And then he's gone too, sirens wailing as he speeds toward whatever emergency requires his immediate attention.
Leaving me alone in the bus station parking lot with three abandoned bouquets and the sudden realization that I'm about to see Savannah Hale for the first time in eight years. Just me. No backup. No moral support. No Xavier to smooth over awkward moments with diplomatic small talk or Logan to deflect attention with his grumpy charm.
Just me, armed with sunflowers and the kind of nervous energy that makes me want to build something with my hands to keep them busy.
My phone buzzes. Emma.
Emma: How's the pickup going?
Me: Fine. The bus is running a few minutes late.
Emma: All three of you behaving yourselves?
Me: Define behaving.
Emma: Not starting a fight in public. Not overwhelming Savannah with alpha posturing. Basic human decency.
Me: Two out of three isn't bad.
Emma: Griff...
Me: Relax. Xavier got called to a medical emergency, Logan got called to a fire. I'm flying solo.
Emma: YOU'RE picking her up alone?
Me: Problem?
Emma: Do I need to list the reasons why that might be a problem?
Actually, I prefer flying solo. Xavier makes everything feel like a medical procedure, and Logan turns social situations into military operations. Without them, I can be myself. Charming, easy-going Griff who knows how to make people laugh and feel comfortable.
The Griff who made Savannah smile before I made her cry.
Me:I've got this under control.
She starts typing, then stops. I can practically feel her frustration through the phone.
Emma:The bus has been delayed by 5 minutes. Should be there at 3:52 now.
Me:Copy that. Three minutes and counting.
I pocket my phone and check my watch. 3:49. Any minute now, I'll see those brown eyes again, breathe in that vanilla bourbon scent that has haunted my dreams for eight years. My heart hammers against my ribs like it's trying to escape.
Then my phone rings.
The caller ID shows Sullivan Construction. One of my subcontractors. I almost let it go to voicemail, but something about the urgency of the repeated calls makes me answer.
"Griffin Stone."
"Griffin, thank God," comes the panicked voice of Jake Thompson. "We've got a serious problem at the Riverside project. Building's not stable. Looks like Tommy forgot to engage the safety mechanisms on the scaffolding system. The whole structure is swaying. We need you here now."
My blood goes cold. The Thornfield project is a three-story commercial building, and if the scaffolding fails with workers on it...
"How many people are on site?" I bark into the phone, my contractor instincts taking over.
"Six guys, and they're all still up there working. They don't know how dangerous it is. Griffin, this thing could come down any minute."
The sunflowers slip from my grip, scattering yellow petals across the asphalt as the phone presses against my ear. People could die. My crew, my responsibility, my fault for not double-checking Tommy's work.
