Chapter Three
Griffin’s wordsslammed against Beverly with all the force of a slap, and she stumbled backward, tears pricking her eyes. “I’m sorry! I was going to wait for you in the backyard because you hadn’t answered the door or your text, and I—“
“Shit.”
The word wasn't directed at her; that was the only consolation she could take. Instead it was under his breath.
Even so, she didn't wait to see what he said next. Her cheeks flamed, she felt terrible, and she turned and ran back toward the street. Back toward the safety of her car.
Once inside, she tried to start the engine, but her hand shook too badly. She was still trying to get the key into the ignition when she heard the hard tap on the glass and saw his shadow fall over her.
Beverly froze, her fingers tightening on the keys. She didn’t want to look left. Didn't want to see him standing there and catch the anger in his eyes. Or, worse, the humiliation that she’d seen something private that he didn’t want to share.
She blinked back tears, realizing in a flash of violent awareness, that what hurt the most was not the shame and anger she felt for violating his privacy, but the hard, cold loss that came from knowing that the thing she desired the most was his open willingness to share with her. More, even. She wanted shared secrets. Confessions. She wanted to truly know him, this man with whom she’d spent so much time, and whose imagination she admired so much.
But all she’d done today was hurt him.
Schooling her face into a bland expression, she finally turned. He stood there, as stiff as a statue, then made a twisting motion with his left hand, indicating that she should roll down the window. To do that, she had to start the car, and as soon as she had, she considered simply pulling away and running from this sad, embarrassing, heartbreaking nightmare.
Instead, she pushed the button to make the window descend at the same time as she drew in a breath, intending to let loose with a stream of apologies.
But before she could speak, his words reached her. “Sorry,” he said simply, his voice level and even. “I got distracted working on the car and lost track of the time.”
“Why were you working on the car?” The moment she asked the question, she wanted to call it back. That was hardly the point.
He lifted a shoulder, and she noticed that the blue t-shirt he was wearing was on inside-out. Presumably he’d grabbed it in a hurry from the dryer. “I wanted—doesn’t matter. At any rate, I should have been waiting for you. Should we head in and start tackling revisions?”
For a moment she just sat there. She wanted to tell him that it did matter. That he could tell her anything. That she didn't care about his burns.
She wanted to reassure him that not only was everything the same between them, but it could be better if he only wanted it to be.
But all she said was, “Sure.”
* * *
What the hell was wrong with him?
He’d known she was coming. Had been perfectly aware that she’d be only an hour behind him.
So what had possessed him to change into work clothes and settle in under the Mustang’s hood?
The easy answer was that he’d wanted to work off some of the excitement and stress from the meeting, and so he did what he always did—he’d dived into a project that required working with his hands.
The harder question was why had he still been there when she’d arrived? That answer wasn’t nearly as easy. After all, he’d only intended to open the hood, make a few tweaks, then head back inside. He’d told her an hour, after all. But he’d let himself get lost in the machinery. In the beauty of the engine and the way it was put together. He’d lost track of time, and that had been stupid. Careless. And he was never, ever careless. Not even around Megan, with whom he’d become good friends.
They’d hit it off when she’d come into The Fix one day with Reece Walker, who back then had only been a manager, though now he was a co-owner of the place. Reece had needed to take care of a few things—most important the unexpected arrival of his best friend and secret crush, Jenna Montgomery.
Since it had been late, Griffin had offered to walk Megan home, and they’d bonded on the streets of Austin. She was a great girl—now happily in love with Parker Manning—and Griffin counted her among one of his closest friends.
But even she had only gotten a peek here and there at his scars. Why? Because he’d become an expert at protecting himself.
Which begged the question of why he’d been working in the open and wearing short sleeves when he knew damn well that Beverly was coming by.
Had he been testing her? Had he wanted to see if she’d run screaming in horror?
Or had it been all about him? Was his subconscious intentionally trying to disgust her so that he would once and for all rid himself of the fantasy that maybe somehow, someway, in some magical parallel universe, he could end up with Beverly Martin in his arms?
God, he was a fool.