I come down slowly, conscious of a ringing in my ears that might be from my own screams. Struggling to sit up, I drag my fingers through my hair and wonder if I look as undone as I feel. “That was—Christ, I don’t even have words for what that was.”
He grins and drags a hand over his mouth. “You’re delicious.”
Heat coils inside me again. How can I want him again already? But I do, and I know I shouldn’t, but I might actually die if we don’t make it to the bedroom. I brace myself with both hands, pushing to sit up on the table. As I do, something tumbles off the edge.
Turning in slow motion, I watch my notebook flutter to the floor. As the pages ruffle open, two words scream up from the sea of my own handwriting.
Gabrielle Julia.
I choke and glance at Griffin, but he’s not looking at me. He’s staring at the notebook, blue eyes scanning the page. When he pulls his gaze to mine, there’s a furrow between his brows.
“Mari—Why do you have notes about my ex-wife?”
Chapter 8
CONFESSIONAL 708.5
Walsh, Griffin (Brewmaster: Juniper Ridge)
Trust issues? Yeah, I guess so. [drags hand through hair] I mean, yeah…divorce left me kinda jaded. But I’m trying to do better. Self-improvement and all that. I want to be a better guy than I was when I was married. Model good behavior for my kid, you know?
[slow grin]
Well, I can’t be good all the time…
I stare into Mari’s eyes, still mind-whacked from what just happened between us. “Gabby’s name. Why is it in your notebook?”
I bend to retrieve it from the floor, but Mari scrambles under the table and grabs it. “That’s just—notes.”
“Show notes?” Joining Fresh Start at Juniper Ridge made me familiar with the concept, but I’m still not clear what Gabby has to do with anything. “You’re not bringing her on the show are you?”
Mari slams the notebook closed against her chest and shakes her head. She’s still naked, so the sight of her breasts squishing around the edges of the notebook makes me lose my train of thought.
“Absolutely not,” she says. “It’s just—” She bites her lip like she’s choosing her words with care. “Can I put my clothes on?”
I’d be a dick to say no, so I nod. I avert my eyes as she fumbles with her shirt and skips the bra. The lace tangles around her pepper shaker, making this my first time feeling turned on by a condiment.
Grabbing the notebook again, she runs her fingers through her hair. “Being conscious of what every community member is grappling with on an emotional level is my job,” she says at last. “Most of that will never be part of the show, but I still need to be aware of what our residents are facing in their personal lives. It’s a crucial piece of the research I’m conducting.”
I stare at her, reminding myself not to be a suspicious prick. “That was an awful lot of shrink speak in one mouthful.”
My own mouth is still filled with the taste of Mari, sweet and sexy and intoxicating. What were we talking about again?
“Elle Julia is on the show’s radar as a potential source of conflict in your life.” Her words jolt me back to the conversation, splashing cold water on my libido. “There’s a lot of behind-the-scenes due diligence we need to perform to be sure there won’t be any surprises.”
I’m not sure why she’s talking like a TV producer, but my brain catches one small detail. “You called her Elle Julia,” I say. “Her Hollywood name. Does that mean you’ve been in touch with her recently?”
Whatever just flickered in her eyes is something I can’t read. “No one from the show has spoken with Elle Julia recently.”
“Recently?”
Her throat moves as she swallows. “You’ll recall we did our due diligence when you applied. Our attorneys tracked down your ex-wife to make sure there were no conflicts as far as Sophie’s involvement.”
I’d almost forgotten about that. It was before Gabby started going by Elle, before anyone had heard of Hustlers and Housewives or even Fresh Start at Juniper Ridge. I called Gabby to explain, to put her mind at ease.
“The schools in the area are very good,” I assured her. “And the producers promised to keep Sophie out of the spotlight as much as possible.”
Gabby laughed, adopting the odd, breathy voice she’d been testing out. “I highly doubt a show like that will make it on the air.” She sounded worldly and cynical, or maybe just distracted. “Do you even know what it takes to get a television show from concept to fruition?”
I didn’t, but it turned out neither did Gabby.
News hadn’t gotten out yet that the Judson family was behind the odd little TV social experiment. By the time I understood, Gabby had changed her number and dropped off the face of the earth.
Shaking away those thoughts, I force myself to meet Mari’s eyes. Something feels off here, but maybe I’m paranoid. She looks edgy and uncomfortable and not at all like the woman who gripped my face with her thighs five minutes ago.
Probably because you won’t stop talking about your ex-wife.
I clear my throat. “Look, Mari—”
“I believe I owe you an orgasm.” Her eyes flash as she hooks her fingers in the waistband of my jeans. “Shall we move this to the bedroom?”
I would like that more than anything, and thoughts of Mari’s mouth wrapped around me push all other rational thought from my brain.
Almost all rational thought. “I should get home.” I scrape a hand through my hair and try to bring myself back down to earth. “Soph’s due back any minute, and I promised homemade mac and cheese.”
Is it my imagination, or does Mari look relieved? She lets go of my jeans, but not the notebook. Is that significant?
“Right,” she says. “Of course. Tell her she can come by anytime to see Leonard.”
I’d almost forgotten about the parrot, who hears his name from the other end of the house.
“Griff!” He squawks. “Oh, God!”
Mari winces. “That’s a problem.”
I can’t help grinning. “I’ll tell Soph you’re blown away by my new cocoa porter. If she visits and he says that, you can tell her we did a beer tasting.”
She licks her lips as her gaze skitters away. “I’d like to keep the lying to a minimum.”
Pulling her into my arms, I plant a kiss behind her ear. “I dig that about you.”
As I let go and step back, a ghost of regret flickers in her eyes.
“What are you reading in English class?”
It’s two days later, and I’m sitting with Soph in a booth at the brewery. There’s a plate of sweet potato fries between us, my gimmick to entice conversation. Maybe about the merits of ketchup versus mayo or whether she’s miserable at school.
I can’t say it’s going well.
“Dad, they don’t call it English anymore,” she says. “That’s from like, the olden days.”
I stifle the urge to sigh. “Humanities class. Are you still reading The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian?”