Downpour: A Grumpy Sunshine Romance (The Griffith Brothers Book 2)

I couldn’t stop thinking about Brooke, and I hated myself for it. The last time she had been in here, she was in a god-awful embroidered polo, but she still wore those Daisy Dukes that were painted across her ass.

Water from the shower streamed down my face as I rested on the seat fitted against the tile wall. I pushed my hair out of my eyes and tipped my head back, breathing in the steam.

For once, I didn’t hate talking about the accident. I just had to cut myself off before I kept rambling on about it. She was curious, but not placating or patronizing.

And fuck me, she was fine as hell.

Big blue eyes. Thick curls of brown hair I wanted to dig my hands into. Cherry lips with a line down the middle that made them look like pillows. Legs like a gazelle and a laugh that broke the haze in my mind every time I heard it.

She was, arguably, terrible at her job. And yet, she was the only person in a year and a half who had done a somewhat acceptable job of tolerating me.

She still talked too much, but at least she didn’t expect a response.

I wrapped my hand around my dick and let out a slow exhale. Thoughts of her filled my mind as I worked my shaft up and down.

My motions were inconsistent, but that didn’t keep the pressure from simmering in my groin.

Goddamn, she was beautiful.

The other day, she had rolled over in the grass and laid on her stomach. I got to stare at that ass for an hour. I groaned as fantasies of her tangled in bedsheets filtered through my mind as my dick grew harder and harder.

My shoddy attempt at jerking off didn’t matter. Within seconds, I was coming to the thought of Brooke. Her hair tossed. Her skin flushed. Her lips parted and panting.

It had been a long time since I’d wanted a woman.

It had been even longer since a woman had wanted me.

I finished washing off and cut the water. Usually, I would have used the bars and pulleys to get out of the shower, but the steam—and the orgasm—had loosened me up a bit.

I closed my eyes and ran through the gamut of mental exercises my physical therapist made me do before we worked on my legs.

Focus on the muscles. Remember what it felt like. Isolate those feelings and focus on each part of the movement.

I focused on my left knee like it was a diagram in a science class. I envisioned bending it to plant my foot on the shower floor. I thought about bending forward and pushing up to stand.

I had spent most of my therapy hours that week in a standing body brace, with my legs being worked like a baby who had gas. I had random bouts of muscle spasticity that made my therapist hopeful. I chalked it up to optimistic delusion.

But part of me held onto those threads of delusion too.

I gripped the wall bars and slowly, slowly focused on lifting my hamstrings and quads. My left thigh raised off the plastic shower seat. I squeezed my eyes shut even harder as I planted my foot flat on the textured shower floor. An odd sensation pooled in my ankle—or at least what I thought was my ankle.

I pushed up on the bars, lifting my body with just my arms, keeping the bulk of my weight off my legs.

Slowly, I kept a hold on the shower support bars but released some of the strain on my arms.

Goddamn it. My knees hurt like a bitch.

I gritted my teeth and didn’t dare open my eyes as I slowly opened my left hand and let go of one bar.

Rivulets of water streamed down my body. The non-slip coating on the bottom of the shower didn’t matter. It was still slick as shit, and I wasn’t going to take a chance and fall.

But maybe…

I peered through lowered lids as I lifted my foot and took a step.

Holy shit.

I took another breath. My knuckles on the support bar turned white as I shifted my weight and focused on my right knee and hip. I planted my right foot on the floor and, with less hesitancy, put my weight on it.

My arm was stretched behind me. I couldn’t take another step without letting go.

But I was standing.

I grabbed the next set of support bars and pulled myself out of the shower the way I had managed to do every other time.

I hadn’t told my family about any of the progress I had made, and swore my therapy team to secrecy.

What happened if the electrodes in my back stopped working? What happened when I got old and my body gave out faster than the average person? What would happen if my muscles went back into paralysis?

I left the ranch at eighteen so I wouldn’t be a burden. I was acutely aware of the risks of bull riding, but it had been my ticket out.

I dried off and dressed using my wheelchair since I didn’t want to press my luck.

I had just gotten my gym shorts on when someone knocked on the door.

Brooke was supposed to be here later, but that didn’t sound like her knock. Which meant it was⁠—

“Ray?” my brother Nate called out as he let himself in.

Yeah. I really needed to get that passcode lock for my door.

No one locked their shit up around here except for me. And the Griffith walking through my kitchen was Exhibit A as to why.

“You’re back,” I said as I pushed my chair into the living room and did a neat pivot around the corner of the couch.

Nate had been traveling with his wife, Becks, for her job as a foreign affairs correspondent. He used to double as her security detail thanks to his time in the military, but now he was the designated parent when they were overseas.

“Got in last night,” he said as he helped himself to my fridge. “Jet lag is a bitch.”

“Where were you this time?”

