by Ren Benton
Even when he got what he wanted and it was perfect, he wanted more. He got the woman of his dreams without cumbersome commitment. Then commitment started to seem more like a fuzzy blanket than a straightjacket, but he got left out in the cold because she didn’t have enough warmth to go around.
“It’s absurdly difficult,” Sharon agreed. “And if you succeed and have the foolish notion of stopping to enjoy it, forces conspire to take it away. It’s not a one-person job.”
He’d proven — twice now — investing too much happiness in a woman led to disaster. “If you leave your happiness in someone else’s hands, they don’t need a conspiracy to crush it.”
“I didn’t say make someone else solely responsible. I said don’t do it alone. It’s a team effort. You’re the quarterback.” She drew a little circle in the air and then a series of squiggly lines as she continued, “You call the plays while some of your people protect you and some of your people help you move closer to the goal. What’s funny?”
“That a woman who thinks sweat is barbaric and watched through her fingers when her kids ran in the yard knows that much about football.”
“I’ve picked up the basics passing through the room when my attention was drawn to their tight little pants.” She waved the spatula. “Don’t tell your father.”
“Tell him? His anniversary gift is going to be a pair of those pants.”
“White, please. It’s easier to see what’s in the package.”
Was it too much to ask to have a woman who wanted a clear look at his package after four decades together?
She laid her head against his arm. “Do you need me to block for you, or get the first down?”
He kissed the top of her head. “I’ve been sidelined. I’m not playing this season.”
“Are you in love with this woman?”
If he couldn’t be with her, it didn’t matter. “Every part of me hurts and I want to throw up. I’m sure it’s just a virus.”
“Sounds more like a fundamental life lesson. When something hurts and makes you sick, stop doing it.”
He wanted to blame his affliction on love and declare his heart permanently closed for business because that would be easier than accepting the alternative explanation — failing at love was terrible, and he wasn’t sure how to stop doing it.
The missteps leading to the end were all his. Treating the best woman he’d ever known like a toy. Not trusting her because of old baggage. Sitting there like a helpless lump while she cried and walked away.
She hadn’t shed a tear when she told the guy on bended knee to take a hike.
Griff made her happier, but she thought him incapable of giving her more.
He could fix doors. He could make cabinets. He could feed her. It didn’t amount to much, but he could take a little bit of the burden of caring for everyone off her shoulders by caring for her.
He could start by not making selfish demands.
He would do everything differently to prove he belonged in her life.
He knocked on Ivy’s door, a dozen four-inch screws bristling from his fist like an industrial bouquet. He left the drill in the car to avoid appearing presumptuous — or menacing.
A man answered the door, his considerable breadth and height blocking the entrance. “Can I help you?”
“Is Ivy home?”
“Who are you?”
“Griff Dunleavy.”
Behind the bouncer, a woman called out, “Who are you talking to, Von?”
He pivoted slowly, like a stone slab unsealing a movie tomb.
Ivy’s other friend craned around the wall separating the kitchen from the living room, in much the same position as Griff had first seen her in Ivy’s hotel room. The wattage of her smile doubled when she recognized him. “Hey, handsome!”
“Hey yourself, dazzling.”
“Hey, that’s my wife,” Von contributed in an I’m standing right here, folks tone.
“Congratulations.”
The woman laughed. “He is a lucky man. I’m Camille. This is Von.” She flourished an elegant hand in Griff’s direction. “This is Ivy’s enchilada.”
Von peered at him. “I thought you’d be Mexican. Someone’s going to have to explain the nickname to me.”
This was the first Griff had heard of it. “Me too.”
Von consulted Camille. “Can he come in?”
“Beloved, we got four kids here. If Jack the Ripper comes to the door, you haul him inside and put him to work.”
Von extended his hand in a shake that pulled Griff over the threshold. “Pleased to meet you. Most men bring flowers.”
