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fifteen

GRIFFIN

The other night was a wake-up call. I thought the people who loved me really got me, but maybe they don’t. Despite Mira’s reassuring words, there was no hiding the look on her face when she tried to convince me I’m not a joke.

Some part of her has never fully taken me seriously.

I can’t say I’m surprised, but it sure as hell burns.

The worst part is that I don’t have anyone to blame but myself.

I’m the one who donned the good-time persona back in high school to differentiate myself.

My grades were just okay, and while hockey was my life, I grew up in a football town where my classmates and neighbors bled Wildcat navy and white.

I spent so much time playing and training that it was difficult to make real friends at my school.

I didn’t give a shit about football, and I was at the rink too often to join any clubs.

So I became the guy you wanted to invite to parties.

The guy who’d make you laugh. The guy who could charm his way into almost any girl’s panties with flirtatious banter and a few well-timed flashes of washboard abs.

Girls love washboard abs.

It made friendships easier, even if they were shallow, and I kept the act going through college.

The guys on my college team—including Maddox—became true friends, but the good-time persona was a hit with the ladies, so it stuck.

Which was probably part of the reason my college girlfriend never took our relationship as seriously as I did.

Maybe it’s time for a change. Time to be serious and responsible . The kind of man Madds is so convinced his sister needs.

The real shit part? I am responsible. I own my home and car and I’m not in any debt.

I save more than I spend, and I don’t take my salary for granted.

Hockey is a brutal mistress, and no one plays forever.

One day, the money will stop flowing in, and when that happens, I won’t be taken by surprise.

Plenty of guys act like they’ll always be rolling in cash, spending it as quickly as they make it. Those guys are irresponsible.

And serious? I’m one of the best wingers in the league for a reason, and it’s not because I treat my career like a joke.

But I don’t wear polos and loafers and walk around with my ass cheeks clenched like I’m trying to use them to squeeze juice out of a lemon.

There’s a certain mental picture people have when they hear the word serious , and I don’t fit it.

It’s narrow-minded, but it’s undeniable.

If you stood me next to a stuck-up looking asshole in a chambray button-down, khakis, and boat shoes, you’d assume that guy has his life together.

It doesn’t matter that he could be living in his mom’s basement, snorting coke at clubs, and walking around calling women females . He’d look the part.

I can wear polos and khakis. I can look the part too.

The thought makes my stomach twist uncomfortably because I hate the idea that Mira may only give me a real chance if I change who I am, but she’s worth it. So I Google where can I find preppy rich guy clothes , grab my keys, and head out to buy a new wardrobe.

Maddox thinks Mira needs someone serious ? Fine. I can be serious.

I may have gone a little overboard. But in my defense, I didn’t realize monograms were so important to preppy rich people.

Straightening the new bath towels I bought, I grin. Maybe it’s lame, but I like them. I also like the monogrammed bathrobes that look like they came straight out of some fancy spa.

My phone buzzes with an incoming text.

Wifey

Do you want me to pick up dinner? The girls and I are almost done hanging out.

Mira may act like she doesn’t feel this thing between us, but I know better.

She thinks about me when she’s out, she comes to my games, and the other night…

Fuck , the other night was everything. The sight of my wife on her knees, sucking my cock as she tried to cheer me up, will live rent free in my mind until I’m a shriveled husk of a man rotting away in a nursing home somewhere.

She can’t only see me as a friend if she’s willing to do something like that, right?

Time to enact my plan to get Mira to see me as more than a friend or a fuck buddy.

Time to get my wifey to see me as a husband, and that means no more takeout.

I’m going to take care of my woman and show her I’m not like her shitty ex-boyfriend, Jared.

I won’t ever expect her to do everything while I sit around with my thumb stuck up my ass.

Me

No need. I’m cooking dinner. What time will you be home so I can have it ready?

I grin when the ellipses that tells me she’s typing flashes on the screen right away.

Wifey

Oh! Um, I should be home in an hour. Can I pick anything up?

