Light My Fire (Man of the Month Book 11) Page 2

  “So now we wait, right?” he asked Holt. “They’ve got Bev attached, but they’ll start talking with other actors and—”

  “All true. Except for the waiting part. They have notes.” Holt looked between him and Beverly. “Mostly about Angelique. They want her role beefed up, and they specifically want Bev in on the revisions. They love the script, don’t get me wrong, but they intend this movie to be a star vehicle.”

  He flashed a broad smile at both of them. “In other words, this project has the potential to catapult you both to the next level.”

  “Oh,” Beverly said, as Griffin’s stomach did a brand new series of somersaults.

  “I’ll schedule a call for tomorrow and we can go over everything, but then they need the revisions back in a week. Ten days max if we’re going to do this thing.”

  “Do this thing?” Griff repeated. “But I thought it was a done—”

  “We’re on it,” Beverly said. “Hell, I’ll move into Griff’s place if I need to.”

  Griff frowned. “I don’t think—”

  “I’ll call Donovan at Apex after we’re done,” Holt said. “I’ll tell him how excited you are.”

  “You won’t be lying,” Griff said as Beverly reached over to squeeze his right hand.

  He stood up like a shot, in the process tugging his hand free. Excited? Yeah, that was a fair assessment of the situation.

  She rose as well. “I’d like to prepare for tomorrow. Maybe go over the script together and break down Angelique’s scenes?”

  “Um, yeah. Sure.” He glanced at his watch. “You have to be at The Fix in a few hours, though.” Tonight was a Man of the Month contest, and this time the crowd would be choosing Mr. October. The bar had started having the contest as a way to bring in more customers, and it had worked like a charm.

  Griff knew the female customers came to see the parade of shirtless men, but as far as Griff was concerned, the biggest draw was the emcee—Beverly had been hosting the contest since the beginning. And knowing what he now did about how she came back to Austin to meet him, Griff couldn’t help but wonder if she’d accepted the job as a way to stay close.

  If that was the case, he knew it was only about the script. Even so, the thought pleased him more than it should.

  Tonight, Griffin had a reason other than Beverly to go. His personal trainer Matthew Herrington was entered. And on top of that, following the contest, The Fix intended to air the series premiere of The Business Plan on their big screen televisions. A real estate reality show, the program documented the bar’s remodel and included bits from the bi-weekly calendar guy contest.

  Considering how close he’d become to the owners, staff, and regulars, Griff didn’t intend to miss any of that.

  Beverly looked up from where she was tapping something out on her phone. “Megan’s going to bring her case to The Fix and do my makeup there. That means I don’t have to leave your place until six. So we have plenty of time. I’ll meet you there?"

  Apparently, he was all out of excuses. “Sure. Give me an hour or so head start. I need to clean up.” Or, more accurately, he needed time to make sure he was in control before he sat at his computer with Beverly behind him, her breath on the back of his neck.

  Maybe he should invest in a second monitor…

  She leaned closer, her hand going to his shoulder as she leaned in. “We did it,” she whispered. “You did it.”

  Maybe so. But there was still a long way to go.

  He hoped he could focus. Because God knew being next to Beverly was really starting to mess with his head.

  Chapter Two

  Beverly smiled as she eased out of her sunshine yellow Volkswagen Beetle, now parked in front of Griffin’s East Austin bungalow. He might be frustrated by the prospect of more revisions, but Beverly wasn’t. She was determined to make sure that the script was so perfect that not even the most jaded studio exec could turn it down, and if that meant sacrificing a few hours to work on the screenplay, then those were hours she’d happily donate to the cause.

  The movie, however, was just an excuse for her good mood. The truth was much more simple—and more complicated. Because her smile was all about Griffin. And Griffin was as complicated as they came.

  She hummed as she climbed the steps to the porch. A charming space, it was surrounded by a wooden railing and was immaculately swept, with pots of colorful flowers lining the perimeter and two bright blue wooden rocking chairs sitting on either side of a tiled mosaic table.

