Drive Me Wild Read online

  “We’re going to my mom’s for dinner?”

  “Yes.” She pulled off the oven mitts and set them aside.

  “I thought she was sick.”

  “Apparently she’s feeling better.”

  I grimaced. “I thought we could just stop over there this afternoon and look for the pictures. Get in and out fast.”

  “She said she definitely has some, and she offered to go through her albums this afternoon and find all the best ones for me. Then she invited us for dinner, and I couldn’t say no.” She started washing a mixing bowl at the sink.

  “You’re too nice.” I couldn’t resist pressing up behind her and wrapping my arms around her waist—I liked how her top was a little bit cropped and showed her belly. I kissed the side of her neck. “And you smell delicious too.”

  “Thank you. Oh, by the way, I did some laundry. I hope that’s okay.”

  “Of course.”

  “I threw your sheets in as well.”

  “You didn’t have to do that.” I pressed my face into her hair and inhaled. Maybe I would miss her.

  “I didn’t mind. I also called the motel.”

  “Oh.” I released her and stepped back. “What did they say?”

  “I have a room booked starting Wednesday night.”

  “You sure you’ll be able to afford it?” I asked, looking for a reason she should stay here . . . one that wasn’t related to my feelings.

  “Yes. They gave me a good deal since I’ll be there for over two weeks.” She set the bowl on a towel to dry and finally turned to face me with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “So as long as my car is ready by Wednesday, your apartment will be your own again.”

  Tell her that’s not what you want, said a voice in my head. Tell her you changed your mind, and you don’t want her to go.

  But all I did was nod. “Okay. Guess I’ll go clean up.”

  She faced the sink again.

  Dinner at my mother’s was actually more tolerable than I’d anticipated, mostly because Blair did such a good job of keeping the conversation centered on old family stories, especially about my dad. And she was an expert at veering back on track whenever my mother did her best to stray toward topics like how well we were getting along, how many children Blair might want in the future, and how the Lord worked in mysterious ways to unite two lonely souls in need.

  Even my sister rolled her eyes at that. “Mom, jeez. Give them a break. The Lord has better things to do than find Griff a girlfriend.”

  “Don’t sass me, Cheyenne. Your sad and lonely soul is next. The Lord and I are going to have a good long conversation about it.”

  “On second thought, have at them,” Cheyenne said, getting up from her chair at the table. “Sorry, guys. Better you than me.”

  After dinner, we moved to the den and looked at all the photos my mother had pulled from old family albums. Blair sat in the middle of the couch with my mom on one side of her and me on the other, the stack of pictures in her lap.

  “Oh, I love this one,” Blair said, picking up a black and white snapshot with a thick white border around it. “Is that your dad and your grandpa in front of the shop?”

  “Let me see.” I leaned closer, the scent of her hair filling my head, and looked at the photo of a young version of my grandfather holding his toddler son’s hand in front of the bay doors. “Yes. That looks like maybe right when it opened? Dad was only a couple years old, right Mom?”

  My mother nodded. “He looks exactly like you at that age, Griffin. Look at those ears.”

  Blair laughed. “So sweet.”

  We went through the entire pile, and Blair asked questions about every photo, sometimes making notes in her phone. She asked if she could take some with her, and my mother said of course, as long as she got them back eventually.

  “I’ll take perfect care of them, I promise. I’m just going to have some large prints made.” Blair put her hand on my mother’s arm. “Thank you for trusting me with your family history. It means a lot.”

  “You’re very welcome, darling. That history is still being written, you know. It would be nice to add another generation of Dempseys to the photo albums.” She sighed wistfully.

  I stood up. “Time to go. Thanks for dinner, Mom.”

  “Everything was delicious,” said Blair, rising to her feet. “I’d love to get your recipe for those soft white sugar cookies.”

  “Of course, dear. That was my grandmother’s recipe, and I’d be happy to share. Thank you for bringing the rolls. You’re very talented.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Have you thought any more about opening a bakery here in town? At least five people have asked me if you’re considering it—and hoping you will, of course.”

  Blair smiled. “That’s sweet.”

  “The couple who owns the bakery on Main Street is getting on in years. I bet they’d sell cheap!”

  “That’s enough, Mom,” I said firmly. “She’s already got a job lined up somewhere else.”

  My mother’s face turned white. “What?”

  “Cheyenne put her in touch with someone up in Traverse City who offered to hire her starting right after Labor Day.”

  “Cheyenne Dempsey!” my mother bellowed, whirling on my sister. “How could you?”

  While Cheyenne defended herself, I took Blair’s arm and started for the front door. “Let’s go.”

  When we got home, Blair wanted to go in the lobby to see if the paint was dry. She turned around slowly, looking at each wall. “I’m picturing where those big photo prints could go,” she said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yes. I think the one of your dad and grandfather from 1955 should go there. And the one of the three of you over there. Then maybe three smaller ones on this wall—the one of your dad teaching you and your sister how to change a tire here, the one of you and him working on the old truck here, and the one of your entire family at the 50th anniversary ribbon-cutting there. What do you think?”

  “I think this place is going to look better than it has in years, thanks to you.”

  She smiled, her cheeks turning pink. “I just think the reminders that this is a family-owned-and-run business is really important.”

  “I agree.”

  She turned to face the wall again. “Someday, the walls of my bakery will have my family photos.”

  “You teaching your daughters how to bake bread?”

  She arched a brow at me over her shoulder. “And my sons.”

  I smiled. “Of course.”

  “I want my sons to know how to cook and my daughters to know how to jumpstart a dead car battery,” she said, turning to face me. “Which reminds me, do you think you could teach me how to do that before I go?”

  My chest grew tight. I didn’t want to think about her leaving. “Of course.”

  “Thanks. I know you’re really busy, but I’d like to learn.”

  “I’m not too busy for you. Should we go up to bed?” I asked, switching off the lights.

  “Yes.” She headed for the door. “You did a lot of work today. I’m sure you’re tired.”

  “I am, a little,” I said, following her out and locking the door behind us. “But that’s not the only reason I want to go to bed.”

  “No?”

  “No.” I unlocked my apartment door. “It’s not even the most important one.”

  “What’s the most important one?” she asked as we went up the stairs.

  That I can’t stop wanting more of you. That I love having you in my bed at night. That I’ll miss you when you’re gone. That I’ll worry about you alone at that motel constantly. That we only have three more nights together. That in less than a week, you’ve managed to get under my skin, and I don’t know what to do about it—I just know that it feels good to be with you.

  But I couldn’t admit any of those things to her, so I fell back on sex, which let me show her what I couldn’t say.

  “This,” I said as we reached the top o
f the steps, spinning her around to take her in my arms and crush my mouth against hers in the dark.

  As usual with us, it took no time at all for the fire to ignite. I was even more anxious than usual to get inside her, so anxious I couldn’t make it to the bedroom. After yanking off all her clothes, I set her on my dining table and shoved down my jeans just enough to free my bulging cock.

  Her legs were wrapped around me and I was about to push inside her when she whispered frantically, “Griffin—wait. It’s not safe right now.”

  “Fuck.” I couldn’t believe I’d forgotten protection. That was a rule we absolutely could not break. Hurrying back to my bedroom, I grabbed a condom from my drawer and tore it open with my teeth on my way back to the table. She waited for me at the edge of the table, leaning back on her hands and breathing hard, her legs spread.

  “You have no idea how good you look right now,” I told her, rolling on the condom, my cock aching to be inside her again. “This is the picture I want fucking framed on the wall.”

  She laughed as I slid inside her. “This is for your eyes only.”

  “Fuck yes, it is.” The thought of anyone else getting to see her this way made me insane with rage. Something feral and possessive took over me, and I fucked her more roughly than I ever had before, almost like I wanted to hurt her. Punish her for showing some future asshole this side of her.

  Her cries took on a different tone—I knew I was pushing her limits—and her nails raked up and down my arms like claws. Maybe she’d even drawn blood.

  I didn’t care.

  Unless she asked for mercy, I was going to fuck her the way I needed to, the way my body begged me to. There was something I needed her to understand, and this was the only way to do it.

  But she didn’t ask for mercy—even though she cried out in pain and gripped my arms like she was drowning and sank her teeth into my shoulder as I poured myself into her.

  When it was over, I braced my arms above her shoulders and looked down at her. “Sorry if I was too rough. I don’t know what came over me.”

  “Was it the crop top?”

  I laughed. “No, although I do like it.”

  “What was it?”

  “I don’t know. Just forgot my manners, I guess.”

  There was no way I could tell her the truth, which hit me hard as we curled up in my bed and she fell asleep in my arms.

  It was panic. Pure and simple.

  It was panic that I was about to lose something that mattered to me, and that it would be my own fault. It was panic that a deadline was approaching and a decision had to be made, but I wasn’t ready to make it. It was panic that I was on the verge of making a huge mistake, but I didn’t know what it was . . . letting her go? Or asking her to stay?

  I felt like I was losing my mind.

  What I’d told Cole was true—I didn’t want my life to change. I didn’t want to change. I’d put up these walls for a damn good reason, and I wasn’t about to tear them down. Not even for her.

  But I wasn’t ready for this to be over yet either. I needed more time—time for whatever it was I felt for her to run its course. Time for the physical spark to burn out. Time for me to remember I didn’t want or need her in my life.

  So when the parts for her car arrived early—the very next morning, in fact—I didn’t put them in her car.

  I hid them.

  And I didn’t say a thing about it to anyone.

  Fifteen

  Blair

  I was dreading Wednesday, but I tried not to show it.

  To be honest, I’d hoped Griffin would protest when I brought up calling the motel. Not that I blamed him for wanting his space back. I’d been here a week already. No matter how amazing the sex was, you couldn’t just move in with someone so fast. I wasn’t insane.

  But I liked him. I didn’t want what we had to end.

  All day Monday, I kept looking at the clock, dismayed to find that time seemed to be passing more quickly than usual. We were busy at the garage, which was great, but also made the day fly by. Plans for the anniversary event were also keeping me preoccupied. After we closed, I ran over to the print shop Darlene had recommended and ordered the photo enlargements, which the woman at the counter promised to have ready by Friday.

  “Perfect,” I said. “I also wanted to ask you about printing some flyers for an event we’re having on Labor Day weekend.”

  She helped me with the layout and design, and I hurried back to the garage as the skies darkened, lightning flashed, and thunder rumbled above me. Griffin was standing on the sidewalk in front of the garage as if he’d been waiting for me.

  “I was about to get in the truck and come find you,” he said sternly, pulling open the lobby door and following me inside. “You weren’t answering your phone, and this is going to be a bad storm.”

  “Sorry. I must have left it on the desk. I was in a hurry to get there because I was concerned about keeping the photos dry.”

  He frowned. “I was worried about you. Take your phone with you when you go somewhere, okay?”

  “Okay,” I said, unable to keep from smiling.

  “What’s funny?” he demanded, his chest puffing up.

  “You. Worried about me in the rain. It’s cute.”

  “For the last time, mechanics are not cute.”

  “Then what do I call a mechanic that makes my clothes fall off and my heart go pitter-pat?” I asked, patting my chest with one hand.

  He narrowed his eyes at me. “There better only be one of those.”

  I kissed his cheek. “There’s only you.”

  Tuesday night, after I showed him how to make penne with summer vegetables and a kale salad—which he grumbled about eating but admitted it tasted better than he thought—he insisted on doing all the dishes. Then we stretched out on the couch and watched a movie together while the summer rain continued to thrum against the windows.

  We made it about halfway through the latest Marvel movie before our minds and then our hands started to wander, and we ended up naked and sweaty on the rug between the couch and the coffee table. I don’t know what was louder, me or the thunder, but poor Bisou wouldn’t come out of her crate for the rest of the night.

  “Aww, I feel bad,” I said to Griffin when she didn’t come out to eat.

  “She’s okay. I fostered another cat once who was afraid of storms. She’ll eat when she gets hungry.” But I noticed he set her plate and bowl right outside her crate rather than where he usually kept them.

  Eventually we made it into bed, where we snuggled up and listened to the thunder. My head was resting on his chest, my body tucked alongside his. A particularly loud crack of thunder made me jump.

  “Do storms bother you?” he asked.

  “I was really scared of storms like this when I was little,” I explained. “We lived on a golf course, and once when I was small, I heard my parents talking about someone who’d been struck by lightning while playing. I was always convinced it was going to happen to me while I was playing outside.”

  He held me a little tighter. “What were you like as a kid?”

  “Hmmm. Talkative. Definitely talkative.”

  A laugh rumbled in his chest. “I bet. Did you drive your parents crazy?”

  “Yes, but not just them. I’d talk to anybody. I’m totally the girl who should have been abducted by the creep in the white van.”

  “Part of me worries you’re still that girl.”

  I snuggled closer. “I was also lonely.”

  “Lonely?”

  “Yeah, I didn’t have any siblings or close neighbor kids to play with. I was always by myself.”

  “Or with your horse,” he teased.

  I poked him in the side. “Fine. Or with my horse. But Alistair never wanted to play Barbies with me.”

  He snorted. “That was your horse’s name? Alistair?”

  “Yes. Alistair Peacock Beaufort.”

  “You gave him your middle name, how cute.”

  I
picked up my head. “Did I tell you that was my middle name?”

  “No. I saw it on your license the night we met.”

  “Oh.” I grinned. “It’s a family name on my mother’s side. Did you think it was weird?”

  “Kind of. But I thought it suited you.”

  I stuck my tongue out at him, and he laughed.

  “Mostly I thought there was no way Blair Peacock Beaufort would be interested in a guy like me.”

  “Well,” I said, climbing on top of him. “You were wrong.”

  I woke up Wednesday morning with an ache in my heart. Next to me, Griffin was still asleep, and rather than jump out of bed and get baking like I did most mornings, I lay on my side and watched him for a moment.

  He was breathtakingly handsome even as he slept, and the sight of his muscular, tattooed shoulders and chest never failed to rile me up. Before I could stop myself, I reached over and traced the sharp edge of his jaw, then the rounded bulge of his bicep. His eyes opened.

  “Hi,” I whispered.

  “Hey.” He stretched, which made his muscles flex and my mouth water. “Is it time to get up already?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “But it’s still kinda dark.” He reached out and pulled me closer to him.

  Smiling, I tucked my head beneath his chin, throwing an arm and a leg over his body. “Can we play hooky today?”

  “We could, but I don’t think my employees or customers would like it very much.”

  “Probably not.”

  “But maybe we could be late,” he said, his hands stroking my shoulders, arms, back. “I mean, I do own the place.”

  “That’s true,” I agreed, my hand sliding down his chiseled stomach to play with his cock, which was rock hard. “Do you always wake up like this?”

  “Always? No. Often? Yes.”

  “And what do you do about it?”

  “I ignore it or I take care of it.”

  “Like this?” I curled my fingers around his shaft and moved my hand up and down his length.