Me

Nah. I’ve got everything under control. Have fun with the girls and tell them I say hi.

Okay. Thanks, Griffy.

Griffy . It’s the first time she’s called me that since we got married.

Who would have thought a silly nickname would make me feel so warm and fuzzy inside?

Shit, it may be better than the blow job she gave me the other night.

Grinning like a fool, I throw on an apron—a new, non-perverted one because I’m serious now.

RIP, Eat My Meat apron—and gather everything I’ll need to make my wife a healthy, delicious meal.

I’d rather be wearing my gray sweats than these starched and stuffy khakis, but it’s a small sacrifice to make in the effort to win over my wife.

When the door opens just over an hour later, I have the table set—with cloth napkins and everything—and I’m setting the roasted chicken and veggies on trivets.

Mira wanders into our home and stops dead in her tracks when she sees me.

“Oh, wow.” Her stunning moss-colored eyes ping between the food, the fancy place settings, the candles at the center of the table, and me.

They widen when she takes in my outfit. “Is there some special occasion I forgot about tonight?”

Chuckling, I pull out a chair for her as she washes her hands. “Just wanted to make sure you had a healthy, home-cooked meal.”

She eyes me speculatively as she sits down, her pretty cheeks growing pink as I push her chair in for her.

“I know I’m not around often to do stuff like this, so I want to prioritize it when I am.”

“Griffin,” she starts, chewing on her lower lip, “you don’t have to do that.”

I shrug. “You’re my wife. I want to.” I don’t break eye contact with Mira, even when she shifts in her seat, unsure how to read me or what to say.

“Griff…”

“Nuh-uh, sunshine. Save your protests. I know you have your reservations about all of this, but I’m perfect for you, and I’m going to prove it. Now, eat your chicken before it gets cold.”

She has one eyebrow cocked like she’s about to say something sarcastic. Instead, she says, “Why are you suddenly calling me sunshine?”

Warmth spreads through my chest. And that’s why. “Because you shine so damn bright, baby. You make me feel warm and happy. You’re walking, talking, sexy-as-fuck sunshine.”

Mira’s cheeks turn an even deeper shade of pink as she tilts her head down and drops my gaze. “You’re such a flirt.”

That won’t do. I don’t want this woman who consumes my thoughts to believe this is just some flirtation.

Hell fucking no. This is the real deal. “Nah, Mir. I’m not flirting, I’m being completely serious.

Ever since you moved in, it’s like my world is brighter.

I want to be around you every second of the day to soak you up.

When I’m on the road with the guys, I miss the hell out of you.

This isn’t flirting. This is me telling you I don’t want to live without you. ”

My wife opens her mouth to say something, sucks in a breath, then stares at me.

No words escape her lips. I think I’ve broken her.

As she blinks those pretty eyes at me, a grin tugs at the corner of my lips, growing wider with every second she sits there, at a loss for words.

I scoop some veggies onto her plate and slice up some chicken.

When I’m satisfied she’ll have enough, I say, “Eat, beautiful.”

Mira holds my gaze for a few beats before shaking her head and spearing a piece of roasted asparagus. The hum she makes when she chews fills my chest with a proud warmth.

“This is really good, Griffin. I knew you liked to cook, but this is fancy.”

“It’s easier than it looks,” I tell her. “The trick is cooking the chicken in the air fryer so the skin gets extra crispy and using the right ratio of balsamic glaze on the veggies.”

She blinks at me, chewing her food. With another grin, I focus on my plate and dig in. It really is good, and I can’t help the pleased groan that slips from my lips.

Mira shifts in her seat, her cheeks flushing slightly.

“So, sunshine, tell me about what you’re working on right now? I want to hear all about it.”

Those stunning green eyes of hers rise to meet mine, and she smiles. “I’m almost done with this website for the most fun baseball team ever. You’d love them. They do choreographed musical numbers throughout their games, and they’re so funny.”

I hang on every word she speaks, just like always. I’m obsessed with this woman, after all. And no matter what it takes, I’ll prove I’m exactly what she wants and needs.