Chapter Fifteen Ruby #2
Everything in me screamed to run in the opposite direction, but some primal part of my brain kept me rooted in place because he’d won something for me.
He did exactly as he said he would and wasted all his money to win some ridiculous prize as a show of .
. . what, exactly? Chivalry? Ego? Effortless charm because he knew it would make me melt?
Marcus sidled up next to me, easing his arm around my shoulders. “I met your friend, despite all your best efforts to the contrary.”
Griffin rolled his eyes, knocking Marcus’s hand off my shoulder. Then he produced the stuffed bird—a large scarlet cardinal with an enormous fluffy plume on the top of its head—from underneath his arm. “For you,” he said. “I told you I’d get you one.”
“You did indeed.” I clutched the bird to my chest, wondering if it managed to cover the pounding of my heart.
Honestly, this was absurd.
Marcus perked up. “Lauren, I can get you an even bigger bird,” he promised.
She ignored him, serving up another funnel cake with a friendly smile. “Save your efforts for other activities, Henderson. I’m still not convinced.”
“Oh yeah.” Marcus smacked Griffin in the chest. “We’re doing the dunk tank.”
Griffin cocked an eyebrow. “What, now?”
“If we do the dunk tank and raise a fuck ton of money, Lauren will go out with me tonight.” Then he pointed at me. “And your good friend Ruby will be really happy. Don’t you want to make Ruby happy?”
Griffin’s eyes leveled on mine. “Always.”
The flutter in the pit of my stomach was beyond ridiculous, and I quashed it ruthlessly.
I’d quash those little jerks if it was the last thing I did on this earth.
“Then it’s settled,” Marcus said, clapping his hands, the sharp snap of sound pulling me out of my mental self-flagellation. “Start spreading the word that the good people of Welling Springs can dunk the shit out of the two hottest Denver players.”
Lauren snickered. “Most humble too.”
He fixed her with a heated stare. “Just wait, sugar. I can back it up.”
“Oh boy,” I sighed. “I’m not so sure about this.” My eyes found Griffin’s again. “Didn’t you want to keep a low profile on this visit?”
“Yup.” Then he smiled. “Don’t you need to raise a lot of money?”
I let out a slow exhale, then nodded. “Land goes up for sale next week. We can put in an offer on Tuesday.”
With a wry lift to his brow, he gestured past the booth into the screaming chaos of the fair. “Lead the way, birdy.” Then he leaned down to speak close to my ear. “Don’t pretend like you’re not excited to watch me get wet for a good cause.”
A shiver danced down my spine, and the jerk noticed, laying his hand lightly on the lower part of my back as we walked.
I sighed dramatically, but the annoyance was thin, a wobbly smoke screen for the real culprit—weak-kneed, head-spinning desire.
Under his breath, he chuckled, and the two men followed me and Kenny as we led them through the crowd.
Word of their presence, as intended, spread like actual wildfire. Crowds edged their way toward the dunk tanks, which was the game closest to the school building, lines forming immediately.
Kids bounced up and down with unrestrained glee, their parents angling for a look at the two players with just as much excitement on their faces.
When it was time for Marcus and Griffin to climb up into the tanks and take their spots on the seated planks, Griffin toed off his shoes and socks, then handed me his phone, wallet, and keys for safekeeping.
“You owe me for this one, birdy,” he said in a low, skin-tingling voice just next to my ear.
Marcus pointed at me as he climbed the stairs. “Is she the reason we were watching that Sense and What’s-It-Called movie last night?”
My head snapped toward him. “Sense and Sensibility?”
“That’s the one.” He shook his head. “That fucking Willoughby,” he said. “He did Marianne dirty.”
Using the tip of his finger against my chin, Griffin exhaled a quiet laugh as he pressed my mouth closed. “All right, birdy. Let’s make some money.”
Somehow, I snapped myself out of it, handing the microphone to one of our more gregarious library trustees, who was serving as emcee. She was hardly needed, though, because Marcus and Griffin worked the crowd effortlessly.
They talked trash with whoever approached to try to dunk them, always with a smile and a well-meant joke when the attempt failed.
The kids all missed, but they told them to come back to the tank after their turn for a selfie, and they obliged each and every one.
It took a bit longer to get through the line, but it made for a fun, buoyant atmosphere.
I stood to the side, filming some videos as they ribbed the crowd and posed for pictures, signing occasional shirts and hats with a Sharpie that Kenny provided. Everyone who walked away from them wore the kind of smile that was undeniably contagious.
