She took that moment to look at the arm settled over her shoulder, the skin covered by a sleeve of various tattoos.

He was wearing long sleeves, but they'd been rolled up to his elbows, and she analyzed the visible skin carefully; the tattoos started just above his wrist and seemed to blend together in an intricate black design.

"It's weird, isn't it?" Griffin's raspy, sleep-laden voice startled her, and she looked up at him with guilty eyes.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"It's okay, Beverly. I don't mind." They shared a gentle smile, and he shifted, moving his arm until it was settled over hers.

Tracing her fingers along what she could see of the swirling designs, she murmured, "Do they have meaning?"

"Don't most things?"

Huffing a chuckle, she nodded. "Whatever they mean, I don't think they're weird; I think they're kind of beautiful, actually. Don't tell my mom, though—she'd kill me if I ever got a tattoo."

Griffin's entire body tensed. "Does that mean she doesn't like anyone with tattoos?"

Beverly's brows rose curiously. "No, not necessarily; she'd kill me if I got a tattoo, but she won't kill you."

"So," he coughed, using his other hand to rub the back of his neck, "she wouldn't stop you from . . . hanging out with me, if she sees my tattoos?"

Moving both her hands to grasp the one he'd settled in her lap, she snatched it up and squeezed it tightly. "No, Griffin, she wouldn't. You might have to promise her that you won't force me to get one, but she's not the type to judge others by how they appear." She paused, letting her gaze drift back down to his arm.

In between the mixing of black ink and tan skin, she caught a different shape. Pulling his arm up until it was only inches from her face, she scrutinized it carefully. "A clock?" It sure looked like one—an antique stopwatch, almost, and the words imprinted on the its face, underneath the hands, read May 20, 2009. Next to the clock, half-hidden by his shirt sleeve, was a flower of some kind.

Swinging her gaze up to ask Griffin what it all meant, she faltered when she found him watching her with amusement. Swallowing her embarrassment, she dropped his arm and folded her hands in her lap to keep herself from touching him again, because Oh, I really want to. "Sorry."

He shook his head. "I told you, it's fine. If I didn't want you to look, I wouldn't let you. Would you like to see the rest of it?"

Beverly's eyes widened. "Can I?"

Griffin chuckled, inching away from her before tugging off his shirt and leaving his upper half—

HOLY FREAKING HELL.

Beverly had only had one boyfriend in her lifetime, and Davis had been nice, but a bit on the chubby side, which Beverly's high school friends had always teased her about. Beverly had never understood why it mattered, since she'd always liked Davis for his personality and could care less how he looked, but now . . . well, now she understood why women liked attractive men.

If making coffee didn't work out for Griffin, there was no doubt that modeling would be an easy fallback career. Griffin was stunning. "How often do you work out?" She asked before she could stop herself, her fingers trailing over the well-defined muscles in his abdomen.

Griffin smiled wolfishly. "Three days a week before I go to Cynthia's; lifting all of the stuff at the store helps too."

"Hot damn," Beverly muttered. Letting her eyes drift over him slowly, she froze when she realized she was looking at him like he was a piece of prime rib. Cheeks tinging with red, she snapped her hand back and cleared her throat, shrugging nonchalantly. "I mean . . . not bad, I guess."

Throwing his head back, Griffin laughed brightly, the rich, smooth sound echoing through his small apartment and shooting tingles down Beverly's spine. When he had calmed, he shifted one hand to dust over Beverly's neck. "Thank you, Beverly."

"For what?"

"For expanding my ego." His smile turned teasing, and Beverly swatted at his chest half-heartedly, unable to stop her hand from stilling against his warm skin. Griffin sighed at the contact, melting into her touch, and Beverly grinned—it was good to know that she affected him just as he did her.

Finally getting her hormones under control, she pulled her hand away and asked instead, "Tattoos?"

"Right." He shook his head as if to clear it, then pulled his arm up and settled it in her lap once more. "Take a look."

