Spicy Why-Choose MMF Romance

Chapter 1

Maya

The olive-green dress still fit. Small victories.

I turned in front of the mirror, checking angles, smoothing the fabric over my hips. Two months with Griffin. Anniversary dinner at Marcello's, the Italian place downtown with the candlelit tables and the forty-dollar entrees. I should be excited.

I was excited. The tight feeling in my chest was excitement.

My laptop sat open on the vanity, the Whitmore he always saw more than I wanted him to, but whatever he found there, he didn't push. He just kissed my forehead, opened the passenger door, and waited for me to slide in.

"You look amazing tonight," Griffin said as he pulled away from the curb. His hand found my knee, thumb tracing a slow circle on my thigh.

"You already said that."

"Bears repeating." He glanced at me, that dimple appearing. "I'm a lucky guy."

I smiled despite myself. This was what Griffin did, pulled me out of my head with easy banter and warm hands.

* * *

Marcello's was packed for a Friday night, couples tucked into candlelit booths, the low hum of conversation mixing with the clink of wine glasses. Griffin held my hand as the hostess led us to our table, and I felt proud walking beside him. Judging by the smile on his face, he felt the same.

We settled into a corner booth, leather seats soft under my thighs, and the server appeared with menus and a wine list.

I scanned the entrees. Garlic butter shrimp. Truffle risotto. Braised short rib.

Smoked brisket with bourbon glaze.

My smile faltered. He would have ordered that without even glancing at the menu. Would have...

"Everything okay?" Griffin asked.

"Perfect." The word came out too bright. I forced my eyes back to the menu. "I'm thinking the shrimp."

Griffin frowned at his menu, flipping between pages.

"You look lost," I said.

"There are four pages. Why are there four pages?"

"Because it's fancy."

"Fancy places should have less options, not more. If you're paying forty dollars for pasta, someone should just tell you which pasta."

"That's called a tasting menu."

"See? Progress."

I watched him squint at the descriptions, he preferred burgers and pizza joints, places where the menu fit on a single laminated page. This was outside his comfort zone, and he was trying. For me.

"I'll do the same," he finally said, setting the menu down with visible relief.

The server took our orders. Griffin ordered the wine, a Pinot Grigio I'd mentioned liking once, three weeks ago. He remembered.

"So." He leaned back. "How's Whitmore treating you?"

"Whitmore is treating me like I've never designed a logo in my life."

"That bad?"

"The VP sent me seventeen emails today. Seventeen. All with the subject line 'quick thought.'"

Griffin winced. "None of them were quick, were they?"

"The shortest one was four paragraphs."

"You'll crush it. You always do."

"Your confidence is misplaced but appreciated."

"My confidence is perfectly placed." He lifted his wine glass. "To crushing it."

I clinked my glass against his. "What about you? Still fighting with the servers?"

"Always. They're winning."

"You say that every week."

"And every week it's true. Oh..." He set down his glass. "Kate called again about Napa."

"Again?"

"She's very persistent."

"She's your sister."

"Which is why she's very persistent." He traced his finger around the rim of his glass. "She wants to meet you."

My stomach stiffened. Meeting the family. That was a step. A real one.

"No pressure," he added quickly. "Just, she keeps asking."

"I'd like that. Eventually."

"Eventually works."

But I could feel it building, the thing he wanted to say. Griffin had a tell: he'd run his thumb along the stem of his wine glass when he was working up to something.

He'd been running his thumb along the stem for five minutes.

I loved him most in moments like this, when the polish cracked just enough to show the gears turning underneath. Griffin planned everything. Spreadsheets for vacations. Color-coded calendars on his phone. Watching him try to be spontaneous was endearing.

"So I've been thinking," he said.

My stomach tightened. "About?"

His cheeks flushed. "About us. About..." He cleared his throat. "What if I moved in?"

The fork slipped from my fingers, clattering against the plate.

"Griffin..."

"I know it's only been two months." He held up his hands. "And I know that sounds fast."

"It is fast."

"But when I'm not at work, I'm at your place anyway. And the house is big enough. More than big enough, actually."

The guest room was my mother's office. Her books were still on those shelves, her handwriting still in the margins. I'd have to move them. I'd have to touch them.

"That house is..." I stopped. Started again. "There's a lot of history in that house."

"I know." His voice softened. "And I'm not trying to replace any of it. I just want to add to it."

"It's not that simple."

"Then tell me what's complicated."

I opened my mouth. Closed it.

"I'm not trying to pressure you." He reached across the table and took my hand. "I just, there's something. A missing piece I can't quite figure out. And I thought maybe if we were closer, if I could really be there..."

"What do you mean, a missing piece?"

He hesitated. "Sometimes it feels like you're not all the way here with me. Like part of you is somewhere else."

My throat tightened. Because he wasn't wrong. And I couldn't tell him why.

"I love you," he said quietly. "That's not the question. I know you love me too. I just want to be closer to you, Maya. I want all of you."

Guilt settled heavy in my chest. He deserved better than half of me. He deserved someone who didn't grab the wrong perfume bottle and linger.

"Okay."

His eyebrows shot up. "Okay?"

"You're right. We should do it. Move in."

The words came out before I'd finished deciding if I meant them. But the relief that washed over Griffin's face, the way his whole body softened, that dimple reappearing, made me want to mean them.

He lifted my hand and pressed his lips to my knuckles. "You're sure? I don't want you to feel..."

"I'm sure."

I wasn't. But maybe if I said it enough times, I would be.

His expression changed, hunger behind those blue eyes.

"Well," he said slowly, "if we're celebrating..." He set down his napkin and stood. "Meet me in the men's room. Two minutes."

"Griffin..."