Yes, they played a game for a living, but the unbridled joy they delivered to every person was a tangible, sweet thing that had an ache blooming in my chest. Maybe money couldn’t buy happiness, but these two were incredibly adept at creating it in their wake.
In turn, it meant the longer I filmed what they were doing, the longer I watched the ease with which he made kids smile and laugh, the less effective my quashing abilities became. The flutters were growing into something dangerous.
The first to get dunked was Marcus. The high school’s star baseball pitcher lined up for him, delivering a rocket to the center of the target, and as the crowd erupted, Marcus fell into the freezing-cold water with a yell.
He emerged with a roar, arms raised and his T-shirt plastered to his chest and stomach.
Griffin waved me over during a break between people in his line, leaning down from his seat on the top of the tank. “How pissed do you think he’ll be when I come out of this dry as a bone?”
I rolled my eyes. “You won’t. I’ll dunk you myself if that happens.”
“Oh yeah? You got a secret talent for pitching, too, birdy?”
“If you think I won’t walk straight up to the button and hit it just to prove a point, you don’t know me at all.”
He tipped his head back and laughed, and good Lord, what was it about an exposed throat on this man that had me pressing my knees together?
With a steadying breath, I moved off to the side so the next person could throw, and my eyes stubbornly stayed glued to the curve of his biceps when he lifted his cupped hands to his mouth to heckle the group of girls who were up next.
The first girl, with red hair and a big smile, had terrible aim; she came closer to hitting me than the target.
The second girl, with a high blond ponytail and sharp blue eyes, was a little closer.
And the third girl—tall and thin, with coiled braids hanging to her waist and dark, toned arms—stepped up with the composure of a major-league pitcher.
Griffin shifted nervously on the plank. “Nah, she’s not gonna get it,” he called out, trying his best to derail her.
It didn’t work. She whirled her arm around, delivering a ruthless pitch, hitting the target square in the center, and he disappeared into the water to the absolute delight of the crowd. I was still laughing when his head emerged.
Water dripped off the chiseled planes of his face, and his eyes were locked on me. “You think this is funny?”
“Yes.”
His hands curled around the edge of the tank, and with his foot on the middle rung of the ladder, Griffin hauled himself out in a great rush of water, landing gracefully onto the ground.
When he whirled to me, I let out a squeak, trying to dart behind Kenny when I caught the predatory glint in his eye.
It didn’t help.
And have you ever imagined the most perfect male specimen you’ve ever laid eyes on—in soaking-wet clothes that cling to every visible muscle—rushing toward you?
It’s potent. Paralyzing. And really, unfortunately attractive.
Escaping a dripping-wet male is harder than you’d think. Mainly because my feet were anchored to the ground for a solid two seconds longer than they should have been.
Before I could whirl in the opposite direction, Griffin scooped me up in a bear hug, absolutely soaking the entire front of my body.
“Oh, you ass,” I said in between helpless peals of laughter. “It’s so cold.”
With his arm banded around my waist, my feet dangled helplessly off the ground.
My hands settled lightly on the curves of his shoulders, and I tried to catch my breath as he stared up at me, a sinful grin stretching his lips and his eyes dancing.
“You think this is cold, I should dump you in that tank,” he threatened in a silky voice.
“You wouldn’t dare,” I whispered.
His gaze moved to my mouth. “Maybe not.”
Kenny cleared his throat. “Um, Ruby? Is he getting back in?”
Pushing briefly on Griffin’s shoulders was all it took, and he set me back down. When I glanced at the front of my shirt, I gasped, my hands flying to cover my chest. My light-pink T-shirt was completely transparent.
I fixed Griffin with a glare, and he winced. “Sorry. Didn’t think about that.”
His shirt was no better. Through the white material, I saw the dusky circles of his nipples and each pronounced ridge on his pecs and his abdominals.
The veins on his arms stood out against his golden-tan skin, and he plucked at his shirt with a short laugh.
“Guess I didn’t choose the right color either. ”
“I didn’t bring any extra clothes,” I moaned.
“I have a shirt in my car,” Griffin said. “It’ll be huge, but it’s yours if you want it.”
I gave him a distracted nod. “That would be great. I have the keys to the school; I can change in the bathrooms.”
Griffin told the crowd he’d be back in about five minutes, and Marcus led the line in some earsplitting, good-natured jeers, proclaiming that no one could dunk him while Griffin chickened out for a few minutes.
Griffin darted forward, slapping the button, and Marcus fell into the tank while the crowd cheered.