7. Griffin #3
Anika moves around the bar, doing a quick job of closing down. I can tell she’s leaving some tasks for morning, probably because I’m just sitting here watching her like an idiot. I should offer to help, but the last time I tried, I was unceremoniously kicked out.
“Ready?” she asks finally, pulling on a light jacket and grabbing her keys.
I nod, following her to the door. She locks up, giving the handle a quick tug to make sure it’s secure, then starts walking. I fall into step beside her.
The night air is crisp and clean, the kind that fills your lungs and makes you feel more alive.
Stars blanket the sky above us, impossibly bright away from city lights.
So different from Toronto. I’m hyperaware of Anika’s presence beside me.
The faint scent of her shampoo, the rhythm of her breathing.
“So, Wing Chun, huh?” I break the comfortable silence.
She glances at me, a small smile playing at her lips. “Since I was ten.”
“That explains a lot.” I can’t stop grinning. “Seriously, that was the most impressive thing I’ve ever seen. The way you handled those guys.”
She shrugs, but I can tell she’s pleased. “They were drunk and sloppy. Not exactly challenging opponents.”
“Still. You could probably take down half my team without breaking a sweat.”
She laughs at that. A real laugh, not the restrained chuckle I’ve heard before. The sound does something to my chest, like a face-off win in overtime.
“Maybe not half,” she says, raking her eyes down to my feet, then back up. “You hockey players are built solid.”
Is she checking me out? The thought sends a buzz through me that has nothing to do with alcohol.
We walk in silence for a few more steps. Our hands brush accidentally, and I swear I feel a current run up my arm. I steal a glance at her profile—the slight scoop of her nose, the way her lips curve upward, even when she’s not specifically smiling.
The pedestrian zone ends, and we turn onto the street where I parked.
“This is me,” I say as we approach my rental.
I don’t want this walk to end. There’s something between us.
I’m not imagining it. A tension, an awareness that’s been building since the first day I walked into her pub.
Maybe even before that, like the universe was just waiting for us to notice each other.
I fish the keys from my pocket, then hesitate. “Thanks for patching me up. And for the escort.”
“You’re welcome.” She stands there, making no move to leave, her eyes reflecting the moonlight. “Does it hurt?”
“My pride or my face?”
Her mouth quirks up. “Both.”
“Face is fine. Pride…” I mime an explosion with my hands. “Completely shattered.”
She laughs then, and something in my chest expands. I realize I want to make her laugh again, as soon as possible.
We’re standing face-to-face now, close enough that I can see those blue and gold flecks in her eyes even in the dim light. My pulse is racing like I’m in the final minutes of a tied game.
I should say something clever or charming, but my mind’s gone completely blank. All I can think about is how much I want to kiss her.
She seems to read my thoughts. Her eyes drop to my lips for just a second, then back up to meet my gaze.
I can’t look away from her face, memorizing every detail—the way her dark lashes cast shadows on her cheeks, the subtle curve at the corner of her pretty mouth.
She wets her lips, a quick, nervous flick of her tongue that makes my breath catch.
My heart hammers against my ribs. Is she leaning closer?
Her body shifts almost imperceptibly toward mine, and I swear the space between us has shrunk without either of us taking a step.
Her eyes drop to my mouth again, lingering there, then meeting mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
My entire body hums with anticipation. I’ve been in high-pressure games, penalty shootouts with championships on the line, but nothing compares to the electricity coursing through me right now.
Anika’s breathing changes, becoming quicker, shallower.
Her head tilts up toward mine, almost imperceptibly, but I notice because I’m noticing everything about her.
The slight flutter of her eyelids, the way her fingers fidget with the edge of her jacket, how she doesn’t step back even though I’m definitely in her personal space now.
I lean in, slowly, deliberately giving her every opportunity to pull away if I’m reading this all wrong. But she doesn’t move. There’s a vulnerability in her expression that makes my chest ache.
My thoughts are a chaotic jumble. Part of me can’t believe this is happening, while another part feels like we’ve been moving toward this moment since she first walked into my cabin.
Time stretches like honey between us, but in reality, only five seconds have passed. Probably less. I’m acutely aware of everything—the distant sound of music from somewhere up the street, the whisper of wind in the trees, the way Anika’s breath hitches slightly as I move closer.
Our lips are a whisper apart. I can feel the ghost of her breath against my skin.
And then, suddenly, her eyes go wide with panic and her hands are against my chest, pushing me away with surprising force. And in the next second, pain explodes across my cheek as her fist connects with the side of my face.
“What the—” I stagger backward, hand flying to my jaw.
“ Scheisse !” Anika claps her hands over her mouth, eyes huge with horror.
I blink rapidly, working my jaw to make sure it’s still attached. “Wow you really clocked me.” I manage to croak out.
“I’m so sorry!” She reaches toward me, then pulls back like she’s afraid to touch me again. “I don’t know why I did that. It was instinct, I?—”
“It’s fine,” I mutter. I fumble for my car keys, needing to escape this mortifying situation as quickly as possible.
She’s stammering now, her composure completely shattered. “It wasn’t you, it was me. I might still be in fight mode.”
“Seriously, don’t worry about it. I misread the situation. Totally my fault.”
My face throbs where her fist connected—the same side that lunatic Titans fan got me, because of course it is, but my pride hurts way more than my jaw at this point. I finally get the door open and practically fall into the driver’s seat.
“Thanks for the, uh, first aid earlier. And the self-defense demonstration. Twice in one night. Lucky me.”
I close the door and turn on the engine. Through the window, I see her still standing there, looking stricken.
“You should ice that cut when you get home,” she says, almost pressed against the window. “Twenty minutes on, twenty off.”
“I know the drill,” I reply.
“Of course you do, Hockey player.”
“Goodnight, Anika.”
So much for chemistry. So much for reading the signs. Whatever I thought was happening between us, I was clearly wrong.
Finally, she takes a small step back. “Goodnight, Griffin. Try not to get punched again.”
I smile as well as I can after getting punched thrice in one night. “No promises.”