Love & Loyalty (11 page)

Is that what he was doing in his own way?

Heavy shit weighing on his mind as he parked and went in to pay for the meal. The three bags threw fantastic smells in his direction as he waited for his credit card to go through; the girl behind the counter was clearly one of Dom's many teenage granddaughters. They were like black-haired, brown-eyed clones with dimples, seemingly churned out in the back along with great garlic bread and killer lasagna.

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Jim tipped her ten bucks and took a few moments to be pleased at how happy she looked.

In the truck, Jim dialed Griffin's cell phone.

“Hello?”

“Hi, it's me. Jim. I'm on my way. Just picked up dinner…” Jim cleared his throat.

“Great! I'm starving. God, this is an amazing neighborhood,” Griffin said exuberantly. “I went to get the wine and stayed out for like three hours. I even got some writing done.”

Jim was pleased that Griffin liked his neighborhood, pleased that Griffin seemed to have enjoyed his day so much.

“That sounds like a nice day. I'll…uh, be there in about ten minutes.”

“Cool. See you then.”

Griffin hung up, and Jim stared at the phone for a second.

That was…borderline domestic.

* * * * *

Jim took the elevator up, holding the bags of dinner, his bag over one shoulder. He swallowed as he glanced in the narrow mirrored panels, a distorted reflection of someone who appeared to look a bit like James Shea and yet not at all.

Particularly the expression of anticipation.

The doors opened into his loft, and he heard some Miles Davis piped through the sound system he rarely used; apparently Griffin had done some exploring, which would be worrisome if Jim had anything interesting hidden anywhere.

“Hey, I hope you don't mind. This place was way too quiet,” Griffin called.

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“No problem.” It's nice, Jim thought as he walked into the kitchen. Griffin was pouring wine in two large glasses that Jim didn't recognize, mostly because he didn't have wineglasses.

“You didn't have wineglasses.” Griffin smiled, handing him a glass. “Take off your coat, stay awhile.”

“What? Oh yeah.” Jim lost the work bag, the parcels of dinner, his jacket, and his shoes, and returned to the island where his wine waited.

Griffin dug into the bags, making little comments about great smells and enough food for lumberjacks. Jim sipped his wine, absorbed the jazz, and slid onto one of the bar stools to relax his back.

“You look like you had an ass kicker of a day.”

“Yeah.” He sighed deeply without meaning to.

“Why don't you take a shower? I'll dish up dinner, and we'll just hang out.” Griffin was already in the cabinets, pulling out dishes and silverware with complete ease.

More at ease than Jim usually was in his own home.

“How do you do that?”

“What?” Griffin was wearing a pair of jeans and an undershirt, his round, intellectual writer glasses perched on his nose. He looked casual from the inside out, completely tuned in to Jim and dinner and this moment. Jim identified the emotion under his skin at the moment as jealousy.

“You're just…” Jim gestured at him. “You're so good at this.”

“Good at?” Griffin looked at the dishes in his hand. “Good at setting the table? My dad made me do it every night. He didn't want me to think it was woman's work.” He laughed.

“Progressive dad?”

“My dad raised eight daughters and one son by himself. He had eleven sisters. When I tell you my dad is a feminist, I mean that from his very core he 84

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had absolute knowledge and respect of strong-minded women,” Griffin said drily.

“Impressive.”

“Yeah, very much so.” Griffin put the dishes on the table. “But did you mean my domestic skills or something else?” Jim toyed with the wineglass. “I couldn't do this. Like—stay over and be comfortable and hang out and…keep going.”

Griffin shrugged, and Jim saw his embarrassment. “Should I be apologizing and calling a cab? Because if I'm overstaying my welcome, dude, kick my ass to the curb.”

“You're not! No, no, that's not what I mean.” Jim stood up, nervous that he was blowing this thing that he couldn't define but wasn't ready to give up.

“I'm…impressed and a little jealous, okay? I like it. It's just completely different from what I'm used to, so, you know—slight freak-out.”

