"Yeah, okay.” We share a private smile. “But you've been warned."
As he turns toward the house, he reaches for my hand. As his roughened fingers envelop mine, this feels strangely real. I know it’s a game, but his palm feels so solid against mine.
He pushes open the door and leads me inside. There’s a shoe rack, so I lean down and unzip my snowy boots. He sets our bags down on the floor and toes off his hiking boots. “Dad? Stevie? We’re here.”
I follow him into a soaring great room with a huge stone fireplace that takes up one entire end of the room. Some ingenious person has installed a beautiful wood stove insert into it, so the fire inside casts off heat and light, but no smoke.
In front of the fire is a big plush wool rug and a lot of comfortable furniture. There’s a coffee table the size of a small country there too, and I’d bet any amount of money that the Griggs men spend most of their family time right there in that spot.
The view is killer. Outside the long row of windows, the lake is visible at the end of what must be a rolling lawn in the summertime. But right now it’s covered with snow. Someone has cleared a strip of the ice on the lake, and I see three people whip by on ice skates.
“Whoa. Can you skate right outside your front door?” I ask.
"Yup," Weston says, using tongs to toss another log onto the fire. “Want to try it tomorrow?”
“Maybe,” I hedge. “There's no way I could skate as well as you, though.”
“That's a good thing, Abbi,” he says dryly. “Otherwise the hockey team recruited the wrong person.” He gives me a coy smile, and my belly does a little flip.
I don't know how this happened. Suddenly I'm friends with Weston Griggs. And I'm spending Christmas with him in this winter paradise. Not that we'll be making out in front of that roaring fire.
But a girl can dream.
“Hey, Dad!" Weston calls. "You here?"
“Sorry!” comes a shout from the back of the house. And then a big, strong man appears in one of several doorways leading into the room. “I was just finishing up a call. This must be Abbi. Welcome.”
My first thought is wow. Mr. Griggs is a silver fox. He’s a handsome older version of my fake boyfriend. I can see where Weston gets his thick, wavy hair and those intelligent eyes. He steps forward, holding out a hand to shake mine.
"It's nice to meet you, Mr. Griggs,” I say.
"Oh, please call me Mickey. The pleasure is all mine," he says with a chuckle. His grip is firm as he gives my hand a polite clasp. “So happy to have you join us for Christmas.” Then he steps up to his son and gives Weston a playful cuff on the biceps. "That's for not coming home to see your father ever. But I guess you’ve been busy."
“It’s hockey season, Dad. You know you can come to a game anytime. Where’s Stevie?”
“Right here.” Another strapping Griggs man steps into the room. Stevie’s hair is lighter than Weston’s, and he’s a little shorter, maybe. But the gene pool has been good to this family. “So you’re the mysterious girlfriend.” His eyes narrow. “I’m fascinated.”
Weston makes a grumpy noise, and his hand finds mine and squeezes. “Be nice, Stevie. Is that any way to greet a guest?”
His brother looks pointedly at our joined hands. “Nice to meet you, Abbi,” he says politely enough. “I cleared out of the double room for you two.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Weston says quickly. “You’re staying longer.”
“Oh I insist,” he says with a smirk. “Let me help you carry your bags upstairs.”
“We got it,” Weston grumbles. “I’ll grab our stuff out of Abbi’s car.”
“Thanks, Westie,” I say in a soft, sweet voice.
His brother snorts. Loudly. “Westie?”
“Shut it,” Weston says to his brother. “Be nice and offer Abbi some lunch. I’ll be right back.”
Lunch turns out to be both casual and delicious. We all sit around that giant coffee table in front of the fire eating crusty bread and a meat and cheese board that Stevie has thrown together. There are three French cheeses, two different salamis, several types of little olives, and cornichons.
I’m in charcuterie heaven.
It’s also a good vantage point for surveilling the family dynamic.
Weston’s dad is a good conversationalist. He tells us all about his newest commission—a teardown in Norwich, where the homeowners scrapped a 1960s raised ranch to build a contemporary mansion. “They’re nice enough people, but they have a Frank Lloyd Wright fetish,” he says with a smirk. “They keep asking for wood-paneled ceilings everywhere. And I keep trying to talk them out of it, or it will be like living inside a cigar box.”
Meanwhile, Stevie keeps sneaking looks at me and Weston. His curiosity isn’t very well disguised. So I decide to have a little fun with it. I slide my hand onto Weston’s knee, oh so casually.
Weston responds by lifting my hand just as casually into his. We make a great fake couple, if I do say so myself.
But then he casually runs his thumb across the back of my hand, and shivers dance across my skin. For a second, I allow myself to consider what it would be like to be Weston’s real girlfriend. The minute we were alone, I’d climb onto his lap and kiss him senseless.
He’d probably respond by pushing me down onto this oversized couch, where we’d make out for hours…
“Abbi?” Weston says, squeezing my hand.
“Sorry?” I say, suddenly aware that I’ve been asked a question.
“Would you like coffee?” Mr. Griggs ask, while Stevie smirks. “I’m thinking of making a pot.”
“Yes. Thank you,” I say quickly. “Clearly I’m a little dreamy today. Maybe I’ll just splash some water on my face.” I feel a little overheated too. Maybe it’s the fire.
Or maybe it’s sexy thoughts about Weston.
“There’s a bathroom just down the hall,” Mr. Griggs says, picking up the empty charcuterie board. “But why don’t you take Abbi upstairs while I make the coffee?” he asks his son. “And find a towel for her.”
“Great idea,” Weston says.
“I’ll just help you carry your stuff upstairs,” Stevie says, popping out of his chair.
“No need, punk,” Weston says, shutting him down. “What if you minded your own business for once?”
“What would the fun be in that?”
Weston wasn’t kidding. Stevie is suspicious.
I can sell this thing. If I’m successful, Weston has to take me out to dinner and split a bottle of wine.
Winning is imperative. I just have to figure out how.
Eight
World War Griggs
Weston
God, my brother is acting like a tool. And my dad seems tense. We just have to get through the party tonight, and then everyone can relax.
“Come with me,” I say softly to Abbi. She’s the only one in this scenario I can count on to behave. I already feel guilty for subjecting her to the madness of a Griggs family get-together.