She did, shifting so she could trace the swirling black ink as it crawled up his arm and around his elbow. The flower was one she recognized, even though it had no color, and she muttered, "Poppy?"

"Yeah." Griffin's voice was barely a whisper, the words soft and strained. "For remembrance."

Nodding, Beverly shifted his arm, spying another flower on his bicep and a final one on his shoulder; they were both different from the poppy, and her brows furrowed. "And these?"

Gesturing to the one on his bicep first, Griffin muttered, "A hyacinth, for forgiveness, and," his hand moved to the flower on his shoulder, "a daffodil, for new beginnings." His voice wavered on the last word, and the sudden meaning behind the tattoo slammed into Beverly with the force of a freight train.

Barely containing a gasp, Beverly's head snapped up, her eyes wide as she remembered their conversation at the lake and all that he'd told her. "May twentieth . . . is that the day your parents died?"

Griffin, whose eyes were red around the edges, nodded stiffly, his lips pursed tightly. "So you'll always remember," Beverly mused, tracing her fingers along the poppy before following the stem of the hyacinth up his skin, trailing a nail over the many blooms. "To ask for forgiveness," she wasn't sure why he would need to do so, but she had a feeling it was related to the "serious mistake" he'd told her about at the lake. Dusting her hand over the final plant, she continued, "And to have a new beginning." No doubt he had struggled with the last on—who wouldn't, after losing both parents?

He nodded, his eyes staring at a point over her shoulder as water gathered in his hazel eyes, and Beverly was sure the sound of her heart cracking could be heard around the apartment. "Oh, Griffin," she crooned, clasping her hands against his cheeks and pulling his head down until it rested against her neck.

He sniffled, nuzzling the side of her neck and snaking his hands around her back like a child seeking comfort after waking from a nightmare. Placing one hand against his back, Beverly used her other to tug the hair band on his head, pulling it out so she could run her fingers through his wavy locks.

They stayed like that for several minutes, soaking in the comfort the other provided, before Griffin finally sucked in a deep breath and pulled back slightly. "I'm sorry," he told her softly, his eyes pleading for her to understand. "I'll tell you about them and what happened. I will. I'm just . . ." he swallowed thickly, "I'm not ready yet."

"Griffin," she eyed him carefully, "that's okay. You don't have to tell me yet—I understand. Take all the time you need, okay?"

He nodded after a moment. "Do you promise your mom won't hate me because of my tattoos?" Beverly blinked at the sudden topic change. She'd meant what she told him the first time he'd asked—her mom wouldn't hate him, especially if she knew the significance of the ink. "Um, yes."

"Does that mean I can ask you on a date, then? A not-friends type of date? Like, a real one? Oh, God." his features were lined with panic, as if he couldn't believe he'd just asked that, and Beverly laughed brightly, reaching up to pull his face closer to hers.

"Will you kiss me, first?" she asked once she had calmed, her fingers trailing through his surprisingly soft hair once more, her voice barely a whisper.

His lips quirked, and he bent down, his mouth stopping a hairsbreadth from her own. "Are you sure?" the words were so soft she wouldn't have heard them had they not dusted across her cheeks.

"Would I have asked if I wasn't?" she replied cheekily, her voice just as quiet as his.

Griffin chuckled, his eyes raking over her face as though he were trying to absorb every inch. "I should've known you'd be the smart one in this relationship."

"Oh," Beverly teased, "is this a relationship, now?"

Eyes shining with fond annoyance, Griffin closed the space between them, pressing his lips against hers and making Beverly's mind short-circuit quicker than a keyboard that had been dropped in a bucket of water. The kiss wasn't heavy or demanding—it was the beginning of a deep connection: slow, timid, and filled with hope.

Griffin's hands tightened on her waist and he fell back against the armrest, pulling her onto his lap and chuckling against her lips when she yelped at the sudden movement. "Still with me?" he asked, pulling back only slightly, his voice raspy.

Beverly felt herself flush, her half-lidded eyes glancing up at him shyly. "Maybe. Can we try again?"

