Eight
On Saturday morning, Kinga sat across from Griff in the Ryder International Gulfstream as they made their way to Manhattan. In one of their many conversations lately, Griff had mentioned he’d like to see the venue for the ball and to meet with the sound people she’d hired. After making space in her packed schedule, Kinga commandeered the Ryder International jet to fly them to New York City.
She’d booked them into a suite within the luxurious, iconic Forrester-Grantham Hotel. Having attended Columbia University, she wanted to show him her favorite spots in the city. Hopefully, his presence would go undetected by the press.
Either way, it would be nice to get away from Portland, the press, the Mick situation and her uptight family for a day or two.
Kinga stretched, thinking that dinner at Callum’s house last night—postponed from the previous week—had been a shit show. Her parents had been visibly tense and had barely spoken to each other the whole evening. Or to anyone else.
Callum had banged on and on about the delays in the DNA test, and Cody Craigmyle, a favorite of both Callum and her parents, had attended, exchanging barbs and insults with Tinsley like street vendors trading produce.
The only time Kinga relaxed during the whole evening was when Griff sat himself down at Callum’s Steinway and played some jazz tunes from the fifties and sixties. Callum and James smoked cigars, Penelope made her way through another glass of chardonnay and Tinsley and Cody glared at each other from opposite sides of the room.
Her family was frequently tense and uptight but not normally that bad.
Kinga watched Griff scribbling in a notepad, glasses on his nose and humming a tune, oblivious, she was sure, to her presence. She crossed her legs, remembering how he’d held her hand under the table last night, telling her to relax when she tried to whisper an apology for her family’s bad behavior. And curled up into the corner of Callum’s sofa, listening to him play, had made her feel like she’d spent the day at a spa or on a sun-drenched holiday. Loose, relaxed, pretty damn happy. Griff O’Hare, the bad boy of rock and roll, could calm her down, boost her spirits...
She also found herself telling him things she’d never shared with anyone before. Nobody else knew that Mick had hurt her, that he sent her ugly texts and voice messages every year, that he still blamed her for Jas’s death. She hadn’t come close to sharing that with anyone, not even Tinsley. All her sister knew was that she’d had a scary encounter with a guy, resulting in her feeling skittish around men she didn’t know.
So, why did she tell Griff?
Kinga rolled her head to the side to look out the window, clouds below them, wishing she was touching him, needing the connection. He had a million secrets, none of which she was privy to, and Kinga knew she felt more for him than he did for her.
That was a fine way to get her heart shattered.
What was it about him that so intrigued her? He wasn’t the first good-looking guy she’d encountered. Was it his bad boy streak that attracted her? Maybe. But Kinga suspected he wasn’t as spoiled or self-serving as the media made him out to be.
He could be hard-ass and humorous, intellectual and impossible. He was smart and savvy and very, very talented. But it was his ability to be both alpha and tender, stubborn and sweet that had her all tied up. He got her, in ways that nobody ever had since, well, Jas. Feeling that sort of connection terrified her. If she were smart, she’d bail now, while she still could, while her heart was still reasonably intact. Her brain thought that was a pretty good plan; her body wanted more of him.
Her heart, well, who the hell knew what that stupid organ wanted?
Kinga heard Griff shift in his seat and turned her head to look at him. She caught his eyes and slowly responded to his soft smile. He stood, crossed the space between them and dropped into the seat next to her. His mouth drifted across hers in a can’t-wait-for-more kiss. Pulling away before they both got carried away, Griff leaned back in his seat and placed his hand on her knee.
His thumb stroked her through the material of her skinny jeans and his eyes were tender. “You doing okay?” Griff asked her, half turning to face her.
“I should be asking you that,” Kinga pulled a face, “after our less-than-fun dinner last night.”
“Is your family normally that...uptight?”
Kinga wanted to lie but couldn’t. “They aren’t known for being warm and fuzzy, but normally they are better behaved.” She placed her hand on top of his, pushing her fingers between his. “Since Christmas, my parents have been acting weird. Something is going on with them.”
“Like?”
She could tell him her suspicions. After all, he was privy to her biggest secrets. “I wonder if they are finally talking divorce.”
Griff looked surprised. “And that doesn’t upset you?”
Kinga pulled her hand away and lifted her leg to drape it over his lower thigh. His hand curled around her knee and she leaned back against the padded armrest. “Actually, sometimes I wish they would go their separate ways. Theirs has never been a love match. They don’t fight but they’re not happy, either. But Callum wouldn’t approve, so I doubt a divorce would ever happen. My dad is big on getting his father’s approval.”
“Because he’s next in line to inherit?”
She liked Griff’s blunt questions, the way he said what he thought without pussyfooting around the issue. “I’m sure that’s part of it. But I don’t think he’ll ever be Callum’s successor. I love my dad, Griff, but he’s not tough enough to be the CEO of an international company worth a few billion. My mom, on the other hand, is tough, but she doesn’t have the skills needed for the job.”
“And you do.”
Kinga nodded. “I do. But I don’t want the job. I love what I’m doing now. The CEO position is twenty-four seven and I don’t think I have the temperament for it, either.”
Griff smiled. “Fair enough.” He picked up his bottle of water, unscrewed the cap and took a long sip. “Why didn’t your dad leave the business, pursue another career?”