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eleven

MIRA

I wake up with my back plastered to Griffin’s chest, his hand cupping my breast, and his hard-on pressing against my ass.

I don’t remember snuggling up to him, but apparently my plan to make him uncomfortable failed miserably.

Instead, I’m the one who’s uncomfortable because I’m sweaty and horny from being pressed against his naked body all night. Seriously, how can you wake up horny?

As quietly as I can, I slip out of Griffin’s hold, grab some clean clothes, and tiptoe into his bathroom. I lock the door and stare at myself in the mirror before starting the shower.

I feel like I should look different. After everything that’s happened the last two days, shouldn’t I have some outward manifestation of the ridiculous changes in my life?

But I don’t. My long, dark hair is tangled from sleep, there’s a crease on my cheek from the pillowcase, and my green eyes are still bleary.

Nothing about my appearance screams I’m an accidentally married woman now , which is good.

Because no one can know about this. Especially not Maddox.

Griffin is his best friend, but I’m his little sister, and that protectiveness he feels for me will override any bonds of friendship he and Griffin share.

I don’t want to be the thing that comes between them. Not only that, but I’ve been working so hard to get people to take me seriously—my brother included—and admitting to a drunken marriage doesn’t scream serious.

Shaking my head, I take a quick shower and blow-dry my hair.

I swipe a quick coat of mascara over my lashes, get dressed, and psych myself up to leave the bathroom.

Living with Griffin for the past three months has been easy and comfortable.

Fun. But everything has changed now, and I don’t know what to expect.

I’m pissed at myself for getting drunk and doing something so stupid and reckless, and pissed at Griffin for this whole six-month scheme of his.

I feel off balance. Like my safe space is gone. Because that’s what he and this apartment had become. My safe space.

When my stomach growls and my head pounds, I know I can’t hide out in the bathroom any longer.

I need food and caffeine, then I need to get to work.

I’ve been building a website for this baseball team in Georgia that combines baseball with comedy and dancing.

They’re hilarious and fun, and the project has been one of my favorites to date.

Who wouldn’t love designing a website for a group of guys who intersperse musical numbers in between innings?

It’s also one of the biggest jobs I’ve had yet.

Until this point, I’ve built websites and branding mostly for individuals.

It feels like this could be a stepping stone to something bigger, and after a weekend in Vegas, I’m ready to get back to work.

Griffin is no longer sleeping in his bed when I peek my head out. As the scent of bacon tickles my nose, I follow it into the kitchen, where he’s working in front of the stove in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs, humming. Since he hasn’t noticed me, I give myself a moment to take in the scene.

A bowl of chopped fruit sits on the dining room table, coffee percolates in the machine, and Griffin is flipping a fluffy omelet while bacon sizzles in another pan.

Remnants of chopped ham and peppers are sprinkled across a cutting board.

He’s made us breakfast a few times since I moved in, but something about this seems so much more domestic, and I don’t know how to feel about that.

When my stomach rumbles, Griffin turns to me with a bright smile that makes my heart flip-flop.

“Morning, wifey. Sleep well?”

Ignoring the nickname, I pad toward him. “Would have slept better if I was in my own bed,” I lie. Because I did sleep well last night, dammit. “Can I help with anything?”

Griffin ignores my lie and gestures toward the coffeemaker. “You could get a couple mugs out for us and pour the coffee. Breakfast should be ready in a minute.”

“It smells good.” I offer him a slightly-more-awkward-than-normal smile before turning to open the cabinet behind me and grabbing two mugs. I still when Griffin’s chest presses against my back and his hands cage me in against the counter.

“You smell good,” he murmurs as he skims his nose along my cheek before pressing a kiss to my temple. “Good enough to eat.”

Heat floods my body as his words cause a memory of his tongue on my pussy to flash through my mind. An embarrassing little whimper sneaks through my lips as they part. Griffin chuckles, and I swear I feel it down to my core. “The eggs are going to burn,” I say, desperate to get him away from me.

If I’m going to make it through the next six months without making any more stupid decisions, I need to keep my wits about me. And when Griffin touches me like this? That’s difficult to do.

I sag against the counter when he goes back to the stove, though some sadistic part of me misses his solidness and warmth. That part of me can shut the hell up, though, because solidness and warmth are not a good enough foundation for a marriage.

