"Need I remind you of what you'd be missing?" The fire in his eyes backed the furious thrust that he performed into my stomach, nearly knocking the air from my lungs.

  "Griff, I didn't mean it-"

  "You better choose your words a little more carefully," he grumbled, lifting himself from beside me.

  "Where are you going?" I questioned, feeling our closeness slip from my grasp. Dammit-to-hell! Why couldn't I just shut the hell up when the moment called for it?

  "To make some coffee," he spat, grabbing the condom and the shirt from the nightstand before heading towards the door. "And to walk off this erection."

  I gave him a few moments to recoup, admonishing myself for my inability to choose my words more wisely. I didn't know what had caused my mouth to say the words. Freudian slip maybe? I'd never been altogether comfortable with giving myself over completely to someone. Why should this time be any different?

  Because it is different.

  Nothing about my feelings towards Griff were typical. I'd never been so inexplicably drawn to someone. Never before had I allowed myself to be so enamored with someone, so taken and so willing to forego all of my usual rules of dating. I was, in no way, holding him at arm's length like I always intended to do. He was definitely a lot closer than what I deemed comfortable.

  The real question became alarmingly clear: What was I going to do about it?

  As if my body had been preparing to answer the question for some time, my feet hit the floor and I willingly allowed them to carry me in his direction. I found him naked, rummaging through cabinets and drawers, his brow furrowed and his lips pursed in a sort of frustrated determination. Walking the rest of the way into the kitchen, I was afforded the luxury of seeing him in all of his glory again. My eyes diverted immediately to the mass between his thighs. Even un-erect, it was a sight to see. My heart curled possessively over the thought that sprang to mind: Mine.

  If I ever needed to escape to ensure my heart was intact, now was the time to do it. But I couldn't. Nothing inside me wanted to be without this man, this feeling that he created inside of me that no one else had managed to. I was edging carelessly towards a dangerous, slippery slope, on the verge of disproving an earlier hypothesis: Maybe love wasn't just a myth used by songwriters for capital gain. Maybe, just maybe, it was a real, tangible thing. And if this new theory was proven true, I had personally chartered a boat and taken a drive straight into uncharted waters.

  Caramel apples! I'm in trouble.

  "Tell me about your parents," I suggested, my voice cracking over the words. The realizations that I'd just made had left me numb and feeling vulnerable in a way that I hadn't in some time.

  His back stiffened over the coffee pot. "Kennedy, unless you actually want me to split you in two, you better do the talking," he said. "My ass is still chapped from the words that you just said, that you assure me you didn't mean."

  The key here would be to tread lightly. I'd watched enough episodes of the Crocodile Hunter to know that you didn't go about riling creatures that were already in a pissed off state of mind.

  "Okay, so I'll tell you about mine," I suggested, stepping closer to him, hesitantly.

  He resumed his coffee making, adding multiple scoops of the grounds before setting the machine to brew. When he finally turned towards me, giving me his full attention, I was standing directly in front of him, naked and afraid and already regretting that I'd offered to divulge the information.

  I cleared my throat. Where to begin?

  "My mom died when I was young of congestive heart failure, leaving me to a dad who was more interested in manipulating my sister's life and career than to show any interest in mine. So, I've basically disowned him and whittled my family tree down to three - me, Kole and my nephew, Trent." My words were a hurried mess, my lips moving over the syllables of my life, slicing open wounds that I normally did a better job of keeping closed.

  "So we're doing short versions, are we?" His brow lifted into one of intense scrutiny.

  "Griff, please. I'm trying," I admitted, closing my eyes over stubborn tears.

  "I can see that," he said, his voice coming at me from above.

  I felt arms circle around me and a firm chest pressing against my cheek. In his arms, my fears subsided. As I was reminded of his words from the night before, an unexpected calm washed over me.

  "So, my short version," he said softly, his voice coming at me through his chest. "Dad died shortly after Mick signed his record deal and Mom…" he trailed off, pausing as if he was reliving whatever happened to her. "Mom died while I was behind the wheel, headed to one of our gigs."

