.
She glanced around the front room for something to tidy, but there wasn’t much to clean in this little cottage for company’s sake. Living alone had turned her into even more of a minimalist. She ate on the same plate—to avoid having to wash multiple dishes—used the same silverware, coffee mug, and the occasional wineglass. The only knickknacks in the cottage lived on the mantel above the fireplace: trinkets her father had crafted out of fallen branches around the property when she was in middle school.
But she had loved this old cottage—rich with history from her father’s ancestors, the cottage had been passed down to her dad, Arnie Jr., as a wedding gift, which had been enjoyed by her parents until just two years after Abby’s birth, when her mother had fallen asleep at the wheel after working the night shift as an on-call nurse. Her mother had died in that car accident, a tragedy so unexpected it had formed an unbreakable bond between her and her father, one she never thought could be broken . . . until death had come again.
Her father had wanted to keep everything in the cottage the same as it had been before her mother passed away—the welcome sign on the outside of the house carved in French that only the sharpest eyes could detect as reading Bienvenue, the strange middle-of-the-door doorknobs all throughout each bedroom and closet, and the miniature turret on the left side of the cottage that her father teased was built for royalty. And much like the exterior, the interior of the home hadn’t changed much either.
She glanced to the petite staircase leading to the loft. Just beyond the small Dutch door was her favorite place to think and reminisce: the wraparound balcony. From up there, she could view nearly the entire property.
The knock at her door released the anxious butterflies she’d been holding back for two years.
She exhaled and pulled open the door to her past.
Griffin’s eyes softened on her immediately. “Blue’s always been my favorite color on you.”
Before she had a chance to contemplate if she’d chosen the blue shirt for him consciously, he extended a single fuchsia saucer hibiscus from behind his back. She recognized the picture-perfect flower immediately, from the shrub near the inn’s front porch.
“It’s a good thing you didn’t let the gardener see you pick that—I hear she can be fairly particular about her hibiscus shrubs.”
The right side of his mouth ticked north as he stepped inside her home. “I was hoping she might take pi
ty on me since I couldn’t show up at a pretty lady’s door empty-handed.”
“I thought you were just here for my good taste in pizza.”
“I am.”
Oh, he so was not. She didn’t know what all Griffin had done to himself in the hour they’d been apart, but it was entirely unfair that a simple flannel change could dial up his appearance by a factor of ten. And why did he smell so . . . so . . .
“Are you wearing cologne?” Her question was far too abrupt to be considered casual. But when had he started doing that?
“Oh, uh . . . yeah.” He shrugged as if he’d been caught doing something wrong. “One of my temp guys left it in my truck before he moved back to Oklahoma. You don’t like it?”
“I didn’t say that, it’s just . . . I don’t know. You’ll always smell like trees no matter what you squirt on your shirt. Nature’s in your DNA.”
A cheeky grin snaked onto his face as he stepped into her little house and crossed into the living area. “Hate to break it to you, Bee, but it’s in yours, too.”
She worked to ignore the warm rush of familiarity his nickname caused her and gestured for him to choose a seat in the living area. The choices were limited—a small sofa and an armchair with more history than a library could contain.
Griffin stood for a minute, saying nothing as he faced her father’s old leather recliner. “Wow.” He cleared his throat. “I’d forgotten about Arnie’s chair.”
She didn’t move, unsure if his statement meant he wished to sit in it or avoid it altogether. That was the strange thing about grief: Sometimes you wanted to wrap yourself in it like a thick winter quilt, and other times you wanted to throw the blanket to the ground and pretend you wouldn’t be cold without it.
He started toward the chair and then hesitated. “Do you mind if I . . . ?”
“Not at all. You loved him, too.” The words came out so freely, so naturally, as if that particular truth had been waiting to leap off her tongue since the moment she’d seen Griff out by the oak tree. The rest of the truth was that her father had loved him, too. Deeply. Like a son.
The Kissing Tree Page 26
