He never revealed his right side to her. But every once in a while he would use his left hand to touch her. A firm palm on her back, making her shiver as he steered her along a crowded street. A quick squeeze of her fingers for luck before she went on stage to emcee the Man of the Month contest.
She doubted he was even aware he was doing it, much less the fantasy-filled images those careless touches left with her. That was okay. She was aware enough for the both of them.
Before, she'd always known how to handle a crush. How to either win the guy’s attention or move on and get over it. But Griffin was damaged goods, no doubt about it, and Beverly didn't know what to do.
She believed that he was attracted to her too, although that might be ego talking, but even if he were, so what? There could be nothing between them unless he was willing to show her more than just his left side. That, at the very least, was her minimum requirement for getting involved with Griffin—assuming that was even remotely an option.
She hoped it was, because so far, she’d been unable to find the switch to turn off her attraction. The best she could do was try and hide it.
Fortunately, she was an actress, and a good one. She could play the role of devoted friend, of a disinterested girl in a platonic relationship with a boy. She’d been playing those parts with Griffin for months, and now she was ready to move up to leading lady.
So far, she’d gotten no traction on that front.
But the acting life had given her other assets as well. For one, she had a very thick skin and was used to rejection. She was also persistent. No one succeeded in the film business if they gave up easily, and she figured that she could apply that tenaciousness to Griffin, too.
Frowning, she realized that he still hadn’t come to the door. The house was small, and he usually answered the door promptly. She rang again. Ten seconds passed, then thirty, and he still hadn’t come. She waited a full minute, frowned, then rapped on the door, the hard wood hurting her knuckles.
“Dammit, Griff. Where are you?"
He knew she was coming; he’d even asked for a head start. But this was ridiculous. Had he stopped on the way to run errands? Or maybe he’d had car trouble? Possible, but not likely. He drove a two-year-old Toyota Corolla, and the car was totally reliable.
She pulled out her phone, then tapped out a text.
Hey, it’s me. I guess I beat you to your place. Where are you?
She hoped he say he’d gotten stuck in the Starbucks line, because God knew, neither of them could work without coffee. Except even after five minutes he hadn’t told her to wait or to stay because he hadn’t responded to her text.
A niggle of worry cut through her, warring with a harsh ribbon of irritation. He knew they needed to work on revisions. They’d said they were going to start now. If he was running late, shouldn’t he do her the courtesy of telling her?
And since she had the moral high ground here, she was going to hang out and wait for him.
Just in case, she tried the door, but it was locked, and so she decided to wait on one of the swinging benches in his xeriscaped backyard. She headed down the porch, then followed the little flagstone path to the long driveway that marked the east side of the property.
The house itself stood near the street, with most of its yard in the back. The long driveway followed one side of the house, bordering a section of the backyard and ending at a detached garage that held the washing machine and dryer, all of Griffin’s various tools and gadgets, and the classic Mustang on blocks that Griffin was restoring.
As soon as she hit the driveway, she realized she should have gone there first. The garage door was open, and the Mustang was facing forward, its hood open. Griffin’s back was to her as he bent over the engine. He wore jeans and a plain white T-shirt. Hanes, she thought. Just like the men's undershirts that she kept around her house for when she cleaned or painted or did other messy chores.
He wore tight jeans, and they hugged his ass and thighs in a way that made her mouth go a little dry. She’d always known that Griffin had a good body—he worked out, and he filled out his clothes just fine—but this view gave her a whole new perspective. A dangerous perspective considering how high he was registering on her lust-meter lately.
She let her gaze wander up, enjoying the broad expanse of his back and shoulders, and—when he reached for something on the far side of the engine—she realized that the shirt had short-sleeves. Which meant that his right arm was completely exposed.
She couldn't see much, he was in shadows, and he was using his arm to hold something while he manipulated something else with a tool in his left hand. Despite the extensive muscle damage and missing pinkie, she knew his fingers worked fine. She’d seen him type on many occasions, although he tended to wear leather gloves that revealed only the tips of his fingers.
The afternoon light filtered across the yard from the west, illuminating the right side of his body so that, even from a distance, she could see the gray, ridged scars that covered the entirety of his damaged arm. Evelyn had told her that his healing process had been more problematic than many victims because he’d suffered a series of reactions that had limited what the burn team had been able to do. Later, he’d been part of a special protocol to help with his range of motion, and while that had offered him some relief, it was hardly a cure.
“I remember he thought about covering the scars with tattoos, but when he tried a small bit of test ink, it didn’t go well,” Evelyn had said. “More reactions.”
“So he’s stuck,” Beverly had said, and Evelyn had nodded.
“It’s who he is,” Evelyn had told her. “The only question is how well he comes to terms with that.” She’d shrugged. “Personally, I think he’s doing a damn fine job.”
So did Beverly, actually. In all areas except personal relationships. Unless she was completely misinformed, sex and intimacy were a dead zone for him. And that fact would have broken her heart no matter what. The fact that she longed to be the woman in his arms only made the ache more palpable.
She remained motionless on the driveway, unsure what to do. She knew that he would be angry if he saw her; she was violating his privacy, seeing a secret he wanted to keep hidden. And yet now that she was here she didn't want to leave.
She’d been invited, after all, and she wanted to see this, wanted to know this. Wanted to share his secrets in a way that she could never remember wanting to share with anyone.
The depth of that desire unnerved her, and she told herself that she needed to leave. That he deserved his privacy.