“Becks was covering a conflict on the border of Afghanistan and Pakistan. The network had her staging out of Islamabad, so I hung out at the hotel with Charlie while she was in the field.”

Charlie was my two-year-old niece who had a head of ginger hair that matched her mom’s.

“Everything go alright for Becks?” I asked.

“Yeah. Nothing too crazy.” Nate pulled a plastic-wrapped bowl out of the fridge and poked at the top. “What the hell is this?”

I laughed under my breath. “Something Brooke tried to cook. It tastes like a shoe.”

“Right. The home aide that you haven’t fired yet.” He peeled the plastic back and sniffed the contents of the bowl. “Dear god, that smells worse than a week-old MRE.”

“I warned you.”

Before he could say anything else, the door opened again. Christian and CJ walked in.

“Don’t you people have jobs or something?” I said with a huff as I scrolled through my phone. My social media pages were more or less defunct.

Marty used to post on them for me—mostly content for ad campaigns I was obligated to boost. But nothing had been posted since the night of my accident.

But I wasn’t scrolling for me. I was scrolling to try to find her.

“I’m retired,” Nate said.

“What’s your excuse?” I asked CJ. He was the ranch’s cow boss, taking over for Christian after he took over as the foreman for our father.

CJ shrugged. “I took Indy out this morning. Just turned her out and got Anny. Saw Chris heading over here and came along.”

Indy was my horse, Independence. She was a pretty girl, but a sharp contrast to Anarchy, the sinister-looking horse that tolerated CJ.

“Thanks,” I muttered. It wasn’t like I could take Indy out or care for her. It sucked. “What are you doing here?” I asked Christian.

He peered around the corner. “Looking for Brooke.”

I rolled my eyes. “I haven’t fired her yet, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Christian lifted his cowboy hat and ran his hand back through his long hair.

Maybe I’d grow my hair out and stop shaving, too. Go full outlaw.

“No. I had a run-in with her in town the other day. She was with some guy.”

The hairs on the back of my neck bristled.

“She said he was her roommate, but it looked like he was trying to shake her down for cash. She wouldn’t say anything in front of him. I wanted to make sure she was alright.”

My blood ran hot with rage. Why hadn’t she said anything about it when she showed up for her shift? Brooke just skipped through the house like her normal, babbling self and hung out.

“She should be here in an hour,” I said as I glanced at the clock. “Which means she’ll be here in two hours.”

Christian ran his hand down his beard. “Be nice to her. I don’t know what’s going on, but if it was one of my girls, I’d be worried.”

I really didn’t want him to bring up his daughters. I felt like shit every time I turned them away, but I couldn’t let them see me like this.

I wasn’t the uncle they remembered, or the one they deserved.

“Give me a call when she gets here,” Christian said. “I’ll come back and check on her.”

I didn’t need him to fucking check on her.

I would fucking check on her.

After my brothers left, I spent the next hour and a half watching the clock and combing through Brooke’s social media profiles to find out who this roommate was.

She mostly posted pictures of flowers and clouds with little captions about them being the prettiest she had ever seen. A few photos were of her. Those were the prettiest I had ever seen.

When she didn’t show at the scheduled time, or the tardy time I had come to expect, I started to worry.

Nearly four hours later, I heard the ker-thunk of her car engine sputter down my driveway.

My stomach was in knots. I stuffed my phone into the cupholder she had gotten for my wheelchair and grabbed one of the ropes I kept around. Acting like everything was normal was better than admitting I had been thinking about her every waking second.

The door creaked open, and Brooke shuffled in. I waited for her usual sunny greeting, but it never came.

Her head was down as she closed the door behind her. A waterfall of brown ringlets shrouded her face.

I waited, mindlessly tying the rope into knots as she shuffled around in the kitchen. Brooke unloaded my prescription refills, organizing them on the kitchen counter with the rest of the pill bottles.

Still, I waited. I had sent her a list of groceries to get in town, and watched as she unloaded them into the fridge and lower cabinets. Minutes passed, and she said nothing.

“Hey,” I said.

Brooke squeaked and smacked her head on the open cabinet door. She clasped one hand to the back of her skull and pressed the other to her chest. “You scared me.”

Still, she didn’t look up.

Something was wrong. Brooke was a disaster, but she was a predictable disaster. Whatever this was, wasn’t normal.

Her hair shifted, and I spotted the rim of her sunglasses.

“You can see better inside if you take those off.”

She laughed, but it wasn’t her normal, bubbly laugh. Something was definitely wrong.

Fuck it.

I pushed into the kitchen and trapped her against the cabinets with my wheelchair.

“What’s the matter?”

She fidgeted with a box of pasta. “Nothing. Sorry I’m running late. I swear one of these days I’ll⁠—”

“Brooke.”

Her sunglasses slipped down her button nose, and that’s when I saw it.

A dark bruise marred her cheek. It bloomed up her eye lid and across her temple. A blood vessel had broken in her eye, and a deep cut was still open and damp, just above her cheekbone.

I grabbed her glasses and threw them onto the counter. Brooke winced, and a tear slid down from the corner of her eye.

“I—I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Running errands took longer than I thought, and there was traffic, and I⁠—”

I reached up, cupped her chin, and wiped away the tear with my thumb as a low growl slipped from my chest. “Who the fuck did this to you?”

Her cherry lips trembled, and she shook her head. “I’m fine. I’m sorry I’m late again.”

“I don’t give a shit that you’re late. I wanna know what the hell happened.”

Brooke swallowed and nearly strangled the box of pasta in her hands. “Please. Can we… Can we just ignore each other today?” She sniffed as her eyes welled up with tears. “I’ve been really looking forward to that.”

She looked like she hadn’t slept. There were bags under her eyes and more pain than the injuries warranted, though they were gruesome.

“Not until you tell me what the hell happened.”

She hurried to finish putting away the rest of the groceries, but I grabbed her wrist.

“Brooke.”

“Please,” she whispered, sliding the sunglasses on top of her head. “Between the pharmacy and the grocery store, I’ve gotten enough weird looks today.”

“Tell me what happened,” I gritted out.

Brooke slumped against the counters. “It’s been a long day.”

“Then sit on the couch and tell me. I don’t give a shit. But you’re not getting out of this.”

A roll of toilet paper from the pack in the closet was the best I could do since I didn’t have tissues on hand.

I rolled up to the couch, set the toilet paper on the end table, and locked the brakes on my chair. “Give me your hand.”

The couch was harder to get onto than the recliner. I used the padded arm to hold most of my weight as I braced against it with my hand and held onto Brooke with my other. I ungracefully flopped onto the cushion and turned until I was sitting beside her.

I grabbed the roll of toilet paper and handed it to her. “Talk.”

“It’s not what you think,” she said with tear-filled eyes as she ripped a sheet of toilet paper from the roll.

“It looks like you haven’t slept in a week, and that someone used your face as a punching bag. But please—correct me where I’m wrong.”

She hunched forward and rested her elbows on her knees as she tried to steady her breathing. “My roommates have been partying a lot, and it’s been so loud in the house. There’s always tons of people coming in and out. It’s hard to fall asleep.”

My blood turned molten. If some fucker had touched her, I was going to find some way to rip his body limb from limb. We had a backhoe and plenty of space out here to hide a corpse where no one would ever find it.

Christian’s comment about some guy trying to get money from her lodged in my brain.

“Did they do that to you?” I let out a long breath to try and keep from flying off the handle. It barely worked. “I swear to god, if one of them put a fucking hand on you⁠—“

“No,” she cried. Brooke carefully dabbed her eye and sniffed. “Mr. Wilson, the client I see before I come out here… He’s a really sweet old man, but⁠—”

“Don’t fucking defend someone if they assaulted you.”

“He has dementia and he was having a bad day and didn’t know who I was. He hit me and threw a plate at my head.” Her words spilled out, one on top of the other.

“Fuck that shit. You’re not going back there. Call your boss and tell them to make that man someone else’s problem.”

Brooke shook her head. Tears streamed down her cheeks as a warbled plea slipped from her lips. “No one else will take him. If I lose another client, I’ll get fired. And if I get fired, I’ll lose my job. And if I lose my job, I’ll lose my room in the house. I can’t lose my job, Ray. I can’t.”

I wanted heads to roll for this. Unfortunately, I wasn’t the one who could crack skulls anymore. But I knew someone who could.

I fired off a text to Cassandra while Brooke rummaged around in my kitchen, making some halfway edible pancakes and bacon for dinner.

She handed me a plate and settled on the couch beside me. Neither of us had much of an appetite.

“You pick,” I said as I handed her the TV remote and managed to grab a piece of bacon with my left hand.

Brooke turned on some obnoxious Real Housewives spinoff, but it didn’t look like she was paying much attention. Her eyes were glassy and heavy as the people argued on screen.

Fifteen minutes in, I found myself unfortunately interested in the dramatics on the TV, and Brooke’s head was on my shoulder.

Carefully, I wrapped my arm around her and tilted my body so she was resting on my chest.

Her lips were parted as soft snores escaped. I had never seen Brooke this exhausted. Hell—she was usually the Energizer Bunny.

I grabbed a throw pillow and put it on my lap before gently guiding her down to rest. She curled up like a cat, tucking her hands under her cheek and drawing her knees to her chest. I tugged down the blanket from the back of the couch and draped it over her body.

I brushed her hair away from her face and closed my eyes as I tangled warm curls around my fingers. Her body relaxed as I stroked her head.

Brooke never woke, and I didn’t sleep. Because for once, I wanted to be awake.