Page 7 of Her Christmas Fix
Still, arguing about sleeping arrangements feels too intimate for whatever this is supposed to be. If she wants to prove she’s just a normal person, who am I to stop her? “Okay, then. You’ll find sheets, blankets, and a pillow in the hall closet, just past the bathroom. There’s only one bathroom, and the door locks, so take your time and whatever.”
“Thank you,” she says as she stands, and damn if it doesn’t sound like she really means it.
I head toward the kitchen and set the two glasses in the sink. When I look back, she’s wheeling that giant suitcase toward an open space in front of the window.
“Monika?”
She turns, her posture stiff like she’s bracing for me to take back the offer or lecture her on how she got to this point in the first place. But like I said, she surprised me tonight. I might not like it, but she’s earned my respect.
“For what it’s worth, I think your grandmother would be happy that you’re here now.”
She lets out a long breath, and something soft flickers across her face as she nods. “Good night, Griffin.”
“Good night, Monika.”
I walk down the hall and close the bedroom door behind me, then lean against it, listening to the sounds of her settling in for the night.
One of the most famous actresses on the planet is sleeping on my couch. How is this my life? It’s temporary, I remind myself, a part of me still skeptical that she’s serious about the renovation.There’s a better than average chance she’ll wake up to the reality of the Oregon coast in December tomorrow morning and scamper right back to whatever gilded cage she came from.
But as I strip off my clothes and climb under the heavy duvet that coversmyking-size bed, I can’t shake the image of her sitting on my couch, looking so determined to honor her grandmother’s dream.
And I fall asleep hoping I’m wrong about her leaving.
4
MONIKA
Blinkingat the unfamiliar ceiling the following morning, it takes me a moment to remember where I am. Thanks to Daniel’s betrayal, I’m far away from my life. But instead of the familiar knot of anxiety that usually greets me upon waking, I feel rested.
I check my phone. 8:17 a.m. When was the last time I slept a full eight hours without assistance from prescription meds or a bottle of Pinot Grigio? I can’t remember.
Pale December light filters through the windows, casting everything in soft silver tones. It’s not sunny—this is winter at the Oregon coast—after all. But it feels fresh and clean in a way that Los Angeles doesn’t anymore.
The smell of coffee drifts from the kitchen, and I realize Griffin must already be up. I wipe the back of my hand over my face—no dried drool, a plus—then throw off the sheet and blanket before standing.
The house feels quiet, like I’m the only one here. I find a note propped against the coffee maker in a bold, no-nonsense script that fits the man.
Had to take care of a few things. Meet you at the house around 10. Help yourself to whatever. -G
I take a ceramic mug from the cabinet, pour myself a large cup and open the fridge. Instead of the beer, leftovers, and expired condiments I expect to find, there’s fresh fruit, Greek yogurt, actual vegetables, and what looks like homemade soup in a glass container.
Either Griffin Meyer is the most domestically responsible single man in the history of the world or there’s a woman in his life. That thought bothers me more than it should. Along with the memory of his broad shoulders, which look strong enough to handle any challenge, his chiseled jaw, and clear eyes. Eyes that see too much.
I grab a yogurt and eat it standing at the kitchen window, staring at the slice of ocean visible past the dunes across the street. This is the kind of quiet morning I pictured on the drive up. Except in my version, I’m in a renovated house that belongs to me, not camped out on a virtual stranger’s sofa.
This cabin isn’t my home, but I like how I feel here. I could go all woo-woo and claim it’s the energy. A few years ago, I paid a ridiculous amount of money for an expert to Feng Shui my house in the Hollywood hills. I’d bet money Griffin doesn’t give a rat’s ass about his wealth corner or the five elements, but there’s no denying the flow and balance of the space he’s created. Although my response might be more about the man than the cabin’s chi.
After a quick shower and change of clothes, I drive back to the house. In daylight, it looks less like a haunted set piece and more like a heartbreaking disaster. Despite the air of neglect surrounding it, the house has potential. It’s special, just like Grammy told me.
But God, there’s so much work. So much money spent on renovations that didn’t happen. Money I’ll never recover. Daniel stole so much from me. I still have plenty of money and the ability to make more, but the betrayal won’t be so easy to replace.
I unlock the front door and step inside, half expecting to be greeted by my masked friends from last night. But raccoons are nocturnal, so the space is blessedly quiet.
I walk toward the far end of the living room, sneakers crunching over construction debris, and pause in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows. From here, the view is postcard-perfect. The house sits high above the rocky beach, tucked far enough back to feel hidden, yet close enough that I can almost taste the salt in the air. Jagged rock formations rise from the water just offshore, not quite Cannon Beach-famous, but still spectacular.
The Pacific is different here than in California, moodier and untamed, like the waves are determined to keep their secrets hidden.
Exactly what I need right now.
