Second Chance In Stonecreek. Michelle Major
gold around the edges of her eyes. He smelled the light scent of her shampoo and damn if he didn’t want to press his face into the crook of her neck. As much as he thought he had his feelings under control, the reality of this moment still slammed through him with the force of a tornado.
Then she licked her lips and it was too much. All of it. The return to Stonecreek, the acrimony he couldn’t manage to fix with Trevor, their mother’s expectations and the constant undercurrent of his past mistakes that seemed to follow him everywhere, trailing behind like a child’s blanket.
He did the only thing he could think of in the moment.
He pressed his lips to Maggie’s mouth. It was perfect. Her softness, the sweet taste of apples, the feel of her body so close to him. All of it perfect.
Until she slapped him.
She shook out her hand, seeming as shocked by her reaction as he was. His cheek stung, although he figured he deserved that snap of pain and so much more.
“You kissed me.” The words were an accusation and he had the good sense to realize how out of line he’d been.
“I’m sorry.” He ran a hand through his hair. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
She made a noise in the back of her throat that might have been a growl. “Are you crazy?”
“About you?” He flashed a smile. “Yeah. Yeah, I—Oof.” He stumbled when she pushed on his chest. Hard.
“No, no, no,” she said, her voice low, almost a snarl. Each exclamation was punctuated with another shove. “You don’t get to do this, Griffin Stone.”
He’d seen many sides of Maggie, but never had he seen her so angry. Color stained her cheeks and her breath was coming out in ragged puffs. “I’m not—”
“You rejected me.” She jabbed one finger into his chest. “You said horrible things about my sister and my family.”
“I was angry.” He wrapped his fingers around hers, pulled it away from his body. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“I’ve moved on,” she announced, yanking her hand from his. “Just like you.”
“Like me?”
“The woman you introduced me to. The one who calls you Grif. Oh, Grif...” She gave an overly girlish laugh. “You’re so handsome, Grif. So strong, Grif. Oh, Griffy-poo.”
“Cassie has never called me ‘Griffy-poo’ in her life.”
“Not the point,” Maggie ground out.
Right. What was the point? Why had he pulled her away from the festival in the first place? It certainly hadn’t been to kiss her. If he’d been thinking about anything other than how much he missed her, he would have known that was a horrible idea.
He’d wanted to talk to her about Cassie. She’d misinterpreted and—
“I’m dating someone.”
The statement jolted him back to the present moment.
“No.” The word came out as a puff of breath.
Her eyes narrowed again. “Yes. Well, not yet exactly. I’m going to date someone.”
“Hypothetically?” he demanded, feeling a muscle tick in his jaw. “Or in real life?”
“Real life. The man you saw.” She paused as if searching for a detail she’d forgotten. “James. He’s a doctor.”
“Bully for him.”
“For both of us,” she agreed. “I met him working on the hospital fund-raiser.”
“The one I’m hosting at the tasting room?”
“Your mother is the official host,” she pointed out, not very helpfully in his opinion.
“It’s my vineyard.”
“Your family’s vin—”
“You know what I mean,” he interrupted.
“I know...” She blew out a long breath. “We are not together. Your choice, Griffin. Has something changed?”
Panic spiked through him. He wanted to say yes, but it wasn’t true. He was as messed up as he’d been four months ago. Their past was messy, the present just as complicated. He’d told her he didn’t do complicated. He’d hurt her. The pain he’d caused still reflected in her gaze and he hated himself for it.
He’d grown so damn tired of hating himself.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, then shook his head.
She gave him a sad smile. “So many apologies between us.”
“I want it to be different.” As if that mattered when he was too much of a coward to do anything about it.
The smile faded from her face. “Me, too.”
“Maggie—”
“I need to get back to the festival.” She straightened her fitted red turtleneck sweater. The bottom edge of the butterfly on her cheek had smeared slightly where his thumb had grazed her face. “Brenna will be wondering about me.”
He nodded. “Have a good night, Maggie May.”
She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, a small diamond stud glimmering in her lobe. She had beautiful ears. Every inch of her was beautiful to him.
“Have fun with Cassie,” she said, then whirled and hurried away.
He wanted to call after her, to explain there was nothing between him and his ex-girlfriend. But what good would that do? Would it change everything that prevented him from committing to Maggie?
No. It felt like nothing ever changed in Stonecreek.
Cassie had told him the noise around them didn’t matter, but it was all Griffin could hear, drowning out even the beat of his own heart.
* * *
Morgan Spencer shoved her phone into the top drawer of her desk when she heard her father’s footsteps on the creaky staircase of the house where she’d been born. Literally born in the bathtub down the hall.
This home and town were all she’d ever known. Her perfect life and her perfect family and she didn’t fit in at all.
There was a soft knock on the door and then her dad entered.
“Hey, Mo-Mo. No Fall Fest for you this year?”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m grounded. Remember?”
Her father grimaced, looking slightly sheepish. “Of course. I remember. Fire at Harvest Vineyards. You and a toppled candle.”
“It was an accident,” she said, shame pulsing through her at the reminder of her stupidity.
“I understand, but there are still consequences to your actions, young lady.”
“I’m not so young,” she shot back.
“You’re sixteen.”
“Duh. It’s a wonder you even remember.”
“Attitude isn’t going to help, Morgan.” Her dad’s tone had turned abnormally disapproving. Jim Spencer was a big man. At fifty-one, his shoulders remained broad and only a sprinkling of silver darted his thick brown hair. Tonight he wore faded jeans and a ratty sweatshirt. From the earthy scent emanating from him, Morgan knew he’d spent the evening in his art studio. He spent most of his time there, immersed in the casts and sculptures that seemed dearer to him than his own children.
Morgan was probably the only one who cared about inattentiveness. Maggie had been fifteen when their mother died. She’d grown up quickly, stepping in to help raise Morgan and their younger brother, Ben, who was fourteen