“Scarf?”
“No… Isn’t that something you put around your neck?”
I giggle at his confused frown.
“What about…”
“Gorge,” we both say in unison before we laugh.
“It works…” He smiles.
And that’s how our day continues as Melissa sells out and the bakery has one of its most profitable days yet.
Which is good, because that night everything changes.
25
Griffin
“Should I be concerned?” I glance at Tanner quickly before grabbing the jar of sweet pickles I know he keeps here at the distillery restaurant.
“Nothing to be concerned about.”
I wonder if I should grab two. Nowhere else in Whispers is open at this time of night, and when Savannah said she had a craving, I knew Tanner was the only one who could help. So I called him and made him meet me at the distillery. I swipe a jar of Sutton’s honey while here, knowing that might be nice for Savannah too. Something sweet to balance the sharp.
“It’s ten p.m. You’re rifling through my cupboards like a poor man on a hunt for food.”
“Savannah had a craving. I didn’t have anything at home.” I shrug, not wanting to make a big deal out of it. Even though it is. Even though it means something.
“’Bout time you sorted that out, then, isn’t it?”
I pause and look back at him. “Sorted what out?”
“Your place. There’s a baby on the way. You’re running around in the middle of the night, getting her pickles, for fuck’s sake. Clearly, this isn’t a onetime thing. Savannah and you, you get each other. I see it. So, get your place stocked, sorted, fucking furnished. Make it a home. For you, her, and the baby.”
Tanner’s eyes narrow on me.
A home. I’ve never had one. Not a warm, welcoming, safe one. I swallow hard, the anxiety of creating one filtering through my body like acid. It burns. Makes me feel like I might puke.
“What are you distilling here anyway?” I change the subject, eyes scanning the busy rooms. A small night crew hums around us, quiet and focused. Tanner always has something brewing.
“I got a new batch on,” he admits.
“You gonna let me buy in yet or not?” I’ve been asking for years. Tanner keeps his whiskey close to his chest. How he distills it, what he and Connor own, the brand deals.
“Maybe?” He watches me carefully. I try to school my features. He usually shrugs me off. I’m shocked at the shift.
“Seriously?”
“Why not? You pretty much built this entire distillery with me. New spa, and now the accommodations are almost done. You remodeled Marie’s Place next door. You built my new ranch, where I now live with my family. You built Connor’s place. Hell, you built all the homes on Billionaire Boulevard.”
I look at him, silent. Not refuting a word. I’ve built it all. I’ve constructed Whispers with him. Brick by brick. But I never let myself live in it.
“Now your place is finished, are you going to call Whispers home?” He brings the conversation back to me. My home. My place in the world.
I’ve spent decades hiding, running, not committing, not settling down. Not building a life where I can just be. Because I can’t just be. The memories swirl too much. But I want it. I’m getting old. I want to settle. Have roots. I just have no idea how to do it. Not sure anything will work.
“Maybe.” My jaw is tight. My chest tighter.
