Beth Andrews - On Her Side

He narrowed his eyes. There was something…familiar…about her. Something more than his seeing her around town—though in a town the size of Mystic Point most everyone looked familiar.

But then it clicked and he realized who she was. And he could make a damn good guess why she’d come.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” he asked softly as she stepped inside. “A Sullivan in my shop. Has hell frozen over? Or is it just the end of the world as I know it?”

Instead of scowling—the reaction he’d expect from a Sullivan—the blonde blushed, pink spreading from the small V of skin visible at her chest, up her throat to her face. But her eyes stayed on his and she even smiled as she approached him.

“Griffin York, right?” she asked, holding her hand out. “Hi. I’m—”

“I know who you are.” His coffee in one hand, he shoved the other into the pocket of his jeans. After a moment, she slowly lowered her arm. He raked his gaze over her. She was pretty—in an angelic sort of way. He’d never been much for angels. Or Sullivans. “You’re Layne and Tori’s sister.”

Her megawatt smile dimmed a fraction. “Actually I usually go by Nora. Seems easier for people to say.”

He lifted a shoulder. “You having car trouble?”

She blinked. “What? Oh, no. No,” she repeated, holding on to the strap of her purse as if it was a lifeline, “my car’s fine. I—”

“Then I guess there’s no reason for you to be here.” He nodded toward the parking lot where her silver Lexus blocked the entrance to his garage. “See you later, Nancy.”

“Really? That’s the best you can do?”

“Not sure what you mean.”

“Yes, you do. You’re trying to prove to me that I’m so unimportant, you can’t even be bothered to remember my name.” That damn smile was back to full power, as if he amused her to no end. “Aren’t you clever to target my tender feelings that way? Is this the point where I’m supposed to take my broken heart and scurry away?”

Studying her over the rim of his cup, he sipped his coffee. “That sounds about right.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” she said, and he wondered how she managed to convey such sincerity when she sounded as far from sorry as humanly possible. Must be that face of hers. Someone who looked like she kept a spare halo in her pocket could get away with quite a few sins before anyone realized she was like every other poor slob walking the earth.

Flawed, untrustworthy and only out for herself.

“I’m not ready to leave yet,” she continued. “I was hoping I could talk to you about your father.”

He figured that’s why she’d come, but hearing her say it still gave him a twinge of guilt, of nerves, both of which pissed him off. He wouldn’t be held accountable for his father’s mistakes or his crimes. Wouldn’t feel responsible for them.

“You don’t always get what you want,” he said smoothly, rubbing the pad of his thumb along the faded scar under his jaw. “That was one lesson the old man taught real well.”

Tossing his coffee cup into the trash, he walked over to the car on the lift, his stride unhurried, his movements easy as he opened the driver side door. But when he reached inside, he gripped the keys tightly, cranking them so hard the engine whined in protest.

The back of his neck heated. He gave the steering wheel a sharp rap with the side of his fist. Damn it. Damn her. This was his place. She had no right to waltz in here, looking all untouchable and superior, and bring up his bastard of a father.

Ducking back out of the car, Griffin walked to the shelves along the far wall without so much as a glance to see if she’d left or not. He took down a funnel and tossed it on the rolling cart next to the plastic jug he used to store old oil.

Blondie couldn’t change the rules because she had a bug up her ass about something. He never set foot in the Ludlow Street Café, the restaurant her father’s live-in girlfriend owned, where her sister Tori worked. Even back in school when he and Tori were in the same grade, Layne two years ahead of them, he’d kept to himself. He never, ever, stepped over the invisible line that had kept the Yorks and the Sullivans separated for the past eighteen years. Pretending the other family didn’t exist—let alone that they lived in the same town—had worked pretty damn well for both the Sullivans and him and his mom.

Had worked until Valerie Sullivan’s remains were found outside the old quarry, proving she hadn’t taken off with his father like everyone in town had believed. Bringing up the very real possibility that his father had killed his lover before he’d left Mystic Point.

And just like that, Griffin and his mother had been yanked back into the past. The police chief had wanted to know if they’d heard from Dale, if they had any idea where he was, how he could be reached. They hadn’t and they didn’t, but that didn’t stop the rumors from flying. Wouldn’t stop people from remembering that his mother had once been married to the man suspected of Valerie’s murder. Reminding them all that Griffin was his son.

“I spoke with my sister yesterday,” the youngest Sullivan said, standing in the middle of his garage as if nothing short of a dynamite blast would move her. Which he was starting to seriously consider. “The assistant police chief?”

He shut off the car and slammed the door shut. “Not interested.”

“Layne said you claim not to know where your father is,” she continued as if Griffin’s words had floated in one ear and out the other without meeting so much as one working brain cell as resistance. “Is that true?”

“I thought you were the smart Sullivan sister,” he said, pressing the button to raise the car on the lift.

She crossed her arms, for the first time looking uncomfortable—and wasn’t that interesting? “I don’t see what my IQ has to do with—”

“But in case you’re not as bright as they say, let me make myself very clear.” He tapped his fist against his thigh as he closed the distance between them, stopping in front of her. Though she wore two-inch heels—and he topped off at five-ten—she still had to tip her head back to maintain eye contact. “I’ve already been questioned by the cops. And no matter how many times you or your sister—the assistant police chief—ask me, the answers aren’t going to change.”

“But you—”

“So unless you’re having car problems—and are prepared to pay me to fix those problems—there’s really no reason for you to be here. And nothing for us to talk about.”

Inhaling deeply, she sent a beseeching glance at the ceiling, as if asking the heavens from whence she came to grant her patience. “I think we got off on the wrong foot here.”

“Do you?” he murmured, figuring only an idiot would miss the calculation in her blue eyes. And the intelligence behind them.

He’d been called many things in his life, but never an idiot.

“How about we start over?” she asked, holding out her hand again. “Hi, Griffin, I’m Nora. It’s nice to meet you.”

For a moment, he almost believed she was as innocent and harmless as she looked with her perfect face, guileless charm and dry sense of humor.

She was good, he’d give her that. Damn good.

He enveloped her warm hand in his, noting the relief, the triumph that crossed her expression. But when he held on past what was considered the polite amount of time for a simple handshake, that relief turned to unease. The triumph to confusion. He felt no small amount of satisfaction from that unease. And he had no problem using it against her.

“How about this?” he asked quietly, tugging her toward him until she was so close he could smell her light, clean scent. Could hear the soft catch of her breath. Her throat worked, her eyes widened as they met his. “You walk yourself out of my garage, get into your car and drive off my property. Or—”