18. Griffin
Chapter eighteen
Griffin
A s usual, I can’t keep my eyes off Brynn.
Watching her interact with my family, sitting at the table where I ate breakfast and solved word problems as a kid? Hearing her laugh at our rehashed family anecdotes, surrounded by the people who’ve been with me through all my highs and lows? I pull in a deep breath and hold it in my lungs. The heady sensation that flows into my limbs makes my eyelids grow heavy.
Could also be a side-effect of the wine that Mom opened an hour ago.
Shaw left after we cleared the table, claiming it was almost his bedtime. I didn’t miss the scrutinizing glances he cast Brynn’s way during dinner. I’ll make an effort to get my brother alone in the next day or two so I can ask him about it.
Trixie bailed not long after Shaw, wanting to check on Aunt Dot at the bar before she headed home. And when Cam stood not five minutes later, insisting he had an early shift at the station, Tuck and I exchanged knowing smirks.
When Brynn yawns beside me, Dad follows suit. “This young lady has the right idea. The sheep aren’t going to count themselves. ”
“I put you two in your old room,” Mom says as she collects empty wine glasses.
When she turns and heads toward the dishwasher, Brynn drops her head and studies her lap, cheeks ablaze.
“That’s fine,” I say, giving Brynn a reassuring squeeze. “Thanks.”
Tucker stands and rounds the table, patting Brynn’s shoulder as he goes. “I’ll make sure to knock on all doors while you’re here.”
Her eyes and lips both list to the side. “Thanks so much.”
He laughs at her tone. “No prob, sis .” He tosses her a wink and smacks a loud kiss on Mom’s cheek, and then he’s gone.
Once the roar of his motorcycle has faded, I grab my woman’s hand, and we bid my parents good night.
Other than a new comforter for the queen-size bed and the removal of my Jessica Alba and Katy Perry posters, Mom’s kept my childhood bedroom much the same as it was when I left for college. The shelves above the wooden desk are crammed with every sports trophy, plaque, medal, and tournament ring I won starting in peewee sports all the way through high school. The dresser top is covered with the same.
I sit on the end of the bed, watching Brynn as she takes a slow trip down memory lane. She reads every award and searches for me in every team photo.
“Back row, third from left?” She glances over her shoulder to confirm. The proud smile she shines on me after each correct guess fills my chest with a tender ache. I track her every move and note every head tilt and squint and sigh.
Before long, she grows a little hesitant, her moves becoming less confident. She spins around from the dresser. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
I lift my chin, a silent invitation, and she reads my body language like she wrote the manual. When she steps between my spread knees, I wrap my arms around her, pull her close, and rest my cheek against her abdomen. Stroking my hair, she releases a satisfied sigh.
“I have a gorgeous woman in my childhood bedroom. It’s like all my adolescent fantasies come to life.”
She huffs a laugh. “Don’t get any ideas, mister.”
I rest my chin on her stomach and blink up at her. “Too late, professor.”
“We can’t have sex in your parents’ house,” she hisses. “In your childhood bed .”
“We sure as fuck can.”
She scrunches her eyes shut. “Griff—”
“Brynn. Baby. Give me those eyes.”
She lifts her lashes, but the frown she gives me is full of trepidation.
“They’re adults. We’re adults. Adults have sex. My mom practically gave us her blessing earlier.” I grip her hips and give them a squeeze. “My parents’ bedroom is downstairs and on the opposite side of the house. Plus, my dad can’t hear for shit, and my mom sleeps like the dead. How do you think the three of us snuck out so often in high school?”
Head hung, she slumps. “Your poor mother. She’s a saint for putting up with the three of you.”
A chuckle rumbles deep in my chest. “No doubt about that.”
I jostle her and exhale my disappointment. After last night, I’m insatiable. And now, it looks like I’m returning to blue ball territory for the weekend.
I hate it there.
But the last thing I want is for Brynn to feel obligated or coerced into being intimate.
“I’m sorry, baby.” I release her and straighten on the edge of the bed. “I promise I’ll keep my hands to myself if you don’t want to—”
“I never said I didn’t want to. ”
A little flicker of hope ignites inside me. Even so, I give her my most convincing sad-dog eyes.
