"Are you sure you're alright?" Cynthia asked, passing Beverly a mug of hot tea and settling next to the younger girl on the large sectional that took up half of the lavish living room.

Beverly shook her head with a grateful smile. "I'm fine, I promise. Thanks for this," she nodded down at the drink in her hands.

Cynthia waved her off, tucking her legs under her and turning her attention to the large television, which was playing some home improvement show. "I never told you how sorry I am for the way I reacted to getting that letter." Her voice was filled with remorse, but her eyes were glued to the TV.

Blowing out a sigh, Beverly clutched the mug tighter. "I'm not going to lie," she started slowly, her eyes looking at the steaming liquid, "it hurt me a lot, but I do understand."

Sucking in a shaky breath, Cynthia shifted, and Beverly turned to find the older woman staring at her with so much sorrow in her eyes Beverly could feel it as though it was her own. "It's not just that," Cynthia confessed. "I'm the reason Griffin stopped speaking to you. It was irrational and so selfish of me, but I was paranoid; I thought you were acting as some kind of spy for Francis and—"

"It's okay," Beverly interrupted. It was hard enough seeing Cynthia act so stilted; Beverly wasn't sure what she'd do if the woman started crying. "I heard you and Griffin speaking at the hospital." She smiled apologetically. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but I couldn't exactly help it."

Cynthia managed a tight chuckle. "It's fine. You shouldn't feel bad, Beverly; I'm the one trying to apologize, after all. I know now the thought was ridiculous—you would never betray my trust like that, and I'm truly sorry for thinking so little of you."

Shooting the woman a genuine smile, Beverly replied, "I forgive you, Cynthia. Francis told me what happened between you, and I'm sorry for shoving my nose where it didn't belong. I realize now that he treated you terribly; I don't blame you for getting upset, and I had no business getting involved--especially since I didn't fully understand the situation."

Cynthia scoffed, letting her head flop back against the couch cushions and staring at the ceiling bitterly. "It was a long time ago, I'm just a little too good at holding grudges. I haven't spoken to him much, though we did run into each other at the hospital and . . ." she paused, picking her head up to scrutinize Beverly. "I'm going to ask you something, and I want you to answer honestly."

Beverly shifted in her seat uncomfortably, hoping she wasn't about to get into more trouble. "Okay . . .?"

"Francis told me you spent Christmas with him, and that he told you about what happened between us. Did he . . ." she cleared her throat before trying again, "Did he say anything else? About me, I mean? Maybe something—"

"To indicate that he's still stupidly in love with you?" Beverly cut in with a cheesy grin, recognizing what the older woman was fishing around for. "Because if so, then yes." Her smile softened. "I know he hurt you, and I know that's hard to recover from, but I think you should at least talk to him. He has a lot he wants to say, and—at the very least—it would offer you some closure."

Cynthia nodded slowly. "I need closure," she agreed. They lapsed into silence for several moments, before Cynthia added, "That letter . . . I looked for it after you left that day, and I couldn't find it. Probably for the best," she muttered, "since I was planning on burning it. Do you have it?"

Beverly had to stop herself from grinning like a fool. She realized that Francis had been less than kind to Cynthia, but the man now—the man Beverly fondly referred to as her honorary uncle—had changed considerably. Cynthia wasn't making any declarations of love, but . . . well, it was a start. "Yes," she told Cynthia eagerly, "It's in my backpack, upstairs. Do you want me to get it?"

"Not just yet," Cynthia said after a moment. "Maybe tomorrow, though; I need to read it sooner rather than later, especially after all the trouble you went through to give it to me." Her expression twisted into one of bittersweet nostalgia, her lips pulling downward into a frown. "And then I suppose I'll have to face Francis in-person."

Tilting her head to the side, Beverly hummed thoughtfully. "Not right away. If Francis truly wants to apologize, then he'll understand if you want to wait and gather your thoughts after reading his letter."

The frail beginnings of a smile twisted at Cynthia's lips. "Griffin was right—you are smart. Who knew I'd be getting advice from someone so young?" The last words were said teasingly.

"I'm not young!" Beverly protested immediately, recognizing the need for a lighter subject. "I'm twenty, thanks very much."

Cynthia barked a laugh, her eyes alight with mirth. "You can't even drink legally," she crowed, slapping a hand against her thigh. "Does Griffin know he's robbing the cradle?"

"He is not 'robbing' anything!" Beverly chucked a pillow at the cackling woman, only for Cynthia to dodge it expertly.

"I ought to teach you which wine is best," the woman continued, waving her arms for emphasis, "and introduce Long Island iced tea, though I bet that would knock your socks off, so maybe we should start simpler. How do you feel about apple juice?"

"That's not funny!"

"Are you aware that storks aren't actually responsible for babies, or do I need to explain how—"

"Cynthia!" Beverly cried, though she couldn't stop herself from laughing at the woman's antics.

"Should I come back later?" They both whirled around to find Griffin leaning against the arched entryway of the living room, a lazy smile tugging at his lips.

Beverly's own grin faded into something softer. "Hey. Did you close up the shop okay?"

