Page 46

Danae

Griffin looks at me with patient anticipation, but I’m distracted by the thrill of his strong hand so tenderly holding mine. The soft smile on his face isn’t helping me concentrate on answering his question, either. I notice a lock of hair sticking up from when he ran his hand through it, and now my thoughts fixate on what it would feel like to runmyhand through his hair. On what it would be like to have permission to touch him in that kind of familiar way.

His honest question isn’t one I know how to answer immediately.Take it slow, or take every opportunity we have?My mind is scrambling to dig through all the information, all the possible negative outcomes from either choice. I need a couple of days just to filter through the positives, negatives, and potential side effects—much less make a decision.

As though he can see the spiral of thoughts behind my eyes, Griffin’s smile grows wider as he watches me. He reaches his free hand over to gently tap a finger against my temple as he says, “One of these days, I hope to understand what the thought factory in there is like without you having to spell it out for me. But for today, can you spell it out for me?”

The side of my face is now tingling from his momentary touch, which adds to the long list of “things that aren’t helping me focus.”I break eye contact in the hope of being able to gather a coherent sentence.

“I’m feeling a little paralyzed by your question. In all honesty, I’d like to sit down with a notepad and pen and make a detailed pro/con list. Possibly even draw a flow chart of potential issues. That’s what the thought factory is churning over,” I confess. “But that doesn’t exactly equal a timely response in conversation.”

Griffin tilts his head to one side before he says, “Hang on.” He stands and leaves the room.

His abrupt exit starts a new thought spiral.There’s one way to have the decision made for you—show him how high-maintenance you’ll be in a relationship. That will end things before they start.

Without Griffin’s hand to still my fingers, my subconscious sets my thumb to work on the nail polish. I mentally fortify myself for him to come back and let me down easily.

I consider beating him to the punch.Tell him you think this isn’t going to work. That the thought factory suddenly popped out a solution: this is over. Don’t make him feel awkward being the one to end things when you’re the weird one in this situation.

The words shrivel in my throat when Griffin comes back into view holding a legal pad and a pen. He holds them out to me and says, “Here, you work on your list while I pop some popcorn for Sam and Jason. And maybe show him who’s the real boss in Mario Kart for a round or two.”

Peering up at him with wide eyes, I slowly reach out to accept the paper and pen. “Really?”

One side of his lips hitches in a lopsided smile, and now I’m distracted by thoughts of kissing him.Would the beard tickle or feel scratchy? What would it feel like to run my fingers along his jawline? Tyler never could grow a beard. And his kisses were always haphazard at best. What would kissing Griffin be like? He strikes me as the much more intentional type.

“Really. I’ll come back up in a little while,” he says, breaking me out of my reverie. A reverie that left me extra warm. I kick off the throw blanket.

Griffin walks away to the kitchen, and soon the sound of the microwave interrupts the silence. I’m not sure how he’s going to explain to Samantha why he’s joining them in the basement and leaving me alone, but that’s the least of my worries at the moment. I stare at the blank yellow paper in my lap then write “Take Things Slow” at the top of the first page. Drawing a line down the middle, I label the two columns “Pros” and “Cons.”

I begin neatly writing bullet points on the pro side, soothed by the familiarity of the action. My concentration is interrupted by Griffin’s voice. “Holler if you need anything,” he says before winking at me and opening the door to the basement.

His voice can be heard through the closed door, yelling at Jason to prepare to meet his match. The sound spreads warmth through my chest, and I move my hand to the top of the “Con” column.

Taking things slow means waiting longer for Griffin to kiss me.

I lose track of time as I complete the lists. Griffin still hasn’t emerged from the basement—I’ve heard loud heckling and Jason’s groans of defeat through the door, though. I flip to a third page to start a flow chart of the possible outcomes of either choice. The page is nearly filled by the time I hear the basement door open. Griffin’s head pokes around the edge of the door frame.

“Am I up to bat or still on deck?” he asks.

I narrow my eyes in a pointed look.

“Come on, even you have to know what that means. Surely that’s a common-enough saying in books you read,” he teases.

“Fine, fine,” I say. “Batter up.”

Griffin’s face lights up. “Shedoesknow some baseball lingo!” he exclaims as he closes the door behind him. He quickly crosses the room and makes a big show of trying to peek at the legal pad, which I swiftly clutch against my chest. “Come on, you have to let me read your notes,” he whines.

“Absolutely not,” I say, kicking my feet toward him when he tries to lean closer. “My lists are sacred material.”

“Okay, okay,” he relents, holding his hands up in surrender. “At least show me a glimpse of the level of organization we’re dealing with here.”

I huff, but then I quickly flash the first page to him. He lets out a low whistle. “Wait, is there really a flow chart?” he asks. Spearing him with a look, I reluctantly turn the pages and give him a quick glimpse at the chart.

He drops his head back in a laugh. “I didn’t think you could possibly be any more captivating, but I was dead wrong.”

I blush at what I interpreted as a compliment, but then worry that maybe he didn’t intend it as a positive. “You’re not making fun of me, are you?” I ask before thinking it through, voice unsure.

His face sobers. “I would never.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, maintaining piercing eye contact with those gray-blues. A smirk plays at his lips. “Tease you, hoping to make your cheeks flush with that beautiful blush? Yes. Count on it. But never, ever would I make fun of you.”