“The last man who brought Ivy flowers got vaporized. I thought an offering of improved home security might appeal more to her.”
“It might, but that was general cluelessness on the banker’s part, not a flower-specific aversion of hers, for future reference. Cam owns the flower shop on East Jackson, not that I’m shilling or anything.”
Griff dragged a hand down his face — again, so close and yet so far away from Ivy all these years. “I know the place. Jeremy’s memorized the birthdays, anniversaries, and color preferences of every woman in my office and family by now, but I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting the owner.”
Or her warm, funny, brown-eyed friend.
“Too many boss things to do to be running the storefront. What were you planning to do with the screws?”
“Men!” Camille shouted from the kitchen. “You will help out in this cafeteria if you want to eat today!”
Griff greeted the kids, put an extra carrot stick on Heather’s plate for each chunk of tomato she picked out of her spaghetti, and explained the mechanics of strike plates to Von and Camille while everyone who hadn’t eaten a sandwich half an hour earlier had lunch.
“Got any more of those screws?” Von asked.
“Whole box.”
Camille caressed her husband’s biceps. “Ooh. If you become handy, I’ll no longer be able to control myself.”
Griff chuckled. “Want to borrow the drill, too?”
“And a hard hat and a tool belt if you got ’em. I’ll go full HGTV for love.” Von bent Camille over his arm and kissed her loudly on the lips.
They had it, too — the kind of relationship where they were comfortable together yet still sharply aware of one another. Griff suspected they’d be the same way forty years from now.
He also suspected it might be less painful to watch if he had some assurance of the same for himself.
Blake hadn’t said a word since taking his seat at the table. He stared at his plate and twirled spaghetti around his fork without eating it. At his age, old people making out probably killed his appetite.
Griff risked irritating him to take his mind off the ongoing PDA. “How’s it going, Blake?”
“Does that work on inside doors, too? If someone gets inside, make it harder to get in a room?”
What the hell happened to this poor kid that he thought of barricading interior doors against intruders? Griff hoped it was only TV and movie exposure, but he wouldn’t trivialize the fear. “It would give you some more time to call 911 and keep him busy until the police arrive.”
He realized he was wrong as soon as he said it. The latch on an interior door would give out before the screws did. The sturdiness depended on the combination of the deep-seated screws and a deadbolt, but even if every interior door was equipped with a deadbolt, a few kicks would get a determined invader through the drywall.
Well, shit. Better a liar than the guy who terrified small children with the truth about the flimsiness of their home, right?
Blake took him at his word. “Do every door.”
He took charge when his family’s safety was on the line. Griff respected that. Unfortunately, Blake wasn’t an authorized decision maker. “I need Ivy’s permission to punch holes in her house. If she doesn’t want me to, you can convince her it’s important when I’m gone. It’s easy to do herself so she’ll be safe when you’re n
ot here to protect her.”
“I’ll be here all the time from now on.”
“We stay,” Lily confirmed around a chomp of carrot.
So Ivy’s prediction of taking on the kids permanently hadn’t been hypothetical.
There would be no dipping his toe in the shallows to test the water. Her life was all deep end now, and the only choices were swim or stay dry.
Which wasn’t any choice at all.
He wasn’t prepared, but there wasn’t exactly a class on how to woo a woman who was suddenly raising four kids. He wasn’t big on classes, anyway. Winging it and learning on the job had enabled him to get by up to this point in his life. He’d have to trust dumb luck and hands-on experience to guide him again. “Good. She’ll worry less if she knows you’re taken care of.”
Blake’s eyes narrowed.
Ah. The news that they were permanent fixtures now was meant to scare Griff away. They were going to have to arrive at some kind of truce eventually. “Do you or the munchkins need anything now that you’re living here that you didn’t when you were only part time?”
Blake’s upper lip curled. “Are you going to buy our love?”