She frames my face with her soft hands. “Gah, this face. How will I ever be able to say no to this face?” She kisses the top of my head and swipes up her overnight bag. “I’m going to get ready for bed.”
“Bathroom’s right next door.”
While she does her nighttime stuff, I strip down to my boxers— Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles this time—and recline on the bed.
The door creaks open, and all of me sits up at attention. And I mean, all of me.
The way my heart has lodged itself in my throat makes it hard to speak, but still, I croak, “Are you kidding me?”
She frowns in confusion as she pulls back the comforter on her side.
I wave a hand up and down, gesturing to her body. “You expect me to be on my best behavior knowing this is what you’re wearing to bed?”
With a roll of her eyes, she adjusts her pillow. “This is what I sleep in unless it’s freezing cold outside. But now I have a strapping furnace of a man to keep me warm.”
“Oh, I’ll keep you warm all right.” I toy with the thin-as-spaghetti strap holding up one cup of the skimpy nightgown. God, her tits look amazing in this thing.
Not sure it even qualifies as a gown , though.
I rub my beard along the sensitive skin under her chin and down her neck, pulling giggles from her. But those giggles morph into soft whimpers and sighs as my fingers find their way under those delicate straps and into the cups.
And then? I make love to my woman in my childhood bedroom.
Sixteen-year-old Griff would be fucking awestruck.
I untangle myself from Brynn as dawn’s first rays peek through the blinds, careful not to disturb her. I did keep her up rather late, after all.
Knowing Mom will already be up and enjoying her morning coffee, I throw on joggers and a T-shirt, then head down the dark stairwell, making sure I step on a couple of the squeaky steps so Mom will hear me coming. Other than my not-so-stealthy movements and the tick of Granny’s beloved grandfather clock, the house is quiet.
As predicted, she sits in her usual spot at the table, hands wrapped around a steaming Lacey Farms mug, wearing her favorite purple terry-cloth robe. The familiarity and comfort of the scene makes me smile. When I bend to kiss the top of her head, the scent of the lavender shampoo she’s used for years is like a nostalgic hug.
“I haven’t seen you on this side of seven a.m. in a while.”
With a hum, I peek out the window over the sink, taking in the view of the farm that’s slowly waking up with the sunrise. In the distance, Dad trudges toward the barn to see to the horses, his breaths puffing like clouds in the early morning chill.
The days I spent here all those months ago, when the Tors let me go and I thought my career was over, were dark. Coming home then wasn’t the comfort it’s always been. But my family rallied around me. They didn’t let me wallow too much, but they gave me space to grieve in my own way.
Damn, am I grateful those days are behind me. If someone had told that sad, beat-down Griffin that in six months’ time, he’d be playing for his favorite team and bringing a beautiful woman home with him, he likely would have suggested that person seek professional help .
With a matching mug filled to the brim, I take the seat next to my mother, and we sit in comfortable silence while we enjoy our coffee.
Donna Lacey can’t stay quiet for long, so after only a few minutes, she squeezes my forearm. “I’m so happy you’re here.”
“Me, too, Mom.”
She tilts her head, gives me a long assessment. “How long have you been in love with her?”
I choke on my coffee, and my eyes water as I cough and work to breathe again. “I’m not…”
She hits me with a disappointed frown. “Griffin Michael Lacey. Don’t make me get the lying rock.”
I twirl my mug on the tabletop, watching the way the dark liquid sloshes up the sides. “I’m that obvious, huh?”
“I see the way you look at her.” Mom’s eyes shine behind her glasses. “There’s only one other thing you’ve ever looked at with that much passion and adoration, and that’s a dadgum football.”
I exhale a shaky breath, and with it, latent tension releases its hold on my muscles.
My mother, as usual, is correct. I’m crazy in love with Brynn Nelson.
Of course I’m in love with her. She’s kind and witty and smart. The perfect combination of endearing and sexy. Adorable and ravishing. I can’t get enough of her. Of riling her up. Making her breathless. I love that I can be my true self with her. Not Racy Lacey or an NFL superstar; just Griffin. She doesn’t give a fuck about my status or wealth or performance on a damn field. She makes me want to be the best version of myself, and I think I do that for her, too.
“I can see it, you know.” Mom stares into the distance, her expression serene. “The two of you, together. The perfect life you’ll make. The precious dark-haired grandbabies you’ll give me.”
“Whoa, slow your roll there, Donna. ”
She lifts a shoulder, her smile sly. “When will you tell her?”
Angling back in my chair, I stretch my legs under the table. “Soon. Don’t want to rush it, though. In case she’s not there yet.”
“She’s there.” She straightens her spine, no doubt ready to give me a lecture, but the sound of the side door opening stops her.
Seconds later, I’m bombarded by the only female in Shaw’s life.
I let out an oof , and when I’ve recovered, I lavish the energetic golden retriever with aggressive ear scratches, chuckling at the way her rump wiggles in response. “Hey there, Delta girl.”
“Delta, sit,” Shaw commands, and the dog obeys instantly.
“What a good girl,” Mom croons. “She deserves lots of treats.” She shuffles to the counter and digs a dog biscuit out of a canister with Delta’s head printed on the side.
“Mom, don’t spoil her,” Shaw says, sitting across from me with his mug of undoctored coffee.
“Oh, shush. If I want to spoil my only grandchild, you won’t stop me, Shaw Morgan.”
My brother raises a brow, scrutinizing me.
I hold both hands up. “Don’t look at me. I’ve already been full-named this morning.”
Mom feeds Delta three consecutive biscuits, ignoring Shaw’s huffs. “I thought we’d grab lunch at Loblolly. I’m sure Brynn would love to look in the shops downtown.”
“Sounds good.” I move to the counter and grab another mug, and as I prep Brynn’s coffee the way she likes, I turn to my brother. “Think we’re going to hit up Dottie’s tonight. Tuck and Cam already said they’d meet us. We’d love for you to come, too.”
I hold my breath, bracing myself for the imminent rejection. Getting Shaw to participate in social settings is a challenge.
So when he grunts and mumbles, “Yeah, I’ll grab a beer with y’all,” I can’t help but gape .
When I recover, I clear my throat. “Cool. I’ll text you later.” Before he has a chance to change his mind, I’m taking the stairs two at a time, trying not to spill my woman’s coffee.
While my parents get things done around the house, Brynn and I head into town to goof off until lunchtime. I luck out and find a parking spot in front of the diner. The moment I join Brynn on the sidewalk and lace my fingers between hers, a voice warbles my name.
“Griffin Lacey, as I live and breathe. Look, Roscoe, it’s Griffin.” An elderly woman and her husband hobble over, both beaming.
“Mr. and Mrs. Abernathy, good to see y’all. This is my girlfriend, Brynn.”
Beside me, Brynn flushes, but she extends her hand to the couple we both tower over. We exchange pleasantries, and then we’re moving again. Though we only get a few feet down the sidewalk before we’re stopped by more faces from my past. And just as we’ve crossed the street to the corner of the square, my former high school home economics teacher rushes over for a selfie.
“You took home ec?” Brynn asks when Mrs. Reynolds is out of earshot.
I tuck her into my side. “Of course I took home ec. That’s where all the girls were.” That earns me an elbow to the ribs. “Hey, I can sew on a button because of that class. Make a mean chocolate chip cookie, too.”
“Hmm, I’ll need to sample these mean chocolate chip cookies, sir. Find out what makes them so angry.”
Head dropped back, I guffaw. “That was cheesy, but I’ll bake for you, baby. The secret is to brown the butter.” We stop at the corner where a diagonal sidewalk cuts through the square. “Here’s what I wanted you to see.”
Brynn reads the wooden sign next to the mouth of the sidewalk. “The Holler Heart Path. Established 1986. ”
We step onto the first square of concrete in the path, the one with year 1986 stamped at the top. Inside the square are four pairs of handprints, each labeled with names that were carefully carved into the concrete when it was wet.
“When the town was gearing up to celebrate the centennial of its founding,” I tell her, “the mayor’s daughter was also planning her wedding to the love of her life. She had this grand idea to commemorate the town’s love stories.” I gesture to the handprints at our feet.
“Like a love hall of fame?” She grins, making my heart fucking flip-flop in my chest.
“Exactly. So every year on Founder’s Day, if there are enough couples signed up, a new patch of concrete is poured and those lovebirds leave their handprints. Then someone with a steady hand etches the names before it dries.”
Fingers linked, we stroll down the path.
“It doesn’t happen every year, though. Couples sometimes have to wait until there are enough participants. I think they do five pairs at a time now.” I pause at the 1988 square and tap a print with my sneaker.
Her face lights up. “Your parents.” Her eyes gloss over as she studies their names. “Griff,” she says, peering up at me, “this is so special.”
I pull her to me, hugging her tight to my body. And when we kiss in the middle of the Holler Heart Path, all I can think about is how our handprints will look perfect side by side one day.
As we draw closer to the gazebo in the center of the square, Brynn pauses at each section of the sidewalk, looking over the names and handprints, pointing out the gaps between the years. She grabs my arm when we get to the last slab by the gazebo steps. The 2008 square.
She gasps and grabs my arm. “Is that—” She points to a large handprint in the corner. “Is that your brother? ”
Grimacing, I scratch the beard I trimmed a little too close this morning. “Yep.”
She assesses me but doesn’t push for more, thank God. For a moment, she studies the sidewalk again, lingering on the name etched next to my brother’s.
I rest my hand on my lower back, and she takes it before I even wiggle my fingers. Watching for her reaction, I lead her up the steps to the center of the gazebo.
“A piano .” Her voice is full of wonder as she smooths a hand along the brightly painted upright. “This is so cool. People play it?”
I nod at it. “Try it out.”
“I never learned how to play, but…” She presses a key, and her face lights up in delight.
My heart thumps against my sternum. Damn, I am so head over fucking heels for this woman.
“Who put this here?” She rounds the piano and wraps her arms around my waist.
“That, I’m afraid, is one of the great unsolved mysteries of Holly Holler. It appeared overnight several years ago.” I keep my theory about the piano’s existence to myself. “But someone covers it when the weather is really bad. And its paint job was courtesy of Ms. Mabel Abernathy, the art teacher at the high school.”
“Abernathy? So the couple from earlier—”
“Are her grandparents.”
“This is the cutest town. I love it here.”
Her praise is fucking music to my ears. Because the truth is that I’ve already pictured the things Mom mentioned in our chat this morning: A life with Brynn, after football. Maybe settling down here, raising a family. Fuck, I’d love to make a whole crew of babies with her.
When I see my parents pull up to the diner, we head that way. After the patrons give us an initial enthusiastic welcome, they leave us alone so we can enjoy our lunch in peace. Dad insists on paying, and I let him. There’s no use fighting him over it.
While he waits at the counter with our bill, Mom gasps. “Griff, if you’re taking this girl to the Hoot tonight, you’d better take her to the DB for some boots.”
Brynn’s forehead wrinkles. “The DB?”
“The Dusty Britches.” Mom nods at the front window. “Across the street. It’s got a little bit of everything. But you can’t go to a honky-tonk without a pair of cowgirl boots.”
The thought of Brynn in a pair of western boots heats my blood. “Yep. Boots are a necessity for your saloon-night fit here in the Holler.”
“Wait.” She straightens, her face aglow. “Is Racy Lacey going to wear cowboy boots as part of his saloon-night fit?”
I tap her nose. “You’ll have to wait and see, professor.”
At the store, Brynn peruses the boot selection, considering the pros and cons of each pair. She narrows her choice to two sets, but then can’t decide whether to get them in black or brown. She gives me a scowl when I tell her we’ll get both colors.
Finally, she tries on a classic pair in black leather with tiny cream stitching details. “What do you think?” She points her toe and twists her foot from side to side.
With a peck to her lips, I pull her close. “I think I’m going to love spinning you around that dance floor tonight.”
And when she’s distracted by a rack of sunglasses, I buy her the boots in black and brown, because there’ll be many more Hoot ’N’ Holler nights in our future.