Chapter 12 #4
I move one finger—just one—in an arc across his bare skin, and he sucks in a breath like he’s been electrocuted.
“Suck… what, exactly?” I murmur roughly.
Ry clears his throat loudly. “Uh, guys? It’s Beckett’s turn.”
I reluctantly let go of Griffin, and he steps away, but only slightly.
I can’t tell if this is because he’s feeling the same magnetic draw I am or because he’s trying to distract me.
Either way, I don’t care. I’m just drunk enough to like him exactly where he is and to forget all the reasons I shouldn’t.
“With those women in your life,” I say as I get ready to take my shot. “I guess it’s no wonder you don’t find me intimidating.”
Griffin’s grin turns wicked, and he lowers his voice so only I can hear him. “Except when I’m doing… that thing we’re not talking about.”
The memory of Sunday night hits me like a freight train—Griffin on the couch, breathless and demanding—and my concentration completely shatters. My first shot goes so wide it nearly hits Ry at the next table.
“Fuck,” I mutter, and Griffin’s laugh is pure satisfaction.
Fortunately, I land the next shot easily.
“Beer pong champion of my freshman dorm,” I brag unapologetically. “It was a big dorm.”
He shakes his head sadly and teases, “I feel like you were one of those boys Aunt Jill warned me about.”
“You’re saying you would’ve avoided me?” I press a hand to my chest.
“No.” His hazel eyes are brighter than the neon lights over the bar. “I’m saying I’d have challenged the fuck out of you every chance I got.”
By round five, half the teams around the bar have forfeited. They’re still doing the challenges, just for the fun of it, but they’re too inebriated to actually follow the rules.
At our table, Ames is drunk but functional. Ry’s gotten quieter as the night’s worn on, which is interesting and probably for the best. Griffin’s cheeks are flushed, his eyes are bright, and every time he laughs at something, the sound pinballs around my chest, lighting up several places.
I can’t lie, at this point, I don’t know the score, and I don’t give a shit who wins or loses.
I’m not drunk, but I’m pleasantly buzzed, and I want nothing more than to get Griffin alone somewhere.
Fuck, anywhere. But he still seems to be having a good time, and I’m enough of a competitive bastard that as long as he’s in, I’m in too.
“Final round!” Raisa announces. “The Pickle-Eating Contest! Each team member needs to eat a whole dill pickle as fast as possible. Last person to finish on each team takes a double Brine or a quadruple Dandy.”
Griffin goes pale. “Oh, fuck.”
I glance at him, then at the massive dill pickles being distributed—easily six inches long and thick as my thumb. I’m not thrilled about this challenge, myself, but Griffin looks like he’s been asked to eat live scorpions.
“You really can’t do pickles, huh?” I ask quietly.
“I will literally throw up on this table.” He wrinkles his nose. “I hate to say it. I really hate to say it. But I think I’m gonna have to…”
“Hold up! Isn’t there a pickle substitute?” I demand, just as Raisa’s about to ring the bell. I’m not as polite as Ames, so I don’t raise my hand and wait to be acknowledged.
“Not this time, I’m afraid,” she says with a sympathetic wince for Griffin.
“We’ll all forfeit!” Ames says firmly, though he can’t quite seem to focus on Griffin’s face. “In solidarity with our vinegar-hating brethren!”
Ry’s already taken a bite of his pickle, but he puts it down immediately. “Yeah. Yes. Right. Solidarity!”
Griffin shakes his head. He looks solemn, and I wonder if he’s drunker than I thought. “No, please. I don’t want everyone to lose! I don’t want anyone to lose—”
I take a deep breath and sigh it out, then grab Griffin’s pickle—don’t say it, seriously don’t—and eat it along with my own, as fast as humanly possible.
“What are you doing?” Griffin demands.
“Told you I’d be your Vermont bodyguard,” I mutter, reaching for a glass of water. “Apparently, that extends to pickles.”
Is eating an enormous pickle the stupidest thing anyone’s ever done for a guy he’s attracted to?
Considering I don’t know shit about music but once learned how to play a Lynyrd Skynyrd song to impress a guy I had a crush on, I’m not sure I’m the best judge.
It’s not exactly slaying-dragons, highlight-reel-worthy shit.
But Griffin’s staring at me like I’ve performed actual magic, so, you know. That kinda makes up for the fact that my bloodstream is now half sodium and I’ll be entering a vinegar-induced delirium any minute.
“Why?” Griffin says softly.
I grin because I love that why has become an inside joke between us now. Griffin’s genuine questions about Jim’s treehouse have become a kind of shorthand for all the things that don’t make logical sense… but feel right anyway.
“For the same reason my great-uncle built half a bridge,” I say. “Because sometimes you just start building, even when you don’t know where you’re going.”
The words hang between us, piercing the alcohol haze and making me wonder what the fuck I’m doing. I don’t build bridges, period.
But then Raisa’s voice says, “Alright! Choose your winners, teams!”
Ry says, “Shit, Griffin, you won!” and grabs Griffin’s arm to hold it up.
One of Raisa’s volunteers drops a blue ribbon with a pickle-shaped charm into his palm.
And Griffin launches himself at me in a hug that’s pure joy. Well, joy and alcohol.
I stand and catch him around the waist again, lifting him slightly off his feet, and at that moment, I don’t care who’s watching or what it looks like. He’s warm and solid in my arms, and the way he’s looking at me makes me feel like my brain’s been pumped full of helium.
He steps back quickly and looks at the charm. It says “Brine and Dandy Winner” along with the year, but Griffin’s staring at it with quirked lips and shining eyes, like it’s something more meaningful than a cheap trinket.
He lifts his gaze finally and looks at Ames, Ry, and me. “I don’t deserve this,” he protests, still clutching the charm. “I didn’t actually win. Beckett ate my pickle!”
Several people at nearby tables dissolve into laughter at that, and Griffin turns red. I shake my head and groan.
“That’s not—I didn’t mean—”
“Quit while you’re ahead, Mercer,” I tease, and for once, he doesn’t argue but subsides with a huff.
Raisa turns on some music, the volunteers clean up the remains of the Brine, and the room settles into this warm, communal feel. Like surviving this silly adventure together has brought us some kind of closeness.
It’s strange because I’ve grown up in this town, you know? I’ve lived here my whole life, except for a few years at school. But somehow, in this moment, I feel like I get it for the first time.
Or, shit, maybe that’s just the alcohol too.
But when Griffin’s hand lands on my thigh a moment later, right where it was before, I don’t fight the giddy feeling it stirs in me.
I take his hand and press it harder against my leg, and he spreads his fingers against the denim.
For a second, I let myself imagine I’m not just here with him, but here with him.
That this is a feeling that could last for more than a minute.
That, like True said, if I want something badly enough, I can figure out how to get it.
The noise of the bar continues around us—people congratulating each other, ordering a round, starting to think about heading home. But at our table, there’s a bubble of quiet. Ry and Ames are having their own conversation about something in low voices, leaving Griffin and me in our own world.
Griffin’s thumb traces a small circle on my leg, and I have to suppress a groan. When I look at him, his hazel eyes are dark and focused despite the alcohol.
“What are we doing here, Beckett?” he asks quietly, his voice barely audible.
There are a lot of answers to that question.
Is he talking about tonight? About the Big Dill?
About the fact that we haven’t resolved anything regarding our easement dispute?
About this thing that keeps drawing us together despite every reason we have to stay apart?
About the way I keep touching him like I have a right to… and he keeps letting me?
I look down at his hand on my thigh, then back up at his face—flushed from the alcohol and the warmth of the bar, his eyes soft and questioning and a little vulnerable.
“No fucking clue,” I admit. “But I don’t want to stop.”