Maybe the boots would help.
Maybe not.
Griffin looked up and there was desperation in his eyes. Like he needed me to give him a different answer.
“It’s still not sitting right,” I said. “Every time I talk to someone who knew her, they are shocked. Friends. Family. No one had a clue that she was struggling.”
“Yeah, that’s pretty much what I’m hearing too.”
“It doesn’t mean she wasn’t hiding it. Mental health is usually a well-kept secret. But I would have expected to find one person she’d confided in.” Either there wasn’t that person. Or I hadn’t found them yet.
If he or she did exist, I suspected it was probably whoever had been with Lily before her death.
Maybe those boots would provide a clue, assuming they were hers and if any fingerprints hadn’t been erased while they’d been turned into garden décor.
“Thank you for bringing in the boots.”
“I’ll get out of your hair.” He stood and took a step for the door.
“Griff,” I called, waiting for him to turn. Then I squared my shoulders and straightened my spine.
I hated the question I was about to ask. “Are you sleeping with another woman?”
“Excuse me?” His jaw ticked.
“That woman on Wednesday. Emily.” The reporter. “Are you sleeping together?”
He fisted his hands on his hips.
“We used protection but it’s not foolproof. I’m on birth control but I’d like to know so I can get tested if necessary.”
Griffin raised his eyebrows, then with two long, stomping strides, he planted his hands on the desk, leaning so far down that the fury in his gaze hit me like a heat blast. “I don’t fuck two women at the same time.”
The air rushed from my lungs. Thank. God.
Ending this relationship was for the best, but that decision hadn’t exactly translated to my emotions. Every time I pictured Griffin and blond Emily, jealousy would eat at me for hours.
“That’s not the type of man I am,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Okay.”
“It’s not fucking okay. You shouldn’t have had to ask me that question.”
“Well, you seemed rather cozy at Eden Coffee.”
“Did I touch her?”
“Um . . .” She’d touched him. But he hadn’t touched her, had he?
“No, I didn’t fucking touch her. Did I kiss her?”
I swallowed hard. “No.”
He was pissed. Really pissed. I liked that he was mad. His character was in question, and for good men, they’d stop at nothing to set the record straight. “No, because I don’t play with women. Understood?”
“Loud and clear.”
“Good.” He shoved off the desk and stormed out of the office. His footsteps down the hallway pounded as hard as my heartbeat.
It wasn’t until I heard the exit door open and shut that I breathed. Then a smile tugged at my mouth.
There was nothing going on with the reporter. I sighed, sinking into my chair. The days I’d spent being angry at Griff had been for nothing. Maybe I should have trusted him.
It was Skyler’s fault I’d jumped to this conclusion. Being betrayed by the man who’d promised to love me, to be my companion, to be my friend, had left its mark.
Griffin wasn’t Skyler. There was no comparison.
Griffin was honest and true. And he knew his way around my clitoris.
The smile was still on my lips as I shook the mouse on my computer and got back to work. Maybe tomorrow I’d see the surface of my desk again.
And maybe the next time I saw Griffin around town, I wouldn’t want to hit him with a rock.
The cork in my wine bottle popped free at the same moment someone pounded on my door. Not a knuckle tap. A full-fisted hammer.
Only one person in this town beat on my red door.
I poured a glass, then carried it with me as I went to answer. “I have a doorbell.”
Griffin’s scowl was fixed in place. Clearly, an afternoon and evening hadn’t made him any less angry than he’d been at the station. “What about you?”
“What about me?” I took a sip of my cabernet, letting the dry, robust flavor burst on my tongue as he glowered.
“Are you fucking anyone else?”
I nearly choked on my sip. “No.”
“Good.” That large body forced me out of the way as he strode inside.
I closed the door behind him and followed as he walked into the living room and glanced around.
“You unpacked.”
“For the most part.”
“Where’s your furniture?”
“On backorder.” Just like my bedframe had been.
Everything I’d ordered was delayed, so all I had was the couch and an end table. The books that had been in boxes were stacked against a wall. The television was on the floor, waiting for its stand. The knickknacks and artwork I’d collected over the years had been unwrapped and set aside, ready to be placed on the bookshelf that had been shipped yesterday.
Besides my bed, the only piece of furniture that had arrived was my desk. I’d put it together last night after I’d woken up at two. Then I’d spent the early morning hours setting up my home office.
Griffin inspected it all, then he went to the couch and sat down.
“Want a glass of wine?”
“Sure.”
I handed him mine, watching as he put the rim to his lips. Then I went to the kitchen and poured myself another glass.
He’d taken off his baseball hat when I returned to the living room and was dragging his fingers through the dark strands of his hair. “Emily saw my truck parked outside.”
“What does that mean?” I took a seat beside him on the couch, curling my legs beneath me. After work, I’d put on a pair of leggings and a tee, having every intention of going for a run. Instead, I’d opted for this bottle of wine.
“We hooked up about a year ago,” he said. “She wanted it to be more. I didn’t. It was my mistake, but it happened. She knew the score. It was a one-time thing. Said she was good with it. Turns out . . .”
“She wasn’t.”
“Emily’s got a big mouth. Her family doesn’t like your grandpa much.”
“He told me.” Because of some small-town drama years ago. “It was fairly obvious from her article about me.”
“If she’s talking about us, other people will.”
“Ah. And you don’t want people to know.” Awesome. As if my ego hadn’t taken enough hits since I’d moved here. First from the station. Now from Griffin.
“It’s not that, Winn.”
“It’s fine.” It wasn’t fine. Not even a little bit. I took a long, necessary gulp of wine, wishing I’d gone for that run after all and missed this entire conversation.
“Hey.” Griff reached over and pulled the glass away from my mouth. “I don’t give a fuck if people talk about me. Hell, they already do. But I don’t want them talking about you. I don’t want them saying that you’re screwing around with me and not concentrating on your job. Or that our relationship was the reason my dad pushed to hire you. I want people to see you as the chief of police. As a capable cop. Not as the woman warming my bed.”