“Oh, okay.” Griffin started to pace the small space between the sink and stove and the corner of the island. “You know, because I had this freak-out already this afternoon. When I said I'd stay and then I thought—what the fuck?

Seriously? Dude, get a plane ticket.”

“You don't have to leave…”

“Good, because I'm starving.” Griffin looked a little sheepish. “And I, uh—I got some writing done, and that hasn't happened in a while.” Jim nodded, going back to his wine—then turned around. “Wait, you said the screenplay was almost done…”

“Oh, right.” Griffin pinkened. “I totally bullshitted you on that.”

“Anything else I should know you bullshitted me on?” Jim gave him the one-eyebrow quirk.

“I'm not usually that phenomenal in bed?”

“I don't believe that for a second,” Jim said breezily, taking the glass and heading for the bathroom. “How good are you in the shower?” Love & Loyalty

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“Blurry, because I can't wear my glasses or my contacts—but I'm pretty sure I can find your dick without much problem.”

“That's all I need to know.”

* * * * *

Dinner waited. They ate warmed-up pasta and sausage and garlic bread on the couch, wrapped in towels in an entangled sprawl. Miles kept singing all his greatest hits—and there were, luckily, hours of them, since neither man was inclined to move anytime soon to change the CDs.

“This is nice,” Griffin said, so quietly that Jim nearly missed it. They were shoulder to shoulder, and the food coma had hit Griffin first. He sounded sleepy and content, dropping his damp curls back onto the couch.

“Very nice,” Jim agreed, his voice hushed from disuse.

“I can't see anything.”

“Your eyes are closed.”

“I mean—I don't have my glasses.”

“Still in the bathroom?”

“Yeah.”

Jim wrestled himself out of the cushions and Griffin's warm comfort. He cleaned up the dishes, left everything in the sink for later, and put the leftovers away. In the bathroom, he tidied up and realized he was cold—that meant a quick jog up the loft stairs to get some sweats, then another trip back up when he wondered if Griffin might be cold, so he grabbed another pair and a blanket from the closet.

When he got back to the couch, Griffin was sideways, curled into an S

with his head on one of the throw pillows. The towel had loosened, showing off one muscular thigh and a ghost of his hip. Sound asleep.

Jim drank it in. For however long this little fantasy of perfect domestication lasted, he was going to savor it. When it evaporated later or 86

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tomorrow or whenever, he'd have memories to last him through the next drought.

Which, by his calculations, was twenty-five-or-so years long if he was judging by the last one.

Jim laid the sweats over the back of the couch, the glasses within easy reach on the table, and tucked the blanket around Griffin's shoulders and down over his body. One smoothing touch to his hair and Jim felt his chest tighten.

This guy was entirely too easy to like and too easy to get used to. He already hated the part where it was going to have to end.

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Chapter Thirteen

When he started getting the “
wtf r u
?” texts from Daisy forty-eight hours after their last phone call, Griffin knew he was in trouble. And he knew he had to pick up the phone and call her—and ask if she could get her housekeeper to go over and water his fern, collect his mail, and take out the garbage.

He needed to go home at some point. And for the past three days, he'd thought of bringing it up to Jim again—just to get a sense if that first night's coolness had extended a few more days. But then Griffin realized that
Jim
hadn't brought it up again either. And if Jim wasn't bringing it up and it was his place, then Griffin didn't see the need to bring it up.

He knew they were using the script as an excuse and even talked about it here and there to justify his continued presence, but ultimately, this was one long-ass date, with dinners and sex and walks and sex and basketball games on the television followed by sex.

If they truly discussed it, the bubble would burst and reality—that dreaded sonofabitch—would park itself in the living room and that would be it.

Griffin wasn't ready for “it” yet.

He put the load of laundry in the dryer (and yeah, he did Jim's—so what, it was his apartment and it was just
nice manners
) and ran the sponge over the counter again, unnecessarily. Out of chores and excuses, Griffin grabbed his BlackBerry and headed for the balcony, spreading out on one of the Adirondack chairs Jim had out there.

