Drive Me Wild (Bellamy Creek #1)(50)

“Here, let me take that.” He placed it on the front seat and offered me a hand getting in.

I tried to climb up without flashing my underwear at him, not easy in the short white sundress I wore—although, I admit, I’d chosen the dress on purpose since Griffin seemed to like looking at my legs. In fact, we were only at the first stop sign when I caught him staring.

“You look nice,” he said.

“Thanks. I know how you like me in a white dress.”

His eyes rose from my legs to my face. “Funny.”

I slipped my sunglasses on. “And all yours for the whole night. Lucky you.”

He shook his head, grinning as he focused out the windshield again. “Lucky me.”

For about twenty minutes, we just drove down country roads with the windows down, listening to the truck’s scratchy AM radio as the sun sank lower in the sky. We didn’t talk much, but that was okay with me—I was content to watch the scenery roll by, hum along to old-timey tunes, and inhale the fresh air. I felt happier than I had in a long time.

Eventually, he turned off the highway onto a dirt road. Another mile or so down, he turned into a driveway blocked by a rusty gate with a PRIVATE PROPERTY sign on it. Griffin put the truck in park and said, “Be right back.”

He opened the gate, pulled the truck just beyond it, then closed it behind us.

“Whose property is this?” I asked once we were moving. The road curved through trees, up and down gentle hills.

“It’s Beckett’s. He bought the land a couple years back—it borders one end of his farm—and put in a four-acre pond.”

“For swimming?”

“Well, you can swim in it, but mostly for water storage and irrigation. He stocked it with fish last summer and told us we could come hook our dinner whenever we want to.”

I laughed. “Well, no pressure. I packed plenty of food.”

Through a clearing up ahead, I saw the pond—a huge, oblong body of water with a wooden dock at the near end. The breeze rippled the surface of the water, and a few geese floated along in the center of it.

Griffin parked the truck and got out, wandering a few steps toward the pond. I hopped out too, following him, looking around from the water to the trees to the sky. The light was golden and soft, the air warm and tranquil. The only sounds were the wind rustling the leaves, the crickets warming up their evening chorus, and the occasional call of a seagull overhead. “Wow. This is really beautiful.”

“My dad almost bought this property.”

“Really?” I looked over at his strong profile.

“Yeah. He wanted to build a house on it. Retire here.”

“Did he change his mind?”

Griffin shook his head. “He was gone before he got the chance.”

“I’m sorry.” I hesitated, but then moved closer, slipping my arm through his and tipping my head against his shoulder. “I like hearing about your dad. Tell me something else about him.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. What’s a lesson he taught you that you still think about?”

He was silent a minute. “Never let a vehicle leave your shop unless you would be comfortable putting your family in it on the highway.”

“I love that.”

“Treat every little old lady like she’s your grandmother.”

“Especially the ones who forget their bowling balls in their trunks.”

He smiled slightly. “And everybody starts out as the ‘stack the tires’ guy, even the garage owner’s son.”

“He wanted to teach you a good work ethic.” I squeezed his arm. “And he did. He’d be so proud of you.”

“He’d have loved this.” Griffin’s eyes scanned the pond, the land, the trees beyond. “He’d have built a house over there, a barn over that way, kept a little rowboat tied up at the dock.”

I could see it, everything he described. I knew he could too.

“He always said he wanted to spend his golden years fishing, tinkering with old cars, and playing with his grandkids.”

“I bet he would have been an awesome grandpa.”

“Yeah. He was a great dad.”

I took a breath and decided to be brave. “You’d be a great dad too.”

He didn’t say anything right away. “Well, life never goes as planned, does it?” Then before I could dig in deeper, he went on, “Should we eat?”

“Sure.”

But we stood there a moment longer looking at the water, and he surprised me by taking my hand before turning around and walking back to the truck.





Thirteen





Blair





“You packed real plates for a picnic?” Griffin stared as I unloaded our basket onto the red plaid blanket we’d spread out in the bed of the old pickup.

“Yes. Picnic like the French. That’s my motto.”

“Of course it is.”

Kneeling, I set out plates and napkins, the galette and grapes. “Besides, you didn’t have paper plates. You did, however, have plenty of plastic forks.”

“One of the many benefits of frequent takeout. So we’re using real plates and plastic forks?”