“Oh Griffin…” It’s hard to reconcile the monster I thought he was on New Year’s Eve with the man sitting across from me.
He’s not a Reaper at this moment. Not a music star. Or even the future CEO of AudioNation. He’s just a guy with a really shitty childhood, trying to figure out how to be the best dad he can.
Instead of telling him to back off like I planned, I take a hold of his hands. “A lot of being a good parent is just being there. This is a great turnaround. O2 is so happy right now—so happy it scares me. I’m just glad your intentions are pure, and you’re not trying to hurt her.”
“I’m not ever trying to hurt her. I promise you that,” He squeezes my hands back. “And, I’m sorry for stealing her. I’ve only been Dream Dad-ing for a week and I’m seeing how fucked up that was. I’m surprised you didn’t try to shoot me when I walked into that room.”
Weirdly, I find myself chuffing at my worst memory. “They don’t let you carry firearms on planes. And when I asked Phantom about having a guy meet me with one in Vegas, he said I should take the meeting as opposed to signing up for guaranteed jail time. He wasn’t Team Griffin, but he did have some questions about me deciding to keep O2 from you all this time.”
Now it’s my turn to shift awkwardly in my seat. “I’m sorry for doing that by the way. I was basing the decision on things that happened six years ago. But that wasn’t fair to you or O2. And I can see you’re at least trying to change for the better. So, um, sorry.”
It’s not the best apology ever. It doesn’t erase all the years Griffin missed. But a warmth rises between us. One I haven’t felt since we were two rebels smoking doobies all day on a couch as opposed to visiting our families for the holidays.
I get up to clear the coffee cups. “Well, I know you’ve got to get to work. And I’ve got a thousand more things to plan for the wedding—”
“What did you mean earlier about me throwing you away when I got bored with you?” he asks out of the blue. “Is that really what you think happened?”
I pause and set the undrunk cups of coffee on the counter instead of pouring them out.
“What do you call what happened when we”—I clear my throat—“attended to the second part of the agreement?”
“The opposite,” he answers, standing up.
I turn and shake my head at him. “What do you mean the opposite? You basically threw me out of your—”
I stop myself and hold up my hands.
“You know what, I refuse—simply refuse to undo this progress. We both made mistakes in the past. We both lied about who we were. But we can’t change the past. So hopefully, we can provide a stable home for O2 by continuing into the future with a marriage based on civility and respect.”
It’s a beautiful, unplanned speech. And I’m really proud of myself for taking the high road to forgiveness.
But Griffin just screws up his face. “Your vision of marriage sounds boring. Like the most boring marriage on Earth, if I’m being honest.”
I stiffen. “What are you trying to say? That you want to go back to playing mind-games and never being able to trust each other?”
“I’m cool with that after school special conversation we just had,” Griffin answers. “But I think you might be under the wrong impression about my intentions toward you. Toward this marriage.”
He stands up himself. “I don’t just want to be a Dream Dad. I want to be a Dream Husband.”
My throat dries. “A Dream Husband?” I wonder but can’t produce enough saliva to ask what he means by that.
And he comes to loom over me. The tattooed Reaper in a business suit.
Suddenly, I’m having trouble breathing. “Griffin? What are you doing?”
“Trying not to fuck this up,” he answers.
Then his mouth crashes down on mine.
CHAPTER 33
BERNICE
We’re kissing…we’re kissing…our lips crashing, tongues tangling, his mouth claiming mine.
But then he pulls back and asks, “You still want two more babies? Does your Dream Husband fuck you raw? Breed you?”
My head spins at his filthy words, but my body….
I thought wanting just sex with him was bad. A bone-deep biological ache pierces my core at his question, makes my sex clench for him. This is yet another secret desire he’s managed to excavate.
“Yes,” falls out of my mouth, broken and desperate before doubts like “too soon!,” “can’t trust him…” and “is this real?” can catch up with it.
Something switches off behind his gaze. He looks down, and when he looks back up, he’s the wolf from the cabin.
I’m not that girl. How many times since arriving in this house have I reminded him that I’m not Red?