Huffing a laugh, Griffin obeyed. The second kiss contained a bit more confidence, and this time Beverly was the one to pull back. Bringing up a single finger, she brushed the digit against his lower lip. "Your lips are chapped," she murmured.

His lips twisted into a gentle smile. "They are. It's too cold and dry for me."

"Do you want some of my Raspberry Dream lip balm? It's pink, but it smells really good and I'm sure you'd pull it off."

"Beverly."

"What?" she wiggled her eyebrows. "If that undermines your masculinity, you can use my blueberry flavored one, though I personally don't think it works as well, and your case seems pretty serious—"

He shut her up with another kiss, and Beverly forgot all about her lip balms.

***

"Here we are," Griffin announced as he angled the car up a smooth driveway lined with neatly trimmed shrubs. It was about fifteen minutes outside the city, on a large plot of land that was relatively isolated.

Beverly whistled in astonishment as they drove past an outcropping of trees and a sprawling building was revealed, complete with wide arches, stone detailing, and a soothing cream exterior. "Dang."

Griffin spared her a smile, but it was strained. "It's a little bigger than your dorm, I know."

Chuckling as he pulled the car to a stop in the parking lot of a driveway, Beverly clambered out, smoothing down her blouse and shooting Griffin a grin when he came to a stop beside her. "Ready?" he asked, stooping down just enough to press a kiss against her forehead.

Pushing away the urge to squeal, she nodded eagerly. "For a taste of Cynthia's cooking? Of course! Lead on, Coffee-man."

He huffed a laugh, setting his hand on the small of her back and leading her up the wide front staircase; Beverly would have found the tall double oak doors intimidating if not for Griffin at her side, who reached forward and pushed the door open with the ease of someone who had done so hundreds of time.

"Cynthia?" he called once they were inside, pulling his hand from Beverly's back just as Cynthia came spinning around the corner of the open-concept entrance, wearing a manic grin and a bright orange apron decorated with cartoon turkeys and the words, Gobble It Up!

She was on Beverly in the next instant, throwing her arms around the girl and squeezing tightly, leaving Beverly breathless when she let go. "Hello, hello, Miss Bev! It is oh-so nice to see you—welcome to my humble abode!" and then Cynthia had whirled away in the next second, grabbing Griffin's shirt and tugging him out of the entrance.

"Come on," Beverly heard the woman chide as she followed the pair. "I can't have you not pulling your weight around here, you know?"

Beverly blinked in awe as she stepped into the kitchen, admiring the crown molding on the ceiling and the sparkling stainless-steel appliances. Her eyes shifted to the large granite island, and she had to stop herself from drooling at the impressive spread of casseroles, vegetables, rolls, pies, and other sides.

"Careful!" Cynthia's exclamation had Beverly shifting her attention to the older woman, barely stopping a giggle at the sight before her.

Griffin stood at one of two convection ovens, cautiously pulling out a large turkey while Cynthia stood behind him, her fingers wiggling in the air as though she could ensure the turkey wouldn't be dropped with the action.

Gingerly placing the turkey on the counter with the rest of the food, Griffin crossed his arms over his chest and eyes Cynthia expectantly. "How was that?"

Cynthia harrumphed loudly, patting off her apron with one hand while she used the other to poke at Griffin's back. "No need to be so terribly ungrateful, Godson. After all," her attention shifted to Beverly, and she shot the girl a cheery wink, "we wouldn't want to leave a poor impression on our guest, would we?"

Griffin's ears turned red, and Beverly's smile turned into something mushy; she was quick to cover it when she remembered Cynthia was in the room, but one look at the woman—whose eyes were zipping between the two at a rapid pace—let her know that she wasn't quite successful.

She tapped her fingers nervously against her thighs. She didn't know how Griffin wanted to handle their new-found "relationship," and she didn't want to make him uncomfortable; she'd have to follow his lead and see how he acted, she supposed.

Cynthia hummed thoughtfully, seeming to drop her suspicions for a moment as she clapped her hands together and cheered, "Who's ready to eat?"

***

"Ugh," Beverly groaned, leaning back in her seat and patting her stomach. "I am so full."

Griffin smiled down at her from where he sat next to her, leaning over to peck a kiss onto her forehead. "Good."

Cynthia waltzed into the lavish dining room with a cheery, "Not just 'good'—try 'excellent'! The point of Thanksgiving, after all, is to 'gobble till you wobble,' I believe. No room for dessert?"

Sinking lower into her seat, Beverly shook her head. "Noooo, I couldn't if I tried. That was delicious, Cynthia. Thanks so much for having me over and feeding me; I truly appreciate it."

"Oh, hush now," Cynthia dismissed, plucking up the plate of turkey from the dark oak dining table. "Tell you what: Have Griffin take you on a quick tour of my lovely abode, and then you two can come down and wash the dishes when you're done, since I cooked. By the time you've done all that, there will be room in your stomach for my award-winning pumpkin pie."

Griffin nodded and stood, holding a hand down and heaving Beverly up as well. "C'mon, Beverly," he chuckled when she made a show of stretching her arms and yawning. "We've got to work off all that food."

She grumbled in protest but didn't release his hand as he tugged her out of the spacious room. He guided her into the main hallway, which led straight to the front door and was bathed in light from the large, ornate window settled at the front of the house.

The rest of Cynthia's house was just as spectacular. It had three bedrooms, three and a half bathrooms, an office, a game room, a dining room, a state-of-the-art kitchen with high-tech appliances in every corner, and a living room with a flat-screen TV the size of Beverly's bed.

When Griffin led her onto the large back patio, complete with a pool and garden, she whistled with awe. "This place is a dream," she confessed, running the fingers of her free hand over the stylish patio furniture. The pool and garden were covered for the winter, but she had no doubt that both were impressive in the spring and summer.

"It's definitely expansive," Griffin agreed, though he didn't sound nearly as taken with the property as Beverly was.

The more Beverly thought about it, though, the more she realized that something didn't quite add up. "I'm not intending to be some nosy jerk," she began, "but I don't exactly see how—"

"How Cynthia was able to afford this?" Griffin cut in. "That's because she wasn't able to afford it. You asked about Francis Knott, remember? I'd rather not talk about it, but I will say that Francis claimed to love Cynthia, and he gave her this property after they stopped seeing each other."

Beverly had no clue how all of the pieces connected together, but the more she learned, the more confused she became. "So, they dated?"

Griffin scoffed, his hand tightening against hers until it was almost uncomfortable. "Who knows—Francis is an asshole." He blew out a heavy breath, his grip slowly slackening, and muttered, "Sorry. It pisses me off every time I think about it."

"Then I won't make you think about it anymore," she soothed, popping up on her tiptoes to press a kiss against the corner of his lips. "I'm sorry—I didn't mean to upset you."

His shoulders sagged instantly, and he shot her a grateful look, using his other hand to finger the loose strands of her dirty blonde hair. "Thanks, Beverly. I should tell you that—"

Griffin was cut off by a clicking sound, and they spun around to see Cynthia standing in the French doors that led out to the patio, a Canon camera held in her grasp. "Well, well, well," she mused deviously, her grin huge and toothy. "I should've known something was going on. I must admit, I'm thrilled. Good job, godson."

Griffin stepped away from Beverly instantly, his head tilted toward the floor as he muttered something about "nosy godmothers." Beverly giggled, knowing not to take the actions personally—if he wasn't comfortable showing affection in front of others, that was okay. He was a private person, after all.

"Don't think this gets you two out of doing the dishes," Cynthia continued, waggling a finger at them in joking admonishment.

Beverly smiled good-naturedly. "We would never think such a thing." Once Cynthia had spun back around and walked back inside, she added, "Besides, it'll let us stay close."

Griffin didn't look up from the ground, but she didn't miss the soft smile on his face.

***