3. Brynn
Chapter three
Brynn
T he tap of Jack’s wingtips on the ceramic tile pulls my attention from the window. I’ve been staring outside, lost in my thoughts, for close to thirty minutes. He was adamant that we leave at seven, so I was sure to be ready early, lest he have another thing to gripe at me about.
Seems I can’t do anything right these days.
Like I knew he would, Jack complains about his car every chance he gets. I haven’t told him who the victim of my distracted driving was. It’ll come up soon, I’m sure. Though I don’t know whether it will help or hurt my case when he discovers that I rammed into that particular rear end.
Nope. Not letting my mind wander there .
Griffin Lacey.
I’d never admit this out loud, but for the past fifty-six hours, he’s popped into my mind far too many times, and at the most random moments.
Of course, I felt like an utter moron when he told me his name. I should have recognized him. Jack’s been talking about him nonstop for weeks. But in my defense, I’m not even one iota interested in football (American or European), so my brain had no visual to connect to.
And what a visual I’ve been missing out on.
I blink to clear the memory of him from my mind, and like every other time I’ve thought of his tall, powerful frame and his charming smile, my insides clench. That sensation, like always, is quickly followed by a wave of nausea.
No woman with a live-in boyfriend should be having such thoughts about another man. One she crashed said boyfriend’s car into, at that.
Jack pauses in the middle of the kitchen to check his smartwatch. A text. I know because his lips lift in the smallest of smiles. Then he whips out his phone to text the person back.
He’s shared that same smile with his phone or watch many times over the past month. A couple of times, I’ve dared to ask him who he’s texting. His reply? It’s just work stuff.
“You’re wearing green?” He gives me a once-over, scrutinizing the hunter-green cocktail dress with lace bodice and cap sleeves I bought especially for tonight.
“What’s wrong with green?”
Jaw going rigid, he looks down at his navy tie. When his icy stare returns to my face, he huffs an impatient breath. “The team is called the Blues, for Christ’s sake. How is it going to look if my date shows up wearing the color of one of our biggest division rivals? The rivals who beat our asses two days ago, no less.”
His date . Not his girlfriend. I add it to the mental list of grievances I’ve been keeping lately. The list that makes me feel like a crappy partner.
“I’m sorry.” And I am. But I can’t hold back the snark that laces my next statement. “I didn’t know I’d be expected to wear blue to all the things.”
“Brynn…” He pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head. “I don’t want to fight with you tonight. Let’s just go.”
I don’t have the energy to fight either. And isn’t that telling? Couples who are in it together fight, right? Then the passionate making up follows .
Both the fighting and the passion are missing from this situation Jack and I have settled into. It’s relatively comfortable most of the time, but it’s like we’ve painted ourselves into a corner, and the only way out is to make an absolute mess.
Shoulders back, I snag the matching clutch that cost way too much from the island and stand. “You look nice,” I tell him as I stride his way in my velvet flats.
I reach Jack’s side, ready for him to lead the way, but he’s engrossed in his phone.
Distracted. Like he’s been for the past few weeks.
After a moment, he looks up, eyes wide like he’s surprised to see me here. “Oh, uh, thanks. Let’s head out. Downtown traffic is going to be a bitch.”
Somewhere inside me, another petal wilts and falls away.
I pause on the front porch of the bungalow Jack and I share, weighed down by the sultry September air, as he locks the front door. I wiggle my toes in the stuffy velvet shoes and grimace. I’m regretting them already, but I don’t own any open-toe flat shoes fancy enough to wear with this dress, so here we are.
Heaven forbid I wear the strappy heels that would make me taller than my date .
“We’ll have to take yours.” Jack holds out his hand without looking at me, his tone flat.
He leaves it at that, but as I fish my key ring out of the clutch, the words he isn’t saying ring loud and clear: Because you wrecked mine.
Once we’re inside my Forester, he adjusts the driver’s seat position with an annoyed huff. He’s only an inch taller than me, so the need for dramatic seat adjusting is unnecessary. I keep that thought to myself.
As he fiddles with the buttons to get the settings right, I study the man I’ve shared a bed with for the past four years. He’s classically handsome, with light brown hair styled to perfection and clean-shaven cheeks that frame a straight, symmetrical nose. Nice lips. Crystalline eyes that match the sky reflected on a frosty winter lake.
Eyes a similar color, but so very different from the blue ones I stared into a couple of days ago.
Those eyes were warm and captivating, a soft bluish gray that twinkled with mischief and mirth. That sharpened with concern when their owner comforted me. That made me feel seen for the first time in a long time.
I graze my fingertips over the spot where Griffin soothed my wrist, like I can conjure the sensation by recreating the movement. Recreate the way his strong hands held me so gently, but with a firmness that made it clear he wouldn’t let go until I was steady.
If I close my eyes tight enough, I swear I catch a whiff of his fresh air and cedar scent.
No. I force my eyes open. I shouldn’t be having such thoughts about a man who isn’t Jack.
With a pinch to my wrist to clear my mind—a distraction from the knowledge that he will most likely be there tonight—I turn to focus on the man beside me.
“Is Shane bringing a date tonight?” I ask, extending an olive branch by segueing into Jack’s favorite topic: his job. His boss, the general manager of the Memphis Blues football organization, is a notorious love-’em-and-leave-’em type. Better known as a rake in my line of work.
He blows a raspberry, but a corner of his mouth lifts as he answers. “Who knows with him? I thought he was still seeing that blues singer, but he mentioned a Tiffany on Sunday, and I’m pretty certain that other chick’s name is Londa or Linda or something like that.” Jack speaks of Shane’s exploits with pride, the way a besotted mother might brag about a wayward son with a resigned boys-will-be-boys tone .
“I really liked the one before the singer. The dental hygienist. Cathy, I believe.”
