Page 11 of Indigo Ridge (The Edens 1)

Harrison Eden smiled.

Griffin, who was just as handsome as he had been last night, did not.

Had he known who I was last night? Had that been some sort of test or trick? Doubtful. He looked as surprised to see me as I was to see him.

“Hey, Harrison.” Pops stood to shake his hand, then waved at me. “You remember my granddaughter, Winslow.”

“Of course.” Harrison took my hand as I stood, shaking it with a firm grip. “Welcome. We’re glad to have you as our new chief of police.”

“Thank you.” My voice was surprisingly steady considering my heart was attempting to dive out of my chest and hide under the table. “I’m glad to be here.”

“Would you like to join us?” Pops offered, nodding to the empty chairs at our table.

“No,” Griffin said at the same time his father said, “We’d love to.”

Neither Pops nor Harrison seemed to notice the tension rolling off Griffin’s body as they took their chairs, leaving Griffin and me to introduce ourselves.

I swallowed hard, then extended a hand. “Hello.”

That sharp jaw I’d traced with my tongue last night clenched so tight that I heard the crack of his molars. He glared at my hand before capturing it in his large palm. “Griffin.”

Griffin Eden.

My one-night stand.

So much for serendipity.

Chapter Two

Griffin

Winn. She’d told me her name was Winn.

Winn, the sexy woman with silky dark hair, deep blue eyes and legs for days. Winn, the lady with Bozeman license plates. Winn, the tourist with freckles across her nose.

It happened sometimes, that a tourist would stumble upon Willie’s for a drink. It annoyed the fuck out of Willie—Junior and Senior—because neither liked outsiders in their bar. I’d considered myself one lucky bastard that I’d made the last-minute decision to swing in for a drink and pull up a stool beside Winn.

Except she wasn’t Winn.

She was Winslow Covington, a name I sure as hell would have recognized. Dad had been talking about her for weeks since the hiring committee had selected her as the new chief of police.

Not a tourist. Definitely not a tourist.

She was supposed to be a goddamn tourist.

“Fuck,” I muttered as the truck bumped and rolled down the gravel road toward Mom and Dad’s place.

“You okay, Griff?” Conor asked from the passenger seat in my truck.

I grunted.

“Okay,” he drawled, turning his attention to the green pasture out his window.

What a fucking mess. It had been two days since lunch at The Eloise and I was still pissed at myself.

Winslow Covington.

Not someone I should have fucked in the backseat.