The Liar

“Good. Busy, like I said before. I was just working on the next playlist, and dealing with paperwork. I never seem to dig out from under paperwork. Here you go. See? Shelves.”

“Uh-huh.” He stepped into the room off the kitchen, scanned the setup. “Decent size. Not much natural light. Plenty of shelves, but— She’d do better with cabinets over the washer and dryer. It’s half a mudroom, isn’t it?”

Drawn in, despite herself, on the idea of redesign, she frowned at the space. “I guess you could say it is. She and Daddy keep their gardening shoes and such in here, and winter boots, that kind of thing.”

“She’d do better taking out those shelves there, putting in a bench with open cubbies under it for shoes and boots. Sit down, take your shoes off. Sit down, put your shoes on.”

“It’s a better use of it, isn’t it? She’d probably like that idea.”

“Shelves over that—high enough you wouldn’t rap your head on them. A longer folding counter under the window. If it were mine, I’d widen that window, bring in more light. Anyway, longer counter with the sink on the far side instead of the middle, keep the hanging rod over it, but put base cabinets with pull-out shelves under it.”

He shrugged. “Or she could just get open corner shelves over there and be done with it. I’ll do some measuring.”

“All right. I’ll leave you to that.”

“Do we have a problem?” he asked as he took his tape measure and pencil out of his tool belt, pulled out his notebook.

“A problem? No. Why?”

“Because this is the first time I’ve seen you since Callie’s birthday party, and you’re being pretty careful to keep at least a foot away from me.”

“I’ve just had a lot to see to—like I said.”

He took some measurements, wrote down some figures. “Don’t bullshit me, Shelby. It’s insulting.”

“I’m not. I really have had a lot to deal with.” But he was right, it was insulting. “And maybe I needed to take a breath along with it. That’s all.”

“Okay.” He wrote down something else, then those canny green eyes lifted, zeroed in on hers. “Did I do something that felt like I was putting pressure on you?”

“No, you didn’t—you haven’t. I just needed to . . . Are you looking out for me, Griffin?”

He wrote down more numbers, did a quick sketch, then lowered the pad to look at her again. “Sure I am.”

“I can look after myself.” Since it was true, she didn’t care how snippy or defensive it sounded. “I need to look after myself. I can’t—just won’t—get caught up again so I let somebody take over.”

She saw it in his eyes, the flash of temper, a surprising spark of heat.

“You know, I’m all about accurate measurements. You screw up there, you screw up everything. If you want to measure yourself by Richard, by what was, that’s your baggage, Shelby. I hope you work that out. But if you’re going to measure me by him, that’s going to piss me off.”

“I’m not. Exactly. What the hell else do I have to measure with? Six months ago I thought I was married.”

“Well, you weren’t.”

He said it so flatly she couldn’t say why the words made her wince.

“And it seems to me you’ve done a good job tearing down those walls, starting to build things in the way it works for you now. If this doesn’t work for you, this you and me? That’s going to be tough to take because I’m in love with you. But being in love with you doesn’t mean I’ll stand here and let you compare me to the son of a bitch who lied to you, who used you, who broke your trust and your spirit. I won’t stand for that. And I won’t be pushed away so you can fucking breathe because I’m looking out for you the same way anybody who gave a rat’s ass would.”

He shoved the measuring tape back in the pocket of his tool belt. “Work out what you need to work out. I’ll get back to your mother.”

He walked right by her and away before she could begin to gather herself. He’d never raised his voice—in fact his tone had been so calm it chilled her, and she felt thoroughly thrashed.

He couldn’t say those things, couldn’t talk to her that way, then just leave. He’d started a fight, that’s what he’d done, and then left before she could block or toss a punch of her own.

She didn’t have to put up with that.

She marched out of the laundry room—and oh, she intended to have a few choice words for her mama because if this didn’t smack of an Ada Mae setup so she’d have time alone with her mama’s choice of the man of her daughter’s dreams, she didn’t know Ada Mae Donahue Pomeroy.

And she damn well did.

Frustratingly, she’d been too slow or Griff had been too quick, because she heard his truck drive off before she made it to the front door.

That was fine, she told herself, pacing back and forth, then stomping up the stairs. That was likely for the best. She’d just get herself calm again before she said her piece. Whatever that piece might be.

Because her cheeks felt hot, she went into the bathroom, splashed cool water on her face. Her brain still felt hot, but that would simmer down, too.

She’d made him seriously angry, and she’d never seen him seriously angry.