Later, naked and sated, he held her close in bed and let the rhythm of her heartbeat echo through him as he wondered how in the hell he'd gotten so lucky.
Then again, luck was relative. And though he'd won Hannah, she'd lost out, at least as far as her dad's money was concerned. "Are you just going to let it go?"
"For a little while," she said, obviously understanding that he meant the money. "I'll ask again in a few months. And if the answer is still no ... well, Easton has an idea that I'm pretty sure will work. And then I--we--can take that money and put it away for our own kids," she added, her words giving him a special kind of glow.
She rolled over to face him, their legs twined as she snuggled close. "Hopefully Mom will come around before I have to sic Easton on her. But right now, it doesn't matter. Right now, I've got everything I need."
He held her tight, not quite believing this was real, and yet at the same time, certain nothing in his life had been more perfect.
"Yeah," he said with all his heart. "Me, too."
Epilogue
Beverly Martin pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes as she leaned over Griffin's shoulder so they could both see the computer screen.
"I don't think Angelique would argue with Hammond right now," she said, reaching over him to tap the screen.
She had to lean forward to do that, and she caught the freshly washed scent of his ever-present hoodie and breathed deep. He still wore it constantly around her, despite the fact that they'd been working together for months, pulling long hours on the revisions to Griffin's screenplay that was set to go into production soon, assuming the stars stayed in alignment.
"You may be right," he said. "She's not going to show her cards yet."
"Exactly." She moved her hand away so that he could see the screen, resting it now on his right shoulder. She felt the hard, rigged scar tissue beneath his T-shirt and hoodie. And she also felt his muscles tense.
"Beverly."
"Yes, that line," she said, pretending to misunderstand.
"Beverly, don't."
"Don't what?"
For a moment, he was silent. "You know."
She waited a beat, then another. Then she lifted her hand off his shoulder. But, dammit, this was getting ridiculous. She couldn't be in the same room with him without fighting her way through an electrical storm of attraction, all the more intense because he never let lightning strike. Which was a stupid metaphor, but that only proved how much he was messing with her mind.
Time to take a stand.
She moved around his chair, then leaned against the desk so that she was facing him, the computer at her back, and Griffin right in front of her. That close, there was no way she could avoid seeing the massive scars that marred the right side of his face. Of his entire body, she believed, though she'd never actually seen as much.
"Beverly." Her name was a growl, and he tilted his head down, putting his face in shadows.
"Dammit, Griff. What the hell is wrong with you?"
"Wrong with me?" His head jerked up, his voice filled with anger and derision. "Take a goddamn look."
"I've been looking for months," she retorted. "I don't see a thing."
"Do not patronize me."
"You're an idiot. You know that?"
He rolled his chair backwards. "We're done for today."
She grabbed the arms and pulled it back. "No, we're not." She closed her hand over his right one, the rough, destroyed flesh hard beneath her palm.
For a moment, their eyes met, then he looked away.
She took a breath for courage, then lifted her hand, moving it to his hoodie. Gently, she pushed it off his head.