By the time I’m done pouring two mugs of coffee, Griffin has finished the food, and soon we’re eating in companionable silence. It’s good. Really good. He’s a solid cook, which is nice, since the extent of Jared’s competency in the kitchen was reheating takeout.

“I have practice today, then a meeting about a potential sponsorship deal. I probably won’t be home until late.” Hazel eyes meet mine from across the table.

“Okay.” I shrug.

Griffin’s lips twitch. “I know you’re working on that big project. Do you want me to arrange dinner to be delivered so you don’t have to worry about it?”

Why does he have to be so sweet? It’s infuriating. “I’ll be fine. You don’t have to do that.”

“Okay,” he says, plate clean. He rises from the table and carries it to the sink, where he washes the plate and the cookware he used to make breakfast. I’m totally not mesmerized by the flex of his thick thighs, the curve of his peachy ass, or the ripple of his back as he works.

Nope. Not mesmerized at all. Completely, one-hundred-percent unaffected.

“Do you want a refill on your coffee before I go get ready?”

“Hmm?”

Griffin laughs, his eyes sparkling. Dammit. He totally caught me checking him out.

Flustered and blushing, I shake my head. “Nope. Thanks. I’m good.”

Mercifully, he doesn’t give me a hard time before heading to the shower.

I’m getting the desk in my room prepped and ready to start work when Griffin appears in the doorway. “I’m heading out. Text me if you need anything today, okay?”

I nod. When he walks away, I pull out my phone.

Me

I need a divorce.

“Not happening, wifey,” Griffin calls from inside the apartment.

Well, it was worth a shot.

The day has flown by, as it always does when I’m enjoying my work. The site I’m building is coming along nicely. I’m quite proud of it.

A glance at my phone tells me it’s six, which means I need to be done for the day. Sitting hunched over a computer without coming up for air or taking breaks is hell on my back, and it pops a few times when I stand and stretch.

A knock on the door has me frowning. I’m not expecting anyone.

Padding through the apartment, I look through the peephole in time to see a guy walking away from the door. I wait a few moments to make sure he’s actually gone, then open the door and stick my head out. The hallway is empty, but there’s a bag of takeout at my feet.

They must have delivered it to the wrong apartment. Grabbing it, I’m about to run after the delivery guy when I notice the name on the receipt.

Mrs. Wright .

I can’t help the smile that blooms on my face, despite my annoyance at the name. Griffin ordered me dinner, even though I told him he didn’t have to. And from the smell of it, he ordered from my favorite Indian place.

I’m full and sleepy when he gets home around eight. He flops down next to me on the couch where I’m watching the first season of New Girl . It’s my comfort show, and I’ve seen every episode at least three times.

“How was your day?” I ask, noting the exhaustion on Griffin’s face.

He slumps down onto the couch and offers me a smile. “Good. Long. But I landed that sponsorship deal. The one with the sports gear company.”

“That’s great.” And I mean it. He and his agent have been working toward this deal for months.

Sponsorships are important for pro athletes in a sport like hockey, where the risk of injury is so high.

When players could suffer a career-ending hit at any moment, it’s wise for them to make sure the game isn’t their only source of income.

“Are you hungry? There are plenty of leftovers.”

“Nah, I grabbed some dinner with my agent.”

“Okay. Thanks for that, by the way. You didn’t need to.”

My stomach is a puddle of goo when Griffin turns his head and offers me a blinding smile. “That’s what husbands do, Mira. They take care of their wives.” He reaches across the space between us and runs a finger up the outside of my thigh. “I like taking care of you.”

All I can do is stare at him. His words affect me more than I’d like to admit, and it makes swallowing past the lump in my throat difficult.

Because I like having someone look out for me.

I’ve spent so many years taking care of myself and trying to prove that I can do it without any help.

I can’t deny how nice it is not to for once.

Griffin turns back to the TV. “I love this show. Winston’s my favorite.”

I chuckle. “Mine too. Especially in the later seasons when he gets weirder.”

“Totally.”

We sit like that through four more episodes, and it’s nice.

It feels like it did before Vegas, before our drunken marriage, and before things became complicated.

It’s almost more dangerous than when he touches me with those expert fingers or wicked tongue.

Because when we’re quiet like this, comfortable and completely artless, I find myself wondering if maybe we could be good for each other.

But that’s crazy. Griffin and I are too different. We want very different things in life. And I’d be wise not to forget it.