was then that it finally came together for Grif. The girls were corner pieces in a puzzle that set the whole picture to light: the furnishings in Kit’s house, one where Grif felt perfectly at home. Her car, her clothes, her friends and their hairstyles-the likes of which he hadn’t seen since he was alive. Even this place, Grif thought, studying the woven grass-mat walls. It was a modern nod to kitsch, to Vegas’s heyday, to the South Seas and the world war he remembered… yet his time wasn’t modern anymore.
“Let me get this straight. You all dress up like you’re from the fifties? You-what’d you call ’em, billies?-live your lives in the past?”
“We live nostalgically,” Merrily corrected. Grif looked at her, eyes catching on a cherry tattoo peeking from the sleeve of her right arm. “It’s fun.”
“Fun,” Grif repeated flatly, pulling his gaze from her inked arm, only to have it fall on Fleur’s, who also had two cherries seared to her arm. They were integrated with a horseshoe, and a row of flaming dice. What the hell?
“It’s not just women,” Fleur said, amusement lacing her tone as she shifted, revealing more ink. A mermaid flicked its blue-green tail Grif’s way. “Plenty of men live the rockabilly lifestyle, too.”
Grif looked around, realizing she was right. There were as many men here as women, all greased and suited up, either playing an electric guitar or dancing to one.
“And it’s not only the fifties,” Kit put in, “though that’s my favorite, too.”
“You just like crinoline,” said Fleur.
“I do,” Kit admitted, with a small shudder. “And the capris, the knit sweaters, the cupcake dresses…”
“The boys with pomps and high-waisted jeans,” Charis said dreamily, chucking her baby under her chin. The little girl smiled.
“Nic loved the music,” Kit said. “She always said it was so
They were all silent for a time after that. Grif, feeling the pressure to stave off some serious waterworks, huffed and crossed his arms. “Yeah, but none of you really lived it.” His assertion was met with dumb silence. “I mean, it’s swell that you’d romanticize an entire era, but you don’t know what it was really like.”
“Excuse me,” Fleur said sharply, hands on her hips, “but that’s a straight-razored do, if I’m not mistaken, and I can see the pomade greasing each strand. What brand do you use?”
“Pluko.”
She smirked, red shiny lips twisting knowingly. “That and no other, I bet. And those are vintage Stacy Adams wingtips, am I right?”
Grif looked at his shoes. She was. But Grif was also the original owner.
“Taking the retro-P.I. thing a bit far, aren’t we?” she teased, with a raised brow.
“No such thing,” Kit said, mistakenly thinking Grif needed rescue. “I personally find it a refreshing change from all the greasers and swing kids.”
“So do I,” said a new voice, directly over Grif’s shoulder. The faces of the women in front of him soured and he turned to find a platinum blonde poured into leopard print. Long black lashes winged from doe-soft eyes, and her red lips were cushioned in a pout rather than a sneer.
“Bombshell” was the first word that came to Grif’s mind. “Calculating” was the second. She edged between Fleur and Grif like the giant cat she was fashioned after. “Though I prefer the pinup period. Neo-burlesque is my poison. Perhaps because I do it so well.”
“Grif, this is Layla Love,” Kit said, and though she hadn’t moved an inch, her voice was tighter than it’d been moments before. “Layla, Griffin Shaw.”
Layla’s mouth twitched as she inched closer so that her arm was touching his. “So. I hear you’re Kit’s knight in shining armor. A real hero.”
“Not exactly,” Grif said, taking a full step back. The woman smiled like it was some sort of battle won.
“A protector, though.” She tilted her head, and sent long blond waves swinging. “Like some sort of guardian angel?”
“I wouldn’t say guardian.”
“Good,” she said, and her hand closed over his, and squeezed. “Then Kit won’t mind if I borrow you. I love this song. And I’m always looking for a new partner.”
Layla commandeered the crook of his arm, but Fleur intervened, and her touch-laid over them both-was less gentle. “There aren’t really enough boys to go around, but since my man is busy rocking out, I’ll dance with you, Layla. You know how I love to Lindy.”
Layla edged back toward Grif. “Well, I don’t-”
“And this was Nic’s favorite jive,” Fleur added with a sigh, and even Grif could tell there was nothing Layla could say to that. They turned arm in arm, Layla shooting one final glance at Grif over her bare shoulder, but tension left the bar like a giant exhalation. Charis promptly groaned. “Good Jesus, look what else the cat dragged in.”
“You mean, coughed up,” Merrily muttered into her tiki mug, staring at the entrance like she wanted to open fire.
Before Grif could turn, Kit rose from her barstool, putting a staying hand on his shoulder as she edged around him. “Will you excuse me?”
“Who’s that?” Grif muttered, and this time it was his voice that was tight as he watched Kit approach a man who was tall, well dressed, and so good-looking he was almost pretty.
Merrily read his mind. “Oh, that’s Pretty Paul,” she said, painted mouth curled in distaste.
Charis tsk-ed. “Don’t let Kit hear you say that.”
“Why?” Grif asked, feeling something in his belly grow claws as the two drew close.
“Because digging on him is old sport and she’d rather have moved on to the new.” Charis looked at Grif pointedly, then jerked her head. “Paul Raggio is Kit’s ex-husband.”
Grif did a double take, and the clawed thing in his stomach also grew fangs.
Kit headed toward Paul as if forced at gunpoint. She was annoyed with him for reasons she couldn’t name-even though he’d tried to call her back, and she’d been the one to respond with silence. She was also annoyed with herself for being annoyed. Nothing he did should matter to her anymore. He’d made that clear enough last night. “Hello, Paul. Slumming?”
He didn’t correct her. Instead, he quirked a perfectly waxed brow and dug a deeper hole. “Can we talk outside, Katherine? The colors in this place are making me nauseous.”
His automatic turn toward the door, and unspoken assumption that she’d follow, didn’t endear him to her any further. She planted herself next to a wooden island warrior with far more personality than her ex-husband would ever have. “It’s Nic’s wake, Paul.”
He glanced over at her sharpened tone, caught the way her arms were folded over her chest-let his gaze linger, too, on the flare of her hip-then predictably honed his own voice. “I know. I had to convince Marin to tell me where it was.”
Considering the way Paul and her aunt felt about each other, it
“Oh.” Paul’s brows pulled low. “Yeah.”
Kit’s hard exhale hugged a silent curse, and she shook her head and turned away. Paul lunged, his hand tense on her forearm. “Hey,” he said. “You’re the one who wanted my help, remember?”
Yes, she remembered. She remembered begging him to stay with her. She also recalled being left alone to face a night that could easily have been her last. That, she realized, was why she was miffed. He’d walked away again. He’d left her vulnerable. Again.
“Well, I don’t need your help anymore,” she said, surprising them both. She yanked her arm away, but he held on tight. “Grif and I are working on it.”
“Who’s Grif?”
“I am.” The voice rose over her shoulder just as the shadow stretched over Paul. Kit’s back warmed with his body heat, though chills raced over the front of her body-either pleasure at the way he leaned into her or satisfaction at the way Paul straightened. Probably both.
“Griffin Shaw,” she introduced, without looking back. “Paul Raggio. Paul,
Paul spared Grif the same look he gave all her billy boys, offensively dismissive until Grif also placed his hand on Kit’s arm, causing Paul’s to fall away. “Who are you supposed to be?” Paul asked, eyes narrowing at the way Grif tucked Kit close to his side. It felt like she was nesting there. Like she fit, and was safe.
