It turned out that was easier than I thought.
For one thing, we were so busy there wasn’t time to worry about the future. I’d been right about the security install. It took them two days to work up the plans. By Friday, the Sinclair brothers were on their way back to Atlanta with promises to come back for a long weekend sometime soon. Hawk had set up a cot in the guest house, claiming he liked mice more than people anyway. Savannah didn’t argue much. She had her hands full, and if he wasn’t complaining, neither was she.
I managed to talk Harvey into the proposed security budget, including the team of four under Hawk’s command. He grumbled and reviewed some numbers, but when I reminded him that if Griffen got killed he’d see everything but the house fund drained by Bryce, he’d agreed that Griffen’s safety was the priority.
Considering that so far, even Sinclair Security’s crack investigator hadn’t been able to find a shred of evidence on Prentice’s real killer, caution seemed wise.
Griffen spent his mornings with me in the office handling anything I couldn’t do on my own. We had lunch together, usually at the desk, and then he was off with the security team and Hawk working on the install: running wires, setting up cameras, sometimes disappearing with the team for hours to hike the property.
He’d come back for dinner most of the time, and we’d fall into bed at night exhausted. Exhausted, but never too exhausted. If I’d known what sex with Griffen would be like, I might have jumped him right after we said our vows. He was endlessly inventive, never too tired to peel off my clothes and make me dizzy with orgasms.
I’d waited a long time to have sex, but I was making up for it. In bed, in the shower, on the velvet couch in our sitting room, over our desk. On top of our desk. Once in the woods against a tree, out of range of the cameras. We were busy, but never too busy for sex.
I didn’t see much of Griffen’s siblings over those next few weeks. They were hit or miss at dinner. Usually, Parker and her husband were there. Sometimes Finn, and almost always Sterling. The rest of them worked late more often than not. The will said they had to live in Heartstone, not that they had to be there every spare moment.
Savannah made progress on the house, getting the breakfast room cleaned and set up, the extra staff housed, and eventually chasing off the mice in the gatehouse thanks to an exterminator.
I can’t say Sterling never had a drink, but there hadn’t been a repeat of her sprawl on the steps or the rest of it. She’d finally cleaned out her room, and it had taken six trash bags to empty out the junk. According to Savannah, she was even managing to keep it reasonably clean.
March eased gently into April, bringing warmer weather most days, though a cold front had blown in. The lawn around Heartstone Manor was frosted with a thin layer of snow, making everything look like a wonderland. The main house was deserted for once, empty of staff and quiet. Fat, lazy snowflakes had begun to drift from the sky, making me wish for hot chocolate and a roaring fire. For a snuggle under a blanket. Or in bed.
Looking down at the contract I was reviewing, I forced myself through the last page before I closed it, making a note on the section I wanted Griffen to take another look at. Griffen. He hadn’t joined me in the office that morning or for lunch. If he wasn’t too busy he might be interested in my snuggling in bed plan.
He wasn’t answering my texts, wasn’t in our room or anywhere else I’d looked. I made my way down to the lower level to see if Savannah had seen him. I found her in the kitchen refereeing a fight between Finn and the cook. She stood between Miss Stiles and Finn, arms held out as if trying to physically keep them apart.
Yikes. Miss Stiles’ cheeks were flushed with temper, Finn’s blue eyes sparking with anger. I hadn’t talked to Finn much one-on-one, but we’d all heard the comments under his breath at meals. The eggs were too dry. The chicken was salty. The cook didn’t know the meaning of al dente.
I didn’t hear Finn’s last words, but Miss Stiles’ face went beet red and she screeched, “Get out of my kitchen! Get out!”
He ignored her, his hand darting forward to grab a carrot and take a bite, wincing as it hit his taste buds. “What did you do? Soak it in syrup? I know we’re in the South, but that doesn’t mean you have to deep fry or sugar coat everything you serve us.”