Page 4 of Her Christmas Fix
He looks around the room one more time, then at me standing there like a literal fish out of water with my determination to make the best of a disaster. And I see the exact moment he makes a decision he’s probably going to regret.
“You can stay at my place,” he says, focusing his gaze on a spot over my shoulder. “It isn’t luxury accommodations, but there’s plumbing, heat and a wildlife-free space.”
The offer hangs in the suddenly charged air between us, landing deep inside me and eliciting unexpected emotions that I can’t begin to sort through. In my experience, people don’t do things for celebrities like me, not without wanting something in return.
“Why would you do that?”
He’s quiet as he considers the question, and when he speaks, his voice is careful. “Because sleeping in your car is a terrible plan, even if it is a Mercedes. Because you’ve had a shit day and it’s going to get a million times worse if you spend the night fighting raccoons. And because...” He pauses, runs a hand through his hair again. “Because whatever else happens, you didn’t deserve to be screwed over any more than I did.”
The understanding in his voice makes my throat tight even as I feel my cheeks heat. “I don’t want your pity.”
“I’m not offering pity.” His mouth quirks at one corner, the first inkling of a smile I’ve seen from him. “I’ve got a couch and a pot of strong coffee in the morning. Take it or leave it, but decide fast. It’s cold, I’m tired, and if we stand here much longer, your raccoon friends might come back for round two.”
As if on cue, a scurrying sound comes from somewhere above us.
Griffin Meyer is ruggedly handsome, irritatingly judgmental, and almost reluctantly decent. Something shifts inside my chest as I watch him watching me.
I wouldn’t call the feeling trust. I’m too smart for that—or at least too recently burned. It’s more like a flicker that could become trust if I gave it enough time, which I don’t plan to do.
Maybe I should play the girl in a horror movie because I’m about to ignore every piece of stranger danger advice I’ve ever received or drilled into my own daughter’s head.
I have no reason to trust my instincts on anything, let alone about Griffin being decent and his offer simple kindness. But still…
“Okay,” I hear myself say. “Just for tonight.”
“One night,” he agrees, but I think we both know this is more complicated than a simple overnight arrangement.
Whatever else happens, this is the first step toward figuring out who I am—who I want to be—when I’m not performing for the world.
3
GRIFFIN
I’m startingto think I’ve lost my damn mind.
That’s the only explanation for why I’m leading Hollywood royalty across the gravel driveway to my cabin at eleven o’clock at night. Monika Graham trails behind me, wheeling her giant monogrammed suitcase over the uneven ground like it weighs a thousand pounds. Every few steps, the bulky piece of luggage catches on a rut, and she has to wrestle it free. Her soft curses shouldn’t make me want to smile, but they do.
I offered to carry her luggage, of course. I’m not a total dick. But she reacted with as much aggression as if I’d gotten between one of those raccoons and a garbage can after pizza night, so I backed off fast.
My place sits on a quarter-acre lot across the coastal highway from the beach. The one-bedroom cabin isn’t anything special, but I got it for a steal when I moved to town a couple of years ago after my twenty-year stint in the Army came to an end. The exterior still needs work, but the inside is solid. Clean lines, exposed beams, and enough rustic touches to make it clear a guy lives here.
When I got hired to handle the beach house reno, I checked out a glossy spread in an architectural magazine that featuredMonika’s LA house. My cabin is approximately the size of her walk-in closet.
I unlock the front door and step aside to let her pass. “Home sweet home.”
She pauses in the doorway, and I watch her take in the open-concept living space that combines kitchen, dining, and living room into one modest area. Her gaze travels over my overstuffed wool couch, the reclaimed wood coffee table I made last winter, and the stone fireplace that dominates the far wall.
“It’s lovely,” she says, and the genuine warmth in her voice catches me off guard.
Lovely. Yeah, right.
She wheels that suitcase over the threshold, and I can’t help but notice how out of place she looks. Even rumpled from hours in the car and rattled by the raccoon encounter, she’s stunning in an effortless way that also probably costs a fortune to maintain. Her honey-brown hair gleams as her green eyes seem to take in every detail of my simple life.
She doesn’t belong here. Not even for one night.
“Bathroom’s down the hall.” I nod toward the narrow corridor that leads to the bedroom and bath. “Kitchen’s obviously right here. Help yourself to the stuff in the fridge.”
“Thanks.” She’s standing in the middle of my living room like she’s not sure what to do with herself. That makes two of us. “This is really generous of you, considering...”
