She loved Tinsley and her parents—but loving your family was baked in from birth, wasn’t it? To voluntarily love, or to fall in love, meant taking the risk of letting someone down, making another mistake. Being hurt.
She would never allow that to happen again.
Knowing that she had to stop thinking about Jas, Kinga jumped up and turned the silver frame to face the wall. The memories and regrets were strong tonight, and not seeing Jas’s laughing face might keep her thoughts from returning to that awful time so long ago.
She needed to think of something else, someone else.
She could think about Griff O’Hare...
Like you weren’t thinking about him just ten minutes ago.
Annoyed with that mocking inner voice, Kinga walked over to her window and placed her hand on the pane, idly watching the wicked weather outside. It was snowing, again, and the weather people were predicting another winter storm to roll in later.
She wondered how Griff, when he finally dragged himself to Portland, would cope with their weather. She knew he owned an island off the Florida Keys, a ranch in Kentucky, houses in Malibu and Nashville, apartments in Manhattan and London, but she didn’t know which of his many properties was his primary residence.
If she did, she’d find him and drag him back to Portland by his hair, cave girl style.
They needed to finalize the PR strategy, but let’s be honest here, she couldn’t wait to look into his forest green eyes, to watch for those sexy dimples, to hear his deep drawl saying her name. Kinga sighed. She couldn’t believe she was at risk of falling under the spell of a bad boy.
Nothing was going to happen between them, Kinga told herself as a big SUV turned the corner into her street.
She turned away from the window, reminding herself that she didn’t make connections, take risks, make impulsive moves.
It wasn’t what she did, who she was.
Griff pulled up to the third of four redbrick buildings on Congress Street and turned off the engine to his rented Mercedes SUV. Placing his arms on the steering wheel, he looked up at the imposing building with its stained glass inserts above the front door, the original slate roof and tall chimneys.
He looked to the right and noticed the discreet signage indicating that the property next door was a boutique hotel.
It looked glamorous and expensive and Griff wasn’t surprised that the granddaughter of the town’s richest man lived here. It was perfectly situated, smack bang in the arts district, and he’d noticed many upmarket restaurants and trendy shops nearby. It was also a short walk to Portland’s famous harbor.
From the little he’d seen from his after-dinner stroll earlier, he rather liked this small, vibey, unpretentious city. He liked the Old Port, an appealing old harbor town with amazing architecture and cobblestone sidewalks. He’d never visited this part of the world before but knew that spending time here wouldn’t be a hardship.
Admittedly, Kinga Ryder-White was, for him, one of the city’s main attractions.
Leaving his vehicle, Griff pulled his jacket off the back of the driver’s seat and shrugged it on, trying and failing to ignore the icy splatters hitting his hair, face and shoulders. If he was going to stay in Maine any length of time, he was going to have to buy himself a big-ass umbrella. After locking his car, he walked across the road—being careful to avoid puddles—and strode up the steps to stand under the portico at the entrance to the building. There were only three apartments—K Ryder-White and T Ryder-White lived in apartments A and B, while C didn’t have a name attached—and Griff jammed his finger on the buzzer of the apartment belonging to Kinga.
“Yes?”
It was one word but he heard the fear in her voice. He should’ve given her some warning that he was coming over but he’d landed in Portland just a few hours before, grabbed some food and decided he couldn’t wait until morning to see her. She’d been on his mind since he left Manhattan.
A most unusual circumstance.
“It’s Griff O’Hare.”
“What the hell? It’s after eleven, O’Hare.” Kinga told him, sounding pissy. Man, he loved her irritated rasp.
“You’ve left at least two dozen messages telling me to get in touch.” Griff smiled, his forearm resting on the wall above his head. He grinned, enjoying the fact he could rile her so easily. “This is me, getting in touch.”
“This is you, being a pain in my ass,” Kinga shot back.
Griff chuckled, loving her sass. “Apparently, we’ve got lots to discuss, so let me in, darlin’. It’s colder than a witch’s—”
Kinga interrupted him to mutter something indistinguishable but definitely uncomplimentary. He grinned when her door clicked open.
Griff walked into the pretty lobby dominated by an old, intricate chandelier. It was a small area and he couldn’t help wondering what happened to the wooden staircase that would’ve once dominated the space. The U-shaped lobby held three identical, and old, wooden doors, a small lemon tree in an ornamental pot and a wooden bench with plump black-and-white cushions.
He turned to knock on Kinga’s door but before he could, she opened it, standing there in a pair of men’s-style flannel pajamas, in a pretty mint-and-white check. She wore chunky socks on her feet, her short hair was messy and her face free of makeup.