Page 5 of Griffen the Mountain Man
Before I can come up with a reasonable excuse for the action—anything that paints me in a better light, but also keeps the secret of his effect on me—Griffen grunts his name, and I force a smile of acknowledgement.
It’s not like I can admit to already knowing who he is. There's only so much embarrassment my self-esteem can handle in one day.
“Please sit. Enjoy!” I lower to the ground, tucking my legs beneath my butt. If I’d known Greta was going to trick me into a picnic date, I would have worn something more comfortable than jeans. The durable fabric cuts into my stomach and knees, and I pray my oversized sweater covers most of the awkward bulging.
Griffen slowly follows my lead and bends his large frame into a small enough ball to kind of fit on the blanket. Most of his body rests on sparse patches of grass and dirt—his attempt to not manspread and hog the entire area.
Not that I would mind being squished close to him.
He reminds me of a big teddy bear.
He has the typical gruff mountain man look, but I've seen the way he acts around his grandfather and the other seniors at the center. Griffen is as kind and gentle as can be.
So, cozied up to his protective warmth on a perfect fall day?
I wouldn’t mind one damn bit.
Griffen pops a salami pinwheel in his mouth and chews before clearing his throat. “What made you decide to volunteer at the center?”
Grabbing my own pinwheel, I pick at the edge of the tortilla, thinking about the past and bittersweet memories.
“My grandparents were my favorite people growing up. I’ve felt each of their losses keenly, but it wasn’t until the last one passed that grief really hit me.” We lost her right before her eighty-seventh birthday a few months ago, and a familiar ache throbs in my chest as I remember the call from my mom, the funeral, going through Grandma Joyce’s things to decide what to keep, donate, or sell.
“I guess I was searching for connection again, so when I saw the senior center was looking for more volunteers, I figured it was meant to be. Not everyone feels comfortable hanging out with older adults, but that’s never been an issue for me.”
Griffen nods in understanding. “Sorry about your grandparents.”
“Thank you. They definitely left an impression on me.”
“Do your parents live in town?”
I shake my head and stab a fork into a serving of the bacon ranch pasta salad. The creamy dressing and crunchy bacon bits combine into an explosion of flavor on my tongue, and a quiet hum of appreciation vibrates in my throat.
“No, they live in Guardian Valley, Montana. My maternal grandparents used to live here, though. They actually left me their house, which is why I moved to Suitor’s Crossing.”
For the first time, it occurs to me that they may not have been strangers to Griffen, a town local. “Maybe you knew them. The Schmidts?”
He thinks for a moment, staring up at the sky through branches of autumn leaves, then dips his chin down. “Sorry, the name doesn't ring a bell, but Gramps would probably recognize it. He's been around a lot longer than me.”
“We should ask him some time. You’re his caretaker, right? Do you enjoy it?” I question, already ninety-nine percent sure of the answer.
“For now.” He shrugs his broad shoulders and relaxes against the massive tree trunk behind us. I consciously ignore the play of muscles beneath his flannel shirt with each shift. “He's moving in with Greta before Thanksgiving.”
I mentally slap myself on the forehead. “I forgot she mentioned it the other day. How do you feel about the news?”
“I'm happy for them. Just have to figure out what to do with myself now that I don't have him to take care of. I do odd jobs at Hearthstone Lodge, but that's more of a part-time gig.”
“And you're not interested in making it a full-time deal,” I venture.
“I don't know. I've never really had a clear passion for one thing like my siblings. Beckett wanted to be a firefighter. Ezra wanted to go into business. Kennedy loves being creative and organizing, so they all found their niche. When it was decided that Gramps needed somebody to stay with him full-time—to keep an eye on him—the role naturally fell to me. I wasn't mad about it. It gave me an excuse not to dwell on not having a clue what to do with myself.”
“I get that.”
His head turns towards me, and a flush of red burns my cheeks under the weight of his attention. “What do you do?”
“Right now, I work at Design Time. In retail, not the embroidery stuff in the back of the store.” Just the thought makes me shudder. I’ve seen how those employees are treated by my boss, especially since he lost an all-star embroiderer—Avery something?—a while back.
“I graduated in May with a fine arts degree that focused on photography, which probably wasn't the smartest decision, butit's my passion.” I laugh. “Goes to show that even if you know what you want to do, it doesn't always mean you get to do it.”
