But we're not talking about flowers anymore, and we both know it.
The workshop winds down an hour later. Our centerpiece stands out among the rest - more sophisticated, more balanced. Like we knew what we were doing even when we were making it up as we went along.
"I should get going," Savannah says as we clean up our workstation. "Emma needs help with other wedding stuff this evening."
The dismissal stings more than it should. "Right. Can't keep the bride waiting."
We walk to the truck in silence, the easy intimacy from the greenhouse replaced by careful distance. I hold the passenger door open for her, and she slides in without meeting my eyes.
The drive home is quiet, filled with the weight of everything we didn't say. I can feel her stealing glances, like she wants to say something but can't find the words.
"Thank you," she says finally as I pull into our driveway. "For today. For helping with the flowers."
"Don't need to thank me."
"Yes, I do." She reaches for the door handle, pauses. "Griff?"
"Yeah?"
"The flowers... they're lucky to have you taking care of them."
Then she's gone, disappearing into the house before I can respond.
I sit in the truck for long minutes, her words echoing in my head. Because if flowers are lucky to have me taking care of them, what does that make me for wanting to take care of her?
Dangerous territory just got a whole lot more dangerous.
And I'm not sure I give a damn anymore.
15
LOGAN
Ihave a couple of days off from the fire department, and I'm already going stir-crazy sitting around the house.
My leather and cedar scent carries traces of restlessness and longing I don't want to examine too closely. Desire that has everything to do with the omega currently holed up in our guest room, working on wedding plans with the kind of focused intensity that makes me want to find excuses to walk past her door.
Savannah's been back in Pine Hollow for weeks now, and I can't stop thinking about the way she moved through our kitchen that first night. Like maybe eight years of breaking her heart might actually lead to somewhere worth going.
"You planning to sit there all morning staring into your coffee like it holds the secrets of the universe, or are you going to do something useful?" Griff asks from the kitchen doorway.
I look up to find him leaning against the frame, sandy hair sticking up at impossible angles and his sandalwood scent carrying that particular brand of morning smugness that makes me want to punch him. He's wearing yesterday's jeans and a faded t-shirt that's seen better days, looking like he rolled out of bed and decided to share his morning charm with the world.
"It's my day off. I'll stare at whatever the fuck I want to stare at," I reply.
"Right. Forgot you're allergic to productivity when you're not being paid for it," Griff shoots back.
"Says the man who left pizza boxes on the counter for three days until Xavier threw them away in disgust," I counter.
"Those were going to be recycled," Griff defends.
"Into what? Modern art?" I ask dryly.
Xavier appears in the kitchen like some kind of perfectly groomed apparition, already dressed for work despite the early hour. His dark hair is styled with characteristic precision, not a strand out of place, and his mint and cologne scent carries that clinical efficiency that means he's got a full schedule ahead of him. He's wearing charcoal slacks and a crisp white shirt that probably costs more than my monthly grocery budget, looking like he stepped out of a medical journal instead of our chaotic pack house.
"Are you two going to argue about household maintenance all morning, or can I drink my coffee in peace?"
"Peace is overrated," I mutter, but I shut up because Xavier looks like he hasn't slept much and pushing him when he's tired usually ends badly for everyone.
