Chapter Two
Beverly smiledas she eased out of her sunshine yellow Volkswagen Beetle, now parked in front of Griffin’s East Austin bungalow. He might be frustrated by the prospect of more revisions, but Beverly wasn’t. She was determined to make sure that the script was so perfect that not even the most jaded studio exec could turn it down, and if that meant sacrificing a few hours to work on the screenplay, then those were hours she’d happily donate to the cause.
The movie, however, was just an excuse for her good mood. The truth was much more simple—and more complicated. Because her smile was all about Griffin. And Griffin was as complicated as they came.
She hummed as she climbed the steps to the porch. A charming space, it was surrounded by a wooden railing and was immaculately swept, with pots of colorful flowers lining the perimeter and two bright blue wooden rocking chairs sitting on either side of a tiled mosaic table.
A crape myrtle planted beside the patio provided dappled shade and brilliant color. And a twisting vine of wild mustang grapes climbed one of the support pillars, adding a hint of rebellion to the otherwise tidy porch.
She’d been here dozens of times over the last few months, and each time she climbed these steps, Beverly couldn’t help but think about how much Griff and the house fit each other. Like Griffin, the house was a survivor. He’d told her that when he’d bought it two years ago, it had been a wreck, essentially ripped apart by the strung-out renters who’d cooked meth in the detached garage, then sampled their own product inside the house. They’d let the place turn to shit, and when they’d been arrested, the landlord decided he’d had enough. He put the house on the market confident that such a wreck would never sell. Or, if it did, it would be a tear down.
But Griff had seen the potential. He bought the place, put in the work, and turned it into a shining star that kept its original charm and character.
“How did you find a contractor?” she’d asked. She’d recently bought a 1950’s cottage by the lake and was thinking about renovations.
“I did most of the work myself,” he’d told her.
“Nice. I wish I’d grown up knowing how to do that. Handy skills to have.”
It wasn’t until a few months later when they knew each other better that she learned that he hadn’t gone into the project with any particular skills. Just a willingness to learn and a desire to make the house fit his vision of what it should be. “I taught myself how to work on classic cars when I was a teenager. Honestly, I figured a house would probably be easier.”
She’d shaken her head, more awed than surprised. After all, by that time, she knew him pretty well. She’d watched him focus for hours on a script, witnessed his process of building a character, ensuring that the people he was writing for the screen were just that—people. Not mere words and descriptions on the page, little more than cardboard cutouts designed to speak the lines.
He did the work that needed to be done. On his script. On his house. Even down to all the pretty flowers that brightened his patio.
And somehow, in all of that, he still found time to not only work on a Mustang he was rebuilding, but to keep up with a strict regimen of personal training. That much she’d learned by snooping. She’d become friends with Matthew Herrington—a regular at The Fix and one of the contestants in tonight’s Man of the Month calendar contest—and he’d happened to mention that Griffin was one of his personal training clients.
That overarching drive was one of the things that Beverly liked most in Griffin, and that admiration had only grown as she’d gotten to know him better.
Now, maybe, she liked him a little bit too much. Because Bev was the kind of woman who went after the things she wanted. And lately, she’d come to realize that what—who—she wanted was Griffin.
But she had a feeling that if she went after him, she’d only end up pushing him away.
“Get a grip, Martin,” she muttered to herself, waiting to ring the doorbell until after she pressed the pad of her right thumb into the fleshy part at the base of her left. It was an old habit, taught to her by her very first acting coach after she’d bombed five auditions in a row.
“Pretend you’re me,” he’d said. “And you’re shaking like a leaf, too scared to get your bony little butt out on that stage. I’d tell you to get a grip, wouldn’t I? Well, this is how you do it.”
She’d been twelve, and he’d shown her how to hold her hands together so that she could grip that one pressure point hard. She didn’t know if it was some sort of eastern medicine, acupuncture, or just a mind trick. She didn’t care, either. She’d taken his advice, then went out and won her very first speaking role in a local commercial for one of Austin’s car dealerships.
Ready now, she jammed her thumb against the button, then heard the familiar chime echoing behind the cornflower blue door. Without thinking about it, she stood a little straighter, wanting to look her best for when he answered the door. Ridiculous, of course, but she couldn’t help the way she felt. And as she waited for him to let her in, she let her mind drift back to the first time she’d become aware of Griffin Blaize.
Everyone in Hollywood knew about the voice actor who had made a splash with his podcast. And once Beverly had read his script, she wanted to learn everything she could about the man who had captured her imagination.
Evelyn, her agent, knew people close to Griffin, including his brother-in-law, Wyatt Segel, and Bev felt justified in asking for a few more details about the man she was determined to work with.
When she learned that he’d been horribly burned as a child, she appreciated the humor that went along with his pen name. As if he was flipping the bird to that damn fire.
Tears had stung her eyes when she learned that his burns were extensive, covering essentially all of the right side of his body. And she’d wept openly when Evelyn had told her that the burns had impacted more than his appearance. That they were, in fact, so extensive that his muscles had been severely damaged, resulting in both a limited range of motion and significant chronic pain.
Only a few people in Hollywood knew the truth. Directors and producers with whom he’d worked, his manager, and a few others. When Beverly learned, her heart broke for the little boy he’d once been, a child who must have been terrified and in desperate pain.
And as she came to know him, her heart longed to heal the man, even as she admired so much about his skill and talent and perseverance.
No doubt about it, Beverly had fallen for him. For this fascinating man who buried himself fully in every project, and yet still managed to find the time to deadhead his potted flowers and make his home so welcoming.
And it wasn’t only that she admired Griffin’s talent. The truth was, she was wildly attracted to him. She knew damn well that he’d never believe it, but there was something so deliciously sensual about his eyes, brown with golden flecks, like crystalized honey, with brows that arched naturally, given him a lively, mischievous appearance.
And his mouth … his mouth was perfect. Wide and teasing, with the slightest permanent slant on the right side. An artifact of the fire, she was sure, but damned if she hadn’t wanted to lean in and kiss that quirked up corner on more than one occasion.