  "Oh my God, Griff. I don't know what to say-"

  "Nothing," he said, cutting in tersely. "You say nothing because there's nothing to say to that. Nothing will bring them back, Kennedy. Not my dad or your mom…or mine…"

  "But-"

  "No buts."

  He was right. There was no resurrecting the dead, no matter how hard I'd tried as a kid. I prayed, cried, promised things that I didn't have in my possession, but nothing had changed things.

  "Tell me more," I murmured. "You said our gig…as in you and Mick?" I questioned, peeling my face from his chest to look up at him. "What did you mean by that?"

  He nodded, an expected heaviness behind his eyes. "Look, Mick was always the voice. He got off on performing. I enjoy it, but on a much smaller scale. What I was good at…what I wanted to do, was write. I like creating words and melodies and fusing them together," he explained, his arms moving to link around my waist. "So, what you heard at The Bluebird about me writing songs for him…is true. Or was," he mumbled as an afterthought. "God, that seems like a lifetime ago."

  "But I don't understand…"

  He chuckled softly, the action shaking off some of the downer dust. "I guess there is no short version," he said, more to himself than me. "Before Mick was the big name that he is now, I toured around with him, writing songs and playing guitar when he needed me. And, most nights, he did," he explained. He released me, turning towards a cabinet before pulling out a canister of coffee creamer. "It was a lot of fun and it was a way for both of us to get over losing Dad so suddenly."

  "What happened to him?"

  "Here, let's get some coffee and finish this conversation on the back deck," he suggested. "Creamer?" he questioned, adding some to my cup when I nodded, but taking his black. "I'll bring the coffee if you'll grab some quilts. Down that hallway, last door on the right before the back door."

  I found the quilts, wrapping one around my shoulders and tucking the other into my chest as Griff passed me in the hallway, obviously more comfortable with his nudity than me. He deposited our cups onto a small table nestled between two weathered rocking chairs, taking the quilt that I held in his direction. We took our time getting comfortable, sipping our coffee and enjoying the view.

  "Heart attacks happen unexpectedly, even to people who are in great shape. It's true what they say, all the clichés." I shot him a dubious glance, pulling the blanket down tighter over my shoulders. "When it's your time to go, you go and we're not promised tomorrow. You know, those statements that everyone uses during conversation to sound more informed about life?"

  "Griff, I'm sorry," I said, reaching across the distance to place an apologetic hand over his. I had to fight to keep myself from crawling into his lap.

  "You understand, I'm sure," he said, his fingers doing a jittery dance beneath my hand. "Doesn't sound like your mom's passing was something that you anticipated."

  "It wasn't," I acknowledged, pulling my hand back from his, settling it into my lap. "She was diagnosed prior to passing though. It was a slow burn," I admitted. "Watching her grow tired, weary…Seeing her slowly whittle away…" I could feel the tears returning. I rarely allowed myself to go there, to remember those last months, so tiptoeing around it now wasn't something that I was altogether comfortable with.

  "I don't know which is worse," Griff offered.

  "Me either."

  "Mick and I were okay then," he explained. "In fact, we were closer than we'd ever been. He was busy trying to make something of himself and I was busy losing myself in my music. It was an extremely cheap way to numb the pain." He took another sip from his cup, balancing it on the arm of the chair when he was done. "But, as I'm sure you know, the numbness eventually fades and the pain still remains.

  "Still, I'd wake up every day trying to force it into the back of my mind, hoping that it'd get better in time. That's one cliché that I don't think I agree with," Griff said softly, forcing a smile in my direction. "Day after day, city after city, small venues and hole-in-the-wall bars filled my time, distracting me. But it wasn't enough," he explained, "and I don't think that it ever would've been."

  My heart bled for him. His story felt so similar to my own, his ways of distraction mirroring mine. I'd drowned every unbearable thing in my life with my music, pretending that it didn't exist. Words and melodies were created and existed to stamp out the white noise…And to bring me closer to Mom.

  "My mom begged me to take some time off. She told me that she couldn't bear to be alone in this house for one more minute. It was a lie. She was tougher than all three of us, but she knew that I needed it," he said, his fingers gripping the handle of the cup. "And she knew that I couldn't tell her no," he recalled, allowing a small chuckle to escape.

  "So, I came home and let her love me, let her nurse me back into shape. She didn't think that it was a good idea for me to return to Mick's world, but I wanted to. After the first few days, I'd gotten antsy. I never know what to do with myself when I don't have anything to do."

  I nodded, relating to him more than he probably understood. "It's hard to get yourself to go away."

  "Exactly," he agreed. "Anyhow, she told me that if I was adamant about going back on the road, she wanted to ride with me to the next venue. She never told me that she was afraid I'd do something stupid, but I know that's why she insisted. Dad and I were so close and his loss had made me into this fragile individual. I think she was frightened by what I'd become. I know that I sure was."

  It was hard to wrap my mind around the idea of Griff being fragile. Nothing about him that I'd seen so far was fragile. He was the strongest, most virile man I'd ever been around.

  "Charlotte, North Carolina," he said softly, his foot digging into the plank of wood beneath it. "We were thirty miles outside of town, it was late and she had suggested we stop about an hour prior. But I wanted to get there - needed to press forward because I had it in my head that that was what I needed to fill the gaping hole in my chest. There was a drunk driver on the road…"

  "Griff-"

  "He was already on the wrong side of the interstate when he veered into our lane before I could react. He wasn't there and then he was….And then I was and she wasn't…" He said the words softly, tilting the cup towards him to stare inside before lifting it to his lips and polishing it off.

  "Griff," I said, my empathy for the man and the situation equaling one another.

  "You want to know why Mick and I hate each other? Well, there it is," he said scornfully. "He blames me for Mom's death," he admitted icily, his eyes going to that place of darkness. "Well, that and the fact that when he finally released his first full album he took credit for the songs that I'd written." He rolled his tongue around in his mouth like he was tasting the words, and by the look on his face, he didn't like them.

  "What? He can't do that," I pointed out. "Why wouldn't you say something? How could you let him-"

  "Because I blamed myself for her death too," he cut in. "He had done it to hurt me - the only way that he knew how - and I let him because I felt I deserved it. And he's been doing things, living his life recklessly, giving us all a bad name and leaving us with unwanted responsibilities ever since."

  "Jesus," I whispered softly, coming to terms with the root of their hatred for one another. "It wasn't your fault. You know that, right?"

  "Of course I do," he responded, though his voice still conveyed a level of guilt. His eyes shifted to mine. "I do," he tried reassuring me. "I won't lie, it took me a long time."

  Something inside me had shifted. My guarded strings had come untied and found a way to his.

  "How's that for morning coffee?"

  "Not entirely what I expected, but I needed it."

  "Did you?"

  "More than you know," I admitted.

  He reached across the distance, his palm opening as an offering for mine. I laced my fingers into his, feeling close to him in a way I'd never felt with anyone. Somehow, over the course of the last couple of weeks, amidst the chaos that had consumed my life, I had found my guiding light. He had become my True North.

  His grip tightened around my fingers, my instincts telling me that he needed me in the moment as much as I needed him in my life. Whatever he had intended by allowing me a glimpse into his past, he had gotten so much more. And I hoped that he could handle what he'd created because I was, without a shadow of doubt, completely and helplessly in love with Griff Callahan.

  "She was perfect," I whispered, cutting into the silence as a vision of my mom flashed before me.

  "Who?"

  "Mom," I answered, clearing my throat, hoping that the action would remove the lump. "She was beautiful and kind. Kole got most of her looks, but I have her eyes and her heart," I explained, a touch of moisture pooling at the corner of my eyes. "And her talent," I added.

  "She was a musician?" he questioned, his eyes emanating surprise and interest.