  A crape myrtle planted beside the patio provided dappled shade and brilliant color. And a twisting vine of wild mustang grapes climbed one of the support pillars, adding a hint of rebellion to the otherwise tidy porch.

  She’d been here dozens of times over the last few months, and each time she climbed these steps, Beverly couldn’t help but think about how much Griff and the house fit each other. Like Griffin, the house was a survivor. He’d told her that when he’d bought it two years ago, it had been a wreck, essentially ripped apart by the strung-out renters who’d cooked meth in the detached garage, then sampled their own product inside the house. They’d let the place turn to shit, and when they’d been arrested, the landlord decided he’d had enough. He put the house on the market confident that such a wreck would never sell. Or, if it did, it would be a tear down.

  But Griff had seen the potential. He bought the place, put in the work, and turned it into a shining star that kept its original charm and character.

  “How did you find a contractor?” she’d asked. She’d recently bought a 1950’s cottage by the lake and was thinking about renovations.

  “I did most of the work myself,” he’d told her.

  “Nice. I wish I’d grown up knowing how to do that. Handy skills to have.”

  It wasn’t until a few months later when they knew each other better that she learned that he hadn’t gone into the project with any particular skills. Just a willingness to learn and a desire to make the house fit his vision of what it should be. “I taught myself how to work on classic cars when I was a teenager. Honestly, I figured a house would probably be easier.”

  She’d shaken her head, more awed than surprised. After all, by that time, she knew him pretty well. She’d watched him focus for hours on a script, witnessed his process of building a character, ensuring that the people he was writing for the screen were just that—people. Not mere words and descriptions on the page, little more than cardboard cutouts designed to speak the lines.

  He did the work that needed to be done. On his script. On his house. Even down to all the pretty flowers that brightened his patio.

  And somehow, in all of that, he still found time to not only work on a Mustang he was rebuilding, but to keep up with a strict regimen of personal training. That much she’d learned by snooping. She’d become friends with Matthew Herrington—a regular at The Fix and one of the contestants in tonight’s Man of the Month calendar contest—and he’d happened to mention that Griffin was one of his personal training clients.

  That overarching drive was one of the things that Beverly liked most in Griffin, and that admiration had only grown as she’d gotten to know him better.

  Now, maybe, she liked him a little bit too much. Because Bev was the kind of woman who went after the things she wanted. And lately, she’d come to realize that what—who—she wanted was Griffin.

  But she had a feeling that if she went after him, she’d only end up pushing him away.

  “Get a grip, Martin,” she muttered to herself, waiting to ring the doorbell until after she pressed the pad of her right thumb into the fleshy part at the base of her left. It was an old habit, taught to her by her very first acting coach after she’d bombed five auditions in a row.

  “Pretend you’re me,” he’d said. “And you’re shaking like a leaf, too scared to get your bony little butt out on that stage. I’d tell you to get a grip, wouldn’t I? Well, this is how you do it.”

  She’d been twelve, and he’d shown her how to h
old her hands together so that she could grip that one pressure point hard. She didn’t know if it was some sort of eastern medicine, acupuncture, or just a mind trick. She didn’t care, either. She’d taken his advice, then went out and won her very first speaking role in a local commercial for one of Austin’s car dealerships.

  Ready now, she jammed her thumb against the button, then heard the familiar chime echoing behind the cornflower blue door. Without thinking about it, she stood a little straighter, wanting to look her best for when he answered the door. Ridiculous, of course, but she couldn’t help the way she felt. And as she waited for him to let her in, she let her mind drift back to the first time she’d become aware of Griffin Blaize.

  Everyone in Hollywood knew about the voice actor who had made a splash with his podcast. And once Beverly had read his script, she wanted to learn everything she could about the man who had captured her imagination.

