Chapter 15
SASHA
After breakfast, I demand Griffin let us spend the morning in Quince Valley. Sweetly, of course.
We need to get groceries, and almost more importantly, clothes. “I desperately need something new to wear,” I lament as we leave the grocery store. “I don’t think I’ve ever worn the same outfit two days in a row.”
Griffin looks down at his own clothes—a black T-shirt and khakis—and I remember Chester’s words about him wearing the same thing every day.
“You probably think I’m shallow, don’t you?”
He’s thoughtful as he loads items into the truck. “Why would I think that? I assume picking out clothes makes you feel the same way I do taking an engine apart.”
I laugh, but it’s refreshing that he doesn’t take what I love at face value. “Clothes can change a person’s whole self-image,” I say, thinking of my mom, who I emailed this morning to let know I was out of town for a bit but would check in soon. She hasn’t written back yet.
I shrug. “Maybe it was her desperate need to fit in when she made the shift to rich man’s wife, but whenever she put on something she liked, it was like the sun coming out after the rain. She was kind, for a little while.”
He watches me for a moment. “I’m sorry she wasn’t kind all the time.”
I shrug. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not.”
I swallow. “Don’t get all serious on me, Griffin.”
“I don’t really know how not to be.”
“Liar.”
He smirks, and somehow that’s better than the biggest smile.
“Can we walk? I want you to show me around town.”
Griffin holds a hand out in an “after you” gesture.
We head out on foot toward a boutique Griff says will have the closest stock of the kinds of clothes I like wearing. This I’m curious about seeing. How closely has he been observing my outfits?
I peel an orange I snagged from the bags as we go down a street lined with adorable shops with brightly colored awnings and potted plants lining their fronts. But instead of letting Griffin tell me about each of them, I realize I’m in a unique position to know more about him.
“So I was thinking, if I’m going to consider marrying you, I need to know a little more about you, don’t you think?”
Griffin looks deeply uncomfortable. “What do you want to know?”
I pop a section of orange into my mouth, considering. “What kind of music do you like to listen to?”
Relief flows over his features. I think he thought I was going to ask him about his thoughts on mortality or religion or something.
But then he says, “I don’t listen to music.”
My jaw drops. “What? Ever? What if it comes on the radio?”
He shrugs. “Some jazz, I guess. Nothing frilly. Only the classics.”
“Okay, first of all, what the heck is frilly jazz? And next, if you know the classics, it means you like the genre. Who are the classic artists you like?”
“Basie. Munk.” He glares at me. “Next question.”
I laugh, breaking off another section of orange. “Ever heard the saying ‘slow down and listen to the music’?”
“It’s ‘smell the roses.’”
“Same difference. What’s the point of barging through life fixing everything if you don’t slow down and enjoy it a bit, too?”
He gives me a look like he’s actually considering that. But I’m still holding the piece of orange in front of me. Maybe it’s that.
“Do you like oranges?”
“They’re fine.”
“Here.” I hold it out to him. “It’s really sweet. Juicy.”
“I’m fine.”
“So you don’t like oranges?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“The saying could be slow down and taste the oranges, too.” I pop the section into my mouth.
“Okay,” I say around the sweet citrus. “Favorite movie?” I swallow the orange.
“And you can’t say you don’t watch movies.
You grew up in a pretty normal family, as far as I know.
You have to have seen at least one or two. ”
He frowns. But I see he’s actually considering the question.
“Casablanca,” he says finally.
I roll my eyes. “Of course you would pick the first movie ever made.”
“It wasn’t the first movie—”
I wave his facts away with my hand. “You know what I mean. But I don’t think that was your first answer, Mr. Kelly.”
He gives me a sharp look. “Why?”
“I saw you thinking about it. You always have an answer ready. Or a nonanswer. But you thought about this one. You kept your hands in your pockets so you didn’t do that face-scrubby thing, but I know.”
“What’s that face-scrubby thing?”
I explain my theory.
He scoffs. “I don’t do that.”
“Yes you do.”
His hand lifts, but he catches it.
“Ha! See?”
“I wasn’t going to do it.”
“Were too.” God, he’s fun to tease. Easy to tease. I try not to analyze just how good this makes me feel. “So what is it? What’s your favorite movie? Rambo? No, one of the James Bond movies. Maybe Mission: Impossible.”
“I gave you my answer.”
I roll my eyes. “Mm-hmm.” I pull off another section of orange. “You sure you don’t want some?”
“You’re annoying, you know that? I—”
“You don’t know annoying,” I say mischievously. Then I jump in front of him, forcing him to stop. “What’s the movie?”
“I’m not telling.”
I grin. “So you do have one.”
He realizes his mistake and folds his arms.
“You know what I think, Griffin Kelly?”
He meets my gaze. “What, Sasha Macklin?”
The way he says my name, with that deep rumble of his, makes something go melty inside me, and for a moment, I almost chicken out.
He’s intimidating. His eyes bore into mine.
But that’s just what he’s trying to do—get me to chicken out.
So I don’t. I take a step closer, lowering my voice.
“I may be annoying, but I think you like it.”
For a moment, neither of us says anything. But I swear I see a flame flicker in his eyes. I can almost feel its heat.
“You think so?” he asks. Then, before I even see movement, his big, rough hand gently wraps itself around my wrist. That sensation I felt a moment ago pales in comparison to the snapping electricity shooting down my arm, spreading heat throughout my whole body.
He’s so strong. So much bigger than me.
I swallow. “Yes.”
He grunts. “Yes what, Sasha?”
Yes, I’ll marry you.
“Yes, I think you like it when I give you a hard time,” I whisper.
His eyes don’t leave mine as he brings my hand toward his mouth.
I’m still holding the orange piece. He opens his lips and takes the whole section in at once.
My fingertips brush against the rough bristle of his mustache and the surprising contrast of the softness of his lips as he closes them around the orange.
I can’t move. I’m frozen to the spot, my eyes locked to his as he chews the orange, still holding my hand at his mouth.
He takes his time, but finally swallows. “You’re right,” he says. He licks his lips, his tongue barely missing my fingertips. “That was a good orange.”