This kid had the cynicism of four average adults. “I’m struggling to think of ways to make Ivy’s life better. If I can do one thing for you, it’s one less on her shoulders.” He mimicked Ivy’s open disregard for his feelings, which had endeared her right through his wall of skepticism. “Whether you like me better for it is up to you and honestly not my priority.”
Perversely appeased by adult indifference, Blake returned to twirling his spaghetti. “I was going to mow the yard, but we’re out of gas for the mower.”
“I can get gas.” He crossed his fingers Ivy would be back by the time he returned to verify her nephew was allowed to operate machinery with spinning blades. “Where is Ivy?”
Camille broke off her snuggling session. “She went to the warehouse club to stockpile for the apocalypse. She should be back soon.”
Griff moved on to what he hoped was an easier target to impress. “What about you, Chrysanthemum? Can I bring you anything?”
Lily regarded him shyly and silently — not so easy, after all.
“Someone recently told me ladies like flowers.”
She grinned, revealing a gap where her two upper front teeth had been the last time he saw her.
That wasn’t even fair. Ivy was the siren who lured him to the water’s edge with her laugh and tempting curves, but if the current looked too swift, the depth too treacherous to be ventured by a coward, the little toothless mermaid peeked out, harpooned him in the chest with cuteness, and dragged him beneath the waves.
Ivy lugged a plastic-wrapped brick of thirty-six rolls of toilet paper into the house and kicked the door closed behind her. “Honey, I’m home!”
Camille and Cole came to greet her with cheek kisses — sloppy ones on Cole’s part. “Lunch has been served and cleaned up. All the men except this little dude are out back engaged in manly work.”
She hoped Von didn’t think less of her for letting the grass get out of control. The past couple of weekends had been too hectic for exterior home maintenance. She kept swearing she’d get it done before one of the neighbors made a barbed joke about her yard bringing down property values, but that became less likely with each passing day.
Heather ran into the kitchen brandishing a potted plant. “Ivy! Look what Griff got me!”
She froze.
Camille bounced Cole on her hip. “By the way, Griff is one of the men engaged in manly work out back.”
Ivy’s lips thawed enough to form, “Why?”
“Because he likes you, dummy.” Camille noticed her stiffness and sobered. “Should I have not invited him in?”
Camille would drag him to the street by his nostrils if she thought he’d violated her hospitality. “No, it’s fine. I just wasn’t expecting him today.”
Or ever. His presence tore open a wound that had barely begun to heal — and then covered it with antibiotic ointment and a fresh bandage and administered a shot of something that made her feel warm and dopey.
She smiled at Heather. “That’s a beautiful snapdragon. Give me a few minutes to bring in the groceries and I’ll help you plant it.”
“No!” Heather hugged the plant to her chest like a baby. “I’m keeping Rodney by my bed.”
There was no sun in that corner of the house. They’d need a grow light to keep Rodney alive more than a couple of days, and a tray to protect the furniture from water damage until she could convince Heather that some plants were happier outdoors.
Lily tugged Ivy’s shirt and pointed to the window above the sink. A burst of orange had taken up residence on the sill. “Zandemum!”
Oh, damn him for remembering the nicknames he gave the kids. She hoped he hadn’t brought a cactus and nettles for the boys.
Lily shoved at her leg. “Put away now.”
“Do you want to plant your flowers?”
“Where people see.”
“We’ll find a good place for them, Lil.”
Camille pushed her toward the door. “We’ll start hauling groceries. The guys are waiting for your approval on some projects.”
The other ladies headed to the van while Ivy rounded the back corner of the house. Her mouth went dry at the sight of Griff standing ankle deep in her grass, tossing a ball around with Von and Blake to liven up the tedium of gathering and sorting sticks, toys, and miscellaneous debris into piles. His T-shirt clung to his back, showing off the flex of muscles as he fired the ball at Blake, who grabbed it out of the air and pulled it into his skinny chest like a pro.
Von nodded her way, prompting Griff to turn around. He smiled when he saw her.
Ah, you’re killing me, Dunleavy. “Hi.”
Blake threw the ball in a wobbly spiral Von had to dive to catch. “Tell Griff I’m allowed to use the mower.”
“With supervision,” she qualified.
“Does that mean hover,” Griff sought clarification, “or look up from the paper every half hour to make sure he hasn’t missed a spot or chopped off his foot?”
Every time, she had to remind herself that her dad let her push the mower at the same age, and she’d survived unscathed. It didn’t reduce her gory premonitions, but it kept her from sticking to Blake like his shadow. “Somewhere in between.”
“Told you so.” Blake smirked at Griff. He straightened his expression for Ivy. “When I’m done, we need to have a talk about home security.”
She blinked. “I was gone so long you got a job selling alarm systems?”
Blake didn’t dignify that with a response. “Don’t start without me,” he warned Griff. “I want to watch.”
“Everyone can watch. If Ivy okays it, everyone taller than this” — he held up a hand at a height that separated Blake from his younger siblings — “can pick a door and do one.”
Blake had learned to guard his feelings because his mother stole the finer ones as if they were made of diamonds, but his mouth slid to the side with the effort of suppressing his pride at being included with the adults.
Even if the plan was to replace all the doors with beaded curtains, Ivy would agree rather than take that away from him, but her peace of mind demanded she ask, “What are we doing to the doors?”
Griff raised both hands to ward off questions. “I would never interfere with another agent’s pitch. My associate will explain everything in due time, ma’am.”
As Blake headed toward the garage, she remembered another complication that had interfered with lawn maintenance. “I’ll have to get gas for the mower.”
“Already taken care of.”
“Oh.” Everything seemed to be under control. She wasn’t quite sure what to do with herself in that unfamiliar situation. “Then I guess I’ll go put groceries away. Holler if you need anything.”
She stepped backward, which was bound to result in a fall on her ass if she didn’t turn around and watch where she
was going, but she had missed Griff’s face too much to look away before relearning the slant of his brows and every wave of his messy hair and the precise placement of the little crescent that marked where his dimple sometimes appeared.
Like it did now. “Hey.”
That one syllable arrested her retreat, as if the toe touching down behind her had sunk into quicksand rather than grass. She knew the rule — don’t struggle. “What?”
“You’re gorgeous.”
She wore a faded T-shirt, wrinkled cargo pants, and dirty sneakers. Her hair was falling out of its ponytail. She had bags under her eyes and hadn’t covered them with makeup for her excursion to Costco. And this fantasy specimen of manhood was looking at her like she was done up for the Academy Awards.
Or naked after he’d undone her.
She suddenly felt very tired and soft and in need of a shoulder to rest her head against.
Her foot unmired, and she stepped toward the most restful-looking shoulder she’d ever seen.
The snarl of the lawnmower jolted her out of her trance.
Griff glanced at Blake shoving the mower along the fence. “Between me and Von, you have almost one and a half responsible adults out here, and I have my own personal ambulance on standby at all times. He’ll be okay.”
She was sure Blake would be perfectly safe.
She wasn’t so sure about her heart.
By the time groceries were stowed, mums planted, grass mowed, doors reinforced, and dinner in bellies, the sun had dipped behind the trees, leaving the front yard shady.
Cam and Von washed the dishes and went home.
Ivy sat on the fragrant, freshly shorn grass while the girls drew on the driveway with chalk. Blake washed the mower with the dedication of a man detailing a Rolls Royce. His sisters complained stridently when the runoff trickled through their canvas before incorporating the streaks into their picture. Cole amused himself by standing up and dropping his diapered butt onto the grass beside her over and over again.
A little more sun was blotted out. She tipped her head back as Griff loomed over her. “I thought you snuck away.”
“Just putting the drill in the car.” He laid down on his back beside her and released a sigh. As an afterthought, he asked, “Do you want me to go?”