Pushing off the pillar, Griffin nodded. "Don't worry, Beverly. Your mocha mix is safe." He bent to peck a kiss against her forehead, before turning and shooting Cynthia a strained smile. Beverly frowned at the action. According to Griffin, he and Cynthia were getting along fine, but she didn't miss the slight tension in their relationship; knowing it was probably there because of her didn't make her feel any better, either.

"Thank goodness for you, godson." Cynthia replied, a smile in place, even as her eyes showed wariness.

Griffin just grunted, his gaze drifting down to his hand as it trailed over Beverly's stomach, carefully avoiding the spot where her bandage rested. "You're not in pain?" his voice was low, directed straight at her, and his movements were slow and steady as they traced over her loose sweatshirt.

"No." Beverly raised one hand to grasp his own tightly. "I took all of my medicine and I'm feeling good today, I promise." She let her gaze drift between the room's other occupants. "Do you two need to talk?"

Almost immediately, godmother and godson replied with an emphatic, "No!"

Beverly rolled her eyes. "Which basically means, 'yes, Beverly, we absolutely need to talk, thanks for the amazing suggestion.' So, I'm going to reheat my tea while you two hash this out."

"Beverly, I don't want—" she hushed Griffin with a stern look, and he averted his eyes, rolling his shoulders twice before releasing a defeated huff of air. "Fine."

"Good. Call me if you need me." She let Griffin pull her up from the deep couch so as to avoid aggravating her stitches, then brushed a hand encouragingly over his loose hair before stepping out of the room.

Regardless of what they said, she knew they needed a moment to speak; she also knew that she couldn't be present when they did. This was between godmother and godson—her involvement wouldn't help.

I just hope they don't start some kind of fight, she mused, casting the living room entrance a wary look.

Making her way to the kitchen, Beverly set her mug in the microwave and set the timer before leaning back against the counter. She couldn't hear any voices coming from the living room, and she could only hope that Griffin and Cynthia were actually talking, rather than sitting in stubborn silence.

The beep of the microwave pulled her from her thoughts, and she snatched up her mug, spinning around and climbing up the elaborate staircase to the second floor, where her room was located at the end of the hall. She doubted she would ever get used to being in such a lavish house, especially since the space was so different from her tiny dorm room.

Beverly winced at the messy room when she stepped inside; she'd only been out of the hospital and staying with Cynthia for several days, and she had yet to put away her belongings. Setting her mug down on the large oak desk that sat in one corner of the cream-colored room, Beverly snagged her backpack from the floor and climbed onto the king-sized, four-poster bed.

Digging past her computer and various other documents and notebooks, she couldn't help but grin when her fingers landed on a smaller slip of paper, and she pulled it out to inspect it for damage.

The letter was fine, if a bit crinkled, and Beverly set it beside her on the bed. "Not bad," she told herself. Nodding once, she shifted, grimacing when her stitches tugged uncomfortably—the effect of her pills must've been wearing off. Her movements cautious, Beverly settled back on the bed, craning her neck as she lifted her shirt and peered down, peeling back the bandage that rested just beside her bellybutton.

The skin underneath was puckered with stiches and still appeared angry and red. Poking at it tenderly, Beverly hissed when the light touch sent a flare of pain zinging through her body. "Crap," she groaned, dropping her shirt and flinging her head back against the pillow, her breaths short and choppy.

Ooooh, this hurts! Ow, ow, ow, ow—

"Beverly!" Griffin was upon her in the next second, his hands pulling her shirt up, careful of the stitches. He replaced the bandage, then bent and placed gentle kisses along her face, successfully distracting her from the pain.

When her heart had slowed, Griffin pulled back and asked, "Jesus, Beverly, are you alright?"

She nodded jerkily, biting her tongue as the last of the discomfort faded. "Yeah," she wheezed, "all good, all good."

Griffin settled back on his knees, blowing out a tired breath and rubbing a hand over his face raggedly. He flopped down next to her, resting his hands on his stomach and tapping out an idle rhythm. "I don't think my heart can handle much more of this." He joked, but it was half-hearted.

Beverly spared him an apologetic smile. "I don't mean to keep causing trouble."

He shifted his head to the side, a smile of his own on his lips, though his was strained. "I did once say you were trouble, didn't I?" Beverly bobbed her head against the pillow in some semblance of a nod.

"I'm still sorry; I'm not trying to be a burden."

"Beverly," his tone grew serious, and he reached out one hand to grasp her own, "you're not a burden. I'm just . . ." he trailed off then, his eyes dancing away from her searching gaze. "It scared me shitless, and I . . ." he swallowed thickly, "I just wish you would've told me, I suppose. That you were in trouble, I mean."

Thinking back on her pride—the same pride that had kept her from reaching out to Griffin in the first place—made Beverly's stomach twist with shame and guilt. "I'm sorry about that, too. I should've called you, I realize that now. I was just hurt, I guess."

"And you had every right to be." He shifted positions until he was on his side, his head propped by one hand while his other remained in her grasp. "It wasn't fair for me to cut you off like that."