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The Seattle skyline and some puffy white clouds against the gray-hued afternoon sky settled his nerves until the phone started ringing and Daisy picked up immediately.

Christ, he was in so much trouble.

“Where the hell are you?” she said by way of greeting, and Griffin sighed.

“Still in Seattle.”

“
What
?”

“What what?” he asked, suddenly defensive instead of his planned apologetics. “I'm in Seattle.”

“With Jim.” Not a question.

“Yeah, with Jim.”

“You've been there almost a week—what the hell are you doing?” Her shrill voice had an edge to it, and only someone who'd known her as long as he had would detect the fear under the growing temper tantrum.

“It's been less than four days, and I'm having a nice time, actually—

thanks for asking.”

Silence filled the line and went a few seconds past surprise into something else.

“What are you two, like a couple or something now?”

“No!” Griffin sputtered out a laugh. “Seriously, Daisy Mae—it's been like three nights. That's not a relationship, that's a long-ass date. We're just having a good time. No big deal.” Every word was the truth and a big fat lie; Griffin hoped Daisy was too caught up in her own drama to scent that out.

“Your MO isn't really no big deal, Griff. You went for one night, I was thinking to get laid, shore up the deal, and now this,” she said, her voice dropping to a dangerous quiet. “We've been here before, Griffin, and it didn't end well.”

Griffin couldn't muster enough balls to call her on the implication that this time it wasn't him whoring for the movie deal.

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“No, it's not a replay of anything. We're just hanging out, no strings attached.”

He heard murmurs through the line—Daisy talking to herself. He could sense the precipice, the moment between Daisy going ballistic and Daisy backing down. It could go either way.

“I'm sorry,” she said finally, her soft “forgive me” voice sweet in his ear. “I just got worried, okay? You're never gone like this without calling me or at least a text. I was concerned.”

“Well, then I'm sorry too, okay? I just got caught up in writing and this little minivacation,” he murmured, relieved to avoid a fight. “I didn't mean to drop out of sight.”

“Do you know when you're coming back? I mean, just asking because Claus is having a party at the Four Seasons for Lina Devore…” Her voice trailed off, and Griffin rubbed his eyes under his glasses. Claus's newest mistress, a French actress who had about as much talent as Pepe Le Pew but a hell of a rack—Daisy's newest replacement.

Sick cycle. Claus loved the roller coaster, Daisy always had a reason not to get off, and Griffin wanted to punch Claus's stupid face in because he couldn't be mad at Daisy.

“When's the party? I'll make sure I'm back and we'll go together, okay?” he assured her, guilt eating his guts. “Do you have a new dress?” Daisy sighed. “No, not yet. Jules is bringing some things over today.”

“Send me pictures on my phone. We'll pick out something fantastic. No one will notice the French tickler.”

“You're mean,” Daisy said, but he heard the lightening of her voice. “I love you. And I really am sorry, Griff. I swear. I was a total brat, but you know, there's just a lot…”

“Don't apologize, okay? It's partially my fault for being so amazing you can't do without me,” he teased.

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“That's not even a real joke,” she said.

“I know; I am amazing. Now go have a soak, and I'll be waiting for cleavage shots.”

“Love you, Griff.”

“Love you too, Daisy Mae.”

* * * * *

After the phone call with Daisy, Griffin sat in apparently the only beam of sunlight in Seattle, conveniently pointed to the chair on Jim's balcony.

Oh yes, they'd been here before, back when Griffin was young and stupid, or at least younger and more stupid. He'd ditched reality and fallen hard and fast on more than one occasion, and every time, Daisy was there to remind him of the facts.

Daisy ripped him more than one new one about men and their asshole ways and their “newer, better, shinier” needs. He always knew she was ranting about Claus, but then again, she wasn't wrong.

“
Don't get comfortable. It'll never be what you think it is
.”

* * * * *