Neither was dropping a forkful of twirled spaghetti into her lap when she heard that he was on the hunt for a date—not that he wanted one and not that she wanted to date him. She had fake Todd and the found-at-a-flea-market pre-engagement ring. She didn’t date. She had priorities—getting established at work and folks taking her seriously despite her age and outward Southern-sorority-girl exterior. Until that happened, she had her fingers, a drawer full of toys, and a significant collection of female-gaze-centric erotica on her ereader.
Still, she was just now realizing that a whole lot of those stories centered around gruff, strong, and silent types. By a whole lot, she meant pretty much all of them, and oh my God, how in the Great British Bake Off was she supposed to know that that type of tatted-up, burly, quiet, and really-could-fill-out-a-lab-coat guy existed in real life?
Even more, that a prime example lived just on the other side of her bedroom wall?
Good gravy. She was surely gonna burn for all the dirty thoughts she was having right now, because the flames were already licking at all her most sensitive spots.
Lucky for her, when dinner ended, everyone gathered up their dishes and took them into Dixon and Fiona’s kitchen. While everyone else filtered back out into the living room, Kinsey stayed behind with Fiona.
“Don’t you worry about this,” Kinsey said, taking up the prime spot by the sink. “I’ll get everything loaded into the dishwasher.”
And if by doing so, she could have fifteen minutes of alone time to get her shit together before she made an even bigger fool of herself because her friend’s older brother flipped her switch and had her glowing like a bonfire on the beach, then that was a win-win situation if she’d ever seen one.
“Are you sure?” Fiona cocked her head to the side and lifted an eyebrow in obvious disbelief. “Dishes are the worst part of a dinner party.”
Kinsey whipped one of the tea towels with the bright-red flowers off the oven handle and tied it around her waist, Meemaw-style. “It’s the least I can do for showing up unexpected.”
Fiona shook her head, sending her dark ponytail swinging from side to side. “You brought wine, and we love having you.”
“Well, next time when I have an actual invitation to join you,” Kinsey said, “I’ll ignore your dishes. But tonight they’re mine.”
“You’re very stubborn. You’ll fit right in.” Fiona took another look around the kitchen counters that were piled high with plates, glasses, pots, pans, and utensils galore. Just then, Dixon’s voice raised above the din in the other room as he shouted for Fiona to get in there now before Nash forced him to bet their house away. “Oh boy, there’s no telling what Dixon will do without me there to remind him he actually likes losing. Just leave this mess and I’ll take care of it in the morning.”
And with that, Fiona darted out of the room in search of her man, which was fine with Kinsey, since that meant she wasn’t here to stop her from doing the dishes anyway. She glanced at the massive stack of dishes and murmured, “Let’s see how many of you I can get clean before Fiona comes back and stops me.”
“I’ll help.”
Kinsey didn’t have to turn around to identify who had just walked into the kitchen. She did anyway. Griff stood in the doorway, his corded arms crossed over his snug-fitting T-shirt, his gaze firmly on Kinsey. Heat and awareness sizzled across her skin as sure as a touch.
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.” He crossed the room and took the remaining tea towel off the oven handle. He stared at it for a second before holding it to his waist.
Yeah, there was no way that was gonna happen. If he’d been a swimmer with a narrow waist to go with broad shoulders and long arms, maybe it could work. However, Griff was built like a concrete wall—hard, thick, and covered in graffiti that Kinsey just wanted to trace her fingers over.
For science.
Finally, he tossed the towel over one shoulder and joined her at the sink.
Kinsey might have responded. She wasn’t sure. The nervous energy bounding around inside her had her as jumpy as Meemaw after her fifth cup of coffee.
She had no idea what to say, so she turned on the faucet and started rinsing the wineglasses and setting them on the counter. Griff fell into step with her, taking the glasses and doing the elite Tetris required to fit a dinner party’s worth of dishes into the dishwasher.
They’d gotten through the glasses and the pasta bowls in silence while laughter and good-natured shit talking filtered in from the living room when Griff cleared his throat and said, “You’re not a disaster. I’m sorry.”
“Okay, I’ll bite—tell me more about how you came to this conclusion.” Okay, sure. Meemaw was probably on her front porch right now and had some kind of psychic urge to reach out and smack Kinsey upside the head, but every woman had a right to get her snippy on after someone insulted her.
“I wasn’t talking about you.” He grabbed a massive stack of plates she’d just rinsed off and started slotting them into the dishwasher. “I mean, I was, but I didn’t mean it like it came out.” He stopped in mid-motion and looked over at her, determination and sincerity shining in his eyes. “You’re not a disaster. I’m sorry.”
Something in her chest fluttered, and her insides went a little gooey. It took her a second to realize that she’d been rinsing the same colander for the entirety of what for Griff was likely a whole speech. Yanking herself back to the task at hand, she set it on the counter for him.
Cheeks flushed and hands a little shaky, she took to scrubbing the saucepot with more effort than it needed. “That was a lot of words.”
He grunted his agreement.
That whole caveman thing should have annoyed her. It didn’t. It wasn’t endearing, either. What she felt each time he did that little growly voice thing wasn’t anything close to the kind of word someone’s great aunt would use to describe a puppy. Nope, the way her heart was hammering in her chest and her palms were all sweaty? That was definitely not because she found Griff Beckett endearing.
Good gravy, she was messier than Meemaw’s kitchen that time her sister’s dog Parsnip got into the five Fourth of July blackberry pies cooling on the not-quite-high-enough-to-stop-a-determined-mutt counter. It had taken hours to get rid of all the partial purple paw prints—not to mention the bits of fruit that had somehow ended up on the ceiling.
“Thank you,” she said, putting the rinsed pot on the counter and then picking up the pan with burned pancetta and dried sun-dried tomatoes stuck to it. “I accept your apology.”
He gave another grunt, and she went to work trying to get up all the bits seemingly glued to the pan.
“Can I give it a try?” he asked, taking a step closer so they were hip-to-hip at the sink.