I fiddle with the lace skirt of my dress as Jack sets his phone to play a sports podcast through the speakers. We listen to strangers ranting or waxing poetic about sports every time we’re in a car together. I used to complain about it, beg him to allow me a turn to choose how to fill the silence on drives, but after his one-thousandth explanation about how it’s important to his job, I gave up trying to compromise.
Jack snorts, the sound derisive. “Cathy was more like three women before the singer, bun.”
I cut my eyes to him, heat simmering inside me at the dig in his statement, even though he softened the blow with his pet name for me.
His silent message is that I’d know that if I attended more of his work functions. He’s frustrated that I’m not a football fanatic who joins him in the owners’ suite for every home game.
I don’t hate sports. But in my home growing up, they were not a focal point. Apart from being a stressed-out member of the high school swim team for two years, I didn’t participate in any in my youth. Whereas Jack’s lived and breathed athletics his whole life.
Where Jack has aspired to be a GM since puberty and spent many, many mornings and evenings on well-maintained sports fields, my childhood Saturdays were spent on overgrown hiking trails or warm, sandy beaches.
We’re silent for the rest of the ride downtown. At the valet stand, we have to practically swim through the muggy evening air before we’re ushered into the cool hotel lobby.
Jack takes my hand and plants a kiss on the back of it before twining his fingers between mine, shocking me so acutely I jolt. I blink rapidly, surveying him, as I attempt to interpret his rare PDA.
Sex. He only touches me like this when he’s anticipating intimacy .
And I can count on one hand the number of times we’ve been intimate in the last few months.
We’re both young professionals dedicated to advancing in our careers. The excuses are typical: too tired, too depleted, too stressed, too busy.
Too unsatisfying .
There’s that, too. At least for me anyway. He gets off every time.
Before we enter the ballroom, he leans in, his warm breath feathering over my cheek. “Try to make some friends tonight, dear.” After a quick squeeze, he releases my hand, freeing him up to greet the important individuals that surround us as soon as we step over the threshold.
His comment hits its mark like a sucker punch to my gut. I let out a shaky breath and fist my hands—an attempt to keep from curling up in the fetal position right here on this lovely ornate carpet? Possibly. Or to prevent myself from decking my boyfriend with a strong right hook that would make my pacifist parents cheer?
Too soon to tell.
My lack of friends here in Memphis is an unhealed scab Jack loves to pick at, and it’s been the source of just about every argument we’ve had since I moved here. It’s not that I don’t want friends. How could I not? The problem is that I don’t quite fit in here. I can’t relate to the team WAGs or the significant others of the front office staff. And at my job, I’m the lone Millennial slice of cheese in a Boomer and Gen Z sandwich.
Plus, making friends in adulthood can be freaking hard.
Pulling a calming breath deep into my lungs, I unclench my hands and paste on the friendliest smile I can muster as I step closer to Jack, who’s now talking to Shane. He must feel guilty for the jab because he lifts his elbow and offers his arm with a small smile.
I take it and anchor myself to him, much like I’ve done with my whole existence in this city. Jack’s the strong oak, rooted and unmoving, while I’m hanging on to a branch waiting to find earth of my own to plant in.
Conversation and laughter fill the grand ballroom as super fans and members of the Blues organization mingle and pose for selfies. I scan the room, trying in vain not to look too long at the clusters of muscly, athletic guys who stand head and shoulders above everyone else.
Doing my best not to search for a specific tall, muscly guy like I’m in a real-life version of Where’s Waldo .
It’s no use. It was ridiculous to even try.
Shane’s voice pulls me from my quest. “Good to see you here with this guy tonight, Brynn.” He tips his Bud Lite my way.
“Thanks, Shane.” I bob my head and peer around him, looking for a Tiffany or a Linda or a Londa, but it appears that he’s flying solo tonight.
An older gentleman sporting a thick mustache steps up to Shane’s side. “Geneva requests your presence for a group picture,” he says with a friendly smile.
As he shakes Jack’s hand, his name and importance snap into place in my mind. Bobby Mundy, Blues’ head coach. And the Geneva he referred to is the team’s owner. She’s the matriarch of the Russells, the family who’s owned the team since its inception in the mid-nineties.
“Jack, good to see you and your lovely companion again.” Coach Mundy takes my hand but keeps his focus on my boyfriend. “Geneva will want you in one of these pictures, so you might as well tag along.” He pops a shoulder and turns my way, his smile affable. “My Tamara’s around here somewhere, Brynn. I’m sure she’d love your company.” A soothing warmth flows through me as I return his smile. He and I have only met a handful of times, and he must be introduced to hundreds of people each year, yet he remembers my name. It’s impressive and surprising .
Before I can sputter out a thank you, Coach Mundy grips Shane’s shoulder, and the three men stride away, leaving me alone in a sea of strangers. I shuffle through mental images of people who work for the Blues, hoping to land on one of Tamara Mundy that will aid me in finding her in all this chaos, but I come up empty.
Oh well. Maybe I’ll save making friends for a different night.
Determined to find a server with a tray of Prosecco or water or anything to coat my parched throat, I spin on my heel, only to crash into a massive warm frame covered in…fur?
Oversized brown paws grip my upper arms to steady me, and a muffled “sorry” comes from somewhere near the giant hound dog’s throat.
King. The Blues’ mascot.
“So sorry, ma’am.” A lanky young man appears beside King, holding a heavy camera. “Care for a picture?”
I give my head a quick shake, cheeks heating. “That’s all right.”
There’s a couple standing nearby, clearly waiting for their turn with the beloved mascot. But whoever’s in the giant furry suit is determined to stick with me. He wraps me up in a hug, then maneuvers to my side and rests a heavy paw across my shoulders.
“Big smile,” the photographer prