JUNIPER
Griff stoodin front of the stove, shirtless, his broad back to me, his impressive muscles shifting as he cracked eggs into a hot skillet. The scent of woodsmoke clung to the air, mingling with the savory sizzle of whatever was in the pan. My mouth watered, and not just from hunger.
He glanced over his shoulder and gave me a soft grin. “Morning.”
I smiled sleepily, pulling his flannel shirt from the night before tighter around me. “You cook. You chop wood. You rescue damsels in distress. What don’t you do?”
He laughed. “Make small talk before coffee.”
I grinned and poured myself a mug of coffee. Scout thumped his tail and shoved his head under my hand for an ear scratch. Appie wound through the dog’s legs, his purrs so loud I could hear them over the light rain. For a cat who was used to spending his days moving from one pillow to another and following the sunlight every day, he seemed to have acclimated.
I reached for my camera, wanting to capture the warmth inside my heart and frame it through my lens. Snapping pictures of a shirtless Griff standing in front of the stove, I sighed with contentment.
He turned around and set two plates onto the small table. “Eat.”
I took a chair and dug into my breakfast. It was simple, just scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast, but it tasted like comfort and safety. Like something I could get used to.
After we cleaned up, I reached for my camera. “I took some great shots of you this morning.”
He raised a brow.
“Not like that.” I rolled my eyes, but my cheeks flushed. “Just… cooking. You looked peaceful.”
“Doubtful.”
“I’m serious. You should see them. I’ll pull them up on my laptop.”
I reached into my bag, searching for the cord to connect my camera to my computer. “Shoot. I must have left the cable at the lodge. Do you have one here?”
He stood at the sink, his arms up to the elbows in soapy water. “Check my bag by the door. Top pocket.”
“Thank you.” I skipped over to him then rose to my tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips. Thankfully his hands were occupied, or I might not have had the willpower to pull away. Then I crossed the room, unzipped the front flap… and froze.
The cord was there. But behind it was a manila folder with my uncle’s name scrawled across the top in bold, black letters.
Caleb Blake – Incident Reports.
I hesitated. Then I pulled it out and opened it.
Inside were printed sheriff’s reports. Harassment complaints. Descriptions of threats made. Caleb’s signature at the bottom. The dates were from months before he died.
My stomach churned, and I regretted downing those eggs. I flipped to the next page—and there was Griff’s name. He’d been the one to find Caleb’s body. He’d been interviewed by the sheriff. He’d known.
“Juniper? Did you find it, baby?”
I whirled around, the folder in my hands. “How long have you been holding onto this?”
His jaw tensed. “It’s not what it looks like.”
“It looks like you knew my uncle was scared for his life. It looks like you’ve been sitting on information that might explain what really happened to him.”
“I wasn’t hiding it.” He dried his hands on a towel, his voice low and guarded. “I was trying to figure out how to tell you.”
“How long, Griff?”
He looked away. “Since the week he died.”
“That was months ago.”