  I nodded. "Somewhat. But she gave it up when Kole came along," I said, grabbing my coffee from the table. I realized it was colder than I preferred so I returned it back to the table. "She'd always wanted a family more than a career. Or, at least, that's what she always told us," I explained.

  I closed my eyes, practically feeling her hands on my skin. I don't know what possessed me, but my mouth began to tell him something that very few people knew.

  "I was with her when she died." I licked my lips, batting my eyes to resist the breaking point I seemed so dead-set on reaching. "I remember the day like it was yesterday…How she smelled, how her hand felt in mine." The darkness behind my closed eyelids brought me face to face with her smile. "She had her hair in this…loose ponytail," I recalled. "Pieces of her brown hair had fallen out of the holder, framing her face perfectly."

  "Kennedy, you don't have to-"

  "She asked me to sing to her because she was tired. So I sang her favorite song - Go Rest High on that Mountain."

  "Not a bad way to go if you ask me," he said softly. "I know that song very well," he admitted. "My mom and dad loved music. It always filled the house. Mick and I would play the guitar while my mom played the piano. She was a great piano player," he explained.

  I was glad to have a momentary break from my emotional confession. If I didn't know any better, I'd think that that was his exact intention.

  "We would all take turns singing - some of us better than others. Mick always had the best voice."

  "I find that hard to believe. You forget, I heard you at The Bluebird," I reminded him.

  He nodded. "Yes, but Mick's got the most range. He's really talented," he admitted. "Sometimes it's just hard to hear over all that music."

  I stood, finally giving in to my impulse and finding a spot on his lap. He wrapped his arms around me, both of us enjoying the silence and the view. The back porch looked over about an acre of clear-cut land, another smaller lake dotting its terrain.

  "This place is amazing, Griff. Did you grow up here?"

  "My dad was this big dreamer…Kind of like Mick. He always had these grand ideas, the ranch being one of them. He wanted to create roots for us kids, a place that we could always call home."

  "It's nice. Not everyone has this," I informed him softly.

  "What about you? What's your home like?"

  "I lived in an apartment downtown, but I gave it up just prior to joining the tour. I have this problem with spontaneity and I think it was just another one of my bad decisions."

  "Not that one. The one where you grew up," he clarified.

  "Funny, I haven't thought of that as home in a long time," I admitted softly, sinking further into his chest. "I try not to think about it because of how much it hurts. My mom filled it up, made it what it was. It could've been a shack, but it would've felt good. Love that big can make you feel safe, ya know?"

  "Yes, I do."

  Something about the way he said the words, curled around my heart. I shivered.

  "After she died, my father sold the house and bought a bigger one in a ritzy neighborhood. It was big and cold…hard...with stone and marble and modern edges," I described, realizing that it'd been so long I remembered the feeling of the place much more than the details. "I wanted to hate him so badly for stealing that away from Kole and me, but a large part of me didn't blame him. The place was lifeless without her…I miss her so much," I added softly after a few minutes had ticked by.

  "I know, because I miss my folks too."

  "I've never shared any of that with anyone," I admitted.

  "Me either."

  "Griff?"

  "Hmm?"

  "I feel like I can face anything when I'm with you," I whispered, the realization startling.

  He tilted my face up to his and smiled. "Good, because I feel the same."

  I settled my head back onto his shoulder. There was a confidence that being with him created. Being an us and not just a me, allowed me to go there…back to that day. I had shut it out, sealed it off because it was easier that way.

  But now, in his arms, I closed my eyes, allowing myself to remember.

  "Momma, what do you think Heaven's like?" I questioned, seated in her lap. I tried not to wiggle too much. My father had chastised me a lot lately about Momma's strength and her body's delicate nature.

  She ran a feeble hand through my red hair, smiling through tired eyes. "I think it's big and beautiful. There's no sick people, or poor people. No hate. And music…I hope there's lots and lots of music," she said softly. "And I hope there's holes in the floor so that I can watch you and Kole."