Deconstructed(71)

And it might have been spiteful of me, but I didn’t care. I cupped Griffin’s jaw and pulled his mouth to mine.

And Griffin wasn’t born yesterday. I mean, obviously. So he took what was offered, angling his head and tucking right into my lips like I was dessert. And though I knew I was going to lie to myself about this whole situation, convincing myself that we were merely two people acting into each other so my ass of a husband didn’t discover I was wearing a wig and spying on him, I let myself enjoy the heck out of that kiss. Griffin tasted hot, yeasty, and about as dangerous as that box of cinnamon rolls I had dipped into the previous day. I wanted to keep going, wanted to open my mouth, slide onto his lap, and straddle him. But that was wrong. Very wrong. Because like it or not, I was married. And I wasn’t a douchebag like my soon-to-be ex-husband.

So I broke the kiss and whispered, “Is he gone?”

Griffin nodded, and I swear, that man tried to look unaffected, but I could tell that our little lit match had left some smoke behind. Which meant satisfaction curled up inside me like a fat ol’ tom.

I mean, I knew I would be thinking about the scruff of his jaw, the way he smelled, and the way my body had craved more for many days. Griffin might as well have something to think about, too.

Risking a glance in the mirror, I saw Scott return and the old fella dig out a twenty from his ratty billfold, obviously covering his own beverage. The three men went back to their discussion as I sipped my beer to disguise the sudden jittery feeling that had nothing to do with the fear of getting caught by Scott and everything to do with my little break in sanity.

“So let’s try to look normal,” Griffin said, taking a sip of his beer. “So have you ever been fishing?”

“Fishing?”

“Like on a lake. Hook. Pole. Fishing.”

“Um, once when I was at summer camp. I didn’t really like killing the worms. Because then you used their poor dead carcasses to catch fish that you then also killed. It was a chain of killing.”

Griffin’s mouth twitched. “So you’re opposed to killing things for food.”

“No. I eat meat and fish.”

“Oh, so you’re opposed to the killing of the food but not the eating of the food.” He nodded, his face in mock thought. “Isn’t that a bit hypocritical?”

“Well, when you put it that way,” I said, rolling my eyes because I now understood that Griffin enjoyed getting under my skin. And I would really enjoy him getting under my jeans. Which was wrong. But maybe I could admit to myself that somewhere deep inside, under the vows I had taken and the morality code I had believed in, I was attracted to Griffin. And I would like to do dirty things to him.

But I wasn’t going to.

Not until this thing with Scott was finished. And probably not even then.

We made some small talk and drank our beers until Scott and Donner rose and shook Skeet Brookings’s hand. The men all took their leave, Skeet, carrying a handful of brochures, jetting off before the other two. Five minutes after they’d all pulled out of the parking lot, Griffin and I climbed back on the motorcycle. Ten minutes later we pulled up in front of a modest brick house set against the choppy gray waters of Caddo Lake. Cypress dressed in Spanish moss clustered in the shallows, and an old pier stretched into the embrace of the lake, a single johnboat rocking against the weathered wood. A shiny orange tractor sat to the side of the house, a grown man’s toy for playing in the dirt. The grounds were clean, the flower beds freshly planted, and the view amazing. Like taking a deep breath just looking at it.

Skeet sat on the front porch amid five hummingbird feeders. Oddly enough, he didn’t look surprised to see us.

“Come on up and get some iced tea. Martha just made some, and it’s getting hotter than two rats making whoopee in a wool sock,” Skeet said, petting an old dog that rose up and gave a long stretch before settling back down at his feet.

For one thing: it wasn’t that hot. For another, this man didn’t seem like someone who had much money. But I knew that looks were deceiving. And last, that dog looked to be on its last leg, bless it.

“How are ya, Skeet?” Griffin said, hanging his helmet on the handlebars and setting the one I was holding on the seat of the Harley. “Been a minute.”

“A-yup,” he said, eyeing me with interest. “You been catching any lately?”

“Haven’t been in a few weeks. Busy.”

Skeet raised his bushy eyebrows. “I remember the hustle.”

Griffin stepped back as I climbed the steps. “Uh, this is Mad—”

“Catherine Ann Crosby,” I said, electing to not lie to this man. Something seemed very wrong in that, even though I appreciated Griffin’s attempt to keep my identity a secret. “You just met with my husband and Donner Walker at the Channel Marker.”

“I figured that’s why you were here. Saw you both there.” He tapped the brochures, giving a smile that showed nice dental work. The teeth always told the tale. Skeet Brookings had a mouthful of crowns and veneers. “I ain’t so much a fool that I can’t spot what those two were up to. But I’m polite-like, so I took the meeting. Been doing banking with your husband and his daddy before him for years.”

I sank into a rocking chair just as a woman came out, wearing an honest-to-God frilled apron and carrying a tray with iced tea and shortbread cookies.