"I understand," she began, only to trail off with a raised brow when he waved a hand to silence her.

"I know you do, but you shouldn't have to. I should've been honest with you about Cynthia and Knott. I wasn't crazy about you two getting closer, but I'm not about to control your actions, either." He sucked in a slow breath, tearing his eyes from hers and aiming the hazel orbs at a spot over her shoulder. "I'm not going to lie, I was mad when Cynthia told me you gave her a letter from him, and the idea of you spying on her for him made sense at the time."

Beverly tried to hide the hurt on her face at that admission, but she knew he saw it when he grimaced and hurried to continue. "That was when I sent you that text; pretty soon after, I realized how stupid that thought was. You're a genuinely good person, Beverly—it's not unlike you to help someone out, but you would never intentionally hurt someone else in the process.

"It took me so long to contact you because I was ashamed of myself." He huffed a self-deprecating chuckle. "And then I understood how stupid that was, which is when I asked to talk."

"And I never replied," Beverly comprehended with wide eyes. Ouch—he'd probably thought she was purposely ignoring him.

He spared her a fleeting smile. "Yes. I know now it wasn't on purpose, but I wouldn't have blamed you for choosing to ignore me. When I saw you outside of Cynthia's with Carl—"

"Caleb."

He waved her off with a grunt. "—I figured something was wrong and left as soon as I could."

"I'm glad you came," she confessed softly.

A tender grin mirroring hers spread across his face. "Me too, though I wish I had been there earlier. I—" he stopped abruptly, his entire body tensing, and his eyes turned hard.

"What?" Beverly felt her heart speed up. What's gotten into him? "Griffin? What is it?"

"Caleb," he muttered angrily. "Is this the same Caleb who made you cry?"

Ooooooh. Shit.

She'd forgotten almost entirely about the incident at Cynthia's when Caleb had called and brought her to tears; she hadn't realized that Griffin had heard her say his name that day.

"Yeah . . ." at his darkening features, she tacked on, "But he helped me a lot with this whole mess, and I have entirely forgiven him for being a little mean to me!"

"'A little mean'?" Griffin scoffed. "More like a whiny shithead who needs his ass served to him."

Unused to Griffin's vulgarity and irritation, Beverly blinked twice before saying, "You know, you'd be a lot scarier if I didn't know how much of a softie you are."

His lips twisted into a dangerous smirk. "But Caleb doesn't know that, does he?"

Beverly chuckled and rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "Oh, come on now." His expression didn't change, and she tried a different tactic. "Did you talk with Cynthia?"

Griffin stared at her for a moment, his gaze scrutinizing. "You're changing the subject."

"And you're going to let me, because I'm cute and you adore me," she retorted cheekily, grinning mischievously.

He snorted a laugh after a short pause. "Yes, I am; yes, you are; and yes, I do. Don't worry, Beverly, Cynthia and I talked it out and everything's fine."

She narrowed her eyes. "Promise you're not just telling me that to placate me?"

"I promise," his gaze was soft and sincere. "We're fine now." They settled into another silence, and Beverly let her eyes slip shut, her body relaxing even as her mind raced with questions.

"Griffin?" he hummed in acknowledgment, his fingers trailing through her loose hair soothingly. "How'd you find me so quickly?"

His fingers faltered only slightly, but Beverly still noticed; he was silent for a long moment, and Beverly almost thought he wouldn't answer before he said slowly, "Remember my friends? The ones that I didn't want you meeting?" his tone was carefully blank, and Beverly cracked open one eye to stare at him curiously.

"Yes," she drawled. "What about them?"

He sighed heavily, his fingers dropping from her hair to dust over the skin of her neck. "They have . . . connections, you might say. I contacted one of them, Kenneth, and he managed to listen in on the police scanners."

Beverly grinned widely. "So you are still a bit of a bad boy. I always wondered, what with your tattoos, growliness, and all."

Griffin huffed. "I'm not. I just have—"

"'Connections,'" she teased, imitating his voice poorly. Sobering, she pulled one hand up to trace the outline of his jaw. "Thank you. For coming to get me and then making sure I was okay, I mean."

"Of course, Beverly," he murmured, bending to plant a soft kiss against her lips. "Will you tell me now, though? If you're in trouble?"

She pretended to think it over. "Maybe. Will you make me a mocha if I say, 'yes'?"

He rolled his eyes with fond annoyance. "Yes, I will."

"And I want to meet Kenneth—he did help you find me, after all."

Griffin scrutinized her for a long moment, his gaze searching, before he chuckled. "I should've known you'd want to meet him. Yes, Beverly, you can meet Kenneth."

Beverly grinned giddily. "Look at me," she joked, "worming my way into your life, slowly but surely."

His grin shifted into a devious smirk, and Beverly had to fight off a shocked expression. Since when had her shy, socially awkward, somewhat grumpy Griffin started smirking? "Oh, Peach," he teased, his lips dusting across her ear. "There was nothing slow about it."

And then he pulled back, leaving Beverly's heart racing and her expression disappointed at the loss of his warmth. "Now who's the awkward one?"

Her mouth dropped open. "Shut up!"