  Evelyn, her agent, knew people close to Griffin, including his brother-in-law, Wyatt Segel, and Bev felt justified in asking for a few more details about the man she was determined to work with.

  When she learned that he’d been horribly burned as a child, she appreciated the humor that went along with his pen name. As if he was flipping the bird to that damn fire.

  Tears had stung her eyes when she learned that his burns were extensive, covering essentially all of the right side of his body. And she’d wept openly when Evelyn had told her that the burns had impacted more than his appearance. That they were, in fact, so extensive that his muscles had been severely damaged, resulting in both a limited range of motion and significant chronic pain.

  Only a few people in Hollywood knew the truth. Directors and producers with whom he’d worked, his manager, and a few others. When Beverly learned, her heart broke for the little boy he’d once been, a child who must have been terrified and in desperate pain.

  And as she came to know him, her heart longed to heal the man, even as she admired so much about his skill and talent and perseverance.

  No doubt about it, Beverly had fallen for him. For this fascinating man who buried himself fully in every project, and yet still managed to find the time to deadhead his potted flowers and make his home so welcoming.

  And it wasn’t only that she admired Griffin’s talent. The truth was, she was wildly attracted to him. She knew damn well that he’d never believe it, but there was something so deliciously sensual about his eyes, brown with golden flecks, like crystalized honey, with brows that arched naturally, given him a lively, mischievous appearance.

  And his mouth … his mouth was perfect. Wide and teasing, with the slightest permanent slant on the right side. An artifact of the fire, she was sure, but damned if she hadn’t wanted to lean in and kiss that quirked up corner on more than one occasion.

  He never revealed his right side to her. But every once in a while he would use his left hand to touch her. A firm palm on her back, making her shiver as he steered her along a crowded street. A quick squeeze of her fingers for luck before she went on stage to emcee the Man of the Month contest.

  She doubted he was even aware he was doing it, much less the fantasy-filled images those careless touches left with her. That was okay. She was aware enough for the both of them.

  Before, she'd always known how to handle a crush. How to either win the guy’s attention or move on and get over it. But Griffin was damaged goods, no doubt about it, and Beverly didn't know what to do.

  She believed that he was attracted to her too, although that might be ego talking, but even if he were, so what? There could be nothing between them unless he was willing to show her more than just his left side. That, at the very least, was her minimum requirement for getting involved with Griffin—assuming that was even remotely an option.

  She hoped it was, because so far, she’d been unable to find the switch to turn off her attraction. The best she could do was try and hide it.

  Fortunately, she was an actress, and a good one. She could play the role of devoted friend, of a disinterested girl in a platonic relationship with a boy. She’d been playing those parts with Griffin for months, and now she was ready to move up to leading lady.

  So far, she’d gotten no traction on that front.

  But the acting life had given her other assets as well. For one, she had a very thick skin and was used to rejection. She was also persistent. No one succeeded in the film business if they gave up easily, and she figured that she could apply that tenaciousness to Griffin, too.

  Frowning, she realized that he still hadn’t come to the door. The house was small, and he usually answered the door promptly. She rang again. Ten seconds passed, then thirty, and he still hadn’t come. She waited a full minute, frowned, then rapped on the door, the hard wood hurting her knuckles.

  “Dammit, Griff. Where are you?"

  He knew she was coming; he’d even asked for a head start. But this was ridiculous. Had he stopped on the way to run errands? Or maybe he’d had car trouble? Possible, but not likely. He drove a two-year-old Toyota Corolla, and the car was totally reliable.

  She pulled out her phone, then tapped out a text.

  Hey, it’s me. I guess I beat you to your place. Where are you?

  She hoped he say he’d gotten stuck in the Starbucks line, because God knew, neither of them could work without coffee. Except even after five minutes he hadn’t told her to wait or to stay because he hadn’t responded to her text.

  A niggle of worry cut through her, warring with a harsh ribbon of irritation. He knew they needed to work on revisions. They’d said they were going to start now. If he was running late, shouldn’t he do her the courtesy of telling her?

  And since she had the moral high ground here, she was going to hang out and wait for him.

  Just in case, she tried the door, but it was locked, and so she decided to wait on one of the swinging benches in his xeriscaped backyard. She headed down the porch, then followed the little flagstone path to the long driveway that marked the east side of the property.

  The house itself stood near the street, with most of its yard in the back. The long driveway followed one side of the house, bordering a section of the backyard and ending at a detached garage that held the washing machine and dryer, all of Griffin’s various tools and gadgets, and the classic Mustang on blocks that Griffin was restoring.

  As soon as she hit the driveway, she realized she should have gone there first. The garage door was open, and the Mustang was facing forward, its hood open. Griffin’s back was to her as he bent over the engine. He wore jeans and a plain white T-shirt. Hanes, she thought. Just like the men's undershirts that she kept around her house for when she cleaned or painted or did other messy chores.

  He wore tight jeans, and they hugged his ass and thighs in a way that made her mouth go a little dry. She’d always known that Griffin had a good body—he worked out, and he filled out his clothes just fine—but this view gave her a whole new perspective. A dangerous perspective considering how high he was registering on her lust-meter lately.

  She let her gaze wander up, enjoying the broad expanse of his back and shoulders, and—when he reached for something on the far side of the engine—she realized that the shirt had short-sleeves. Which meant that his right arm was completely exposed.

  She couldn't see much, he was in shadows, and he was using his arm to hold something while he manipulated something else with a tool in his left hand. Despite the extensive muscle damage and missing pinkie, she knew his fingers worked fine. She’d seen him type on many occasions, although he tended to wear leather gloves that revealed only the tips of his fingers.

  The afternoon light filtered across the yard from the west, illuminating the right side of his body so that, even from a distance, she could see the gray, ridged scars that covered the entirety of his damaged arm. Evelyn had told her that his healing process had been more problematic than many victims because he’d suffered a series of reactions that had limited what the burn team had been able to do. Lat
er, he’d been part of a special protocol to help with his range of motion, and while that had offered him some relief, it was hardly a cure.

  “I remember he thought about covering the scars with tattoos, but when he tried a small bit of test ink, it didn’t go well,” Evelyn had said. “More reactions.”

  “So he’s stuck,” Beverly had said, and Evelyn had nodded.

  “It’s who he is,” Evelyn had told her. “The only question is how well he comes to terms with that.” She’d shrugged. “Personally, I think he’s doing a damn fine job.”

  So did Beverly, actually. In all areas except personal relationships. Unless she was completely misinformed, sex and intimacy were a dead zone for him. And that fact would have broken her heart no matter what. The fact that she longed to be the woman in his arms only made the ache more palpable.

  She remained motionless on the driveway, unsure what to do. She knew that he would be angry if he saw her; she was violating his privacy, seeing a secret he wanted to keep hidden. And yet now that she was here she didn't want to leave.

  She’d been invited, after all, and she wanted to see this, wanted to know this. Wanted to share his secrets in a way that she could never remember wanting to share with anyone.

  The depth of that desire unnerved her, and she told herself that she needed to leave. That he deserved his privacy.

  She was about to do that, about to force herself to escape, so as not to embarrass him, when she saw him flinch as if something had blown into his face.

  He jumped back, and she heard him snap, “Dammit!” That was followed by another curse she couldn't quite hear, though the tone was clear enough.

  And then, without any warning at all, he grabbed the bottom of his shirt and, in one quick motion, he yanked it over his head and tossed it aside.

  She saw the black stain as the white material went flying, and realized that somehow he’d been squirted with engine oil. That fascinating fact, however, was incidental to the real spectacle in front of her—Griffin Draper standing bare from the waist up, his jeans slung low on his hips, the cords and planes of muscles on his back sleek and perfect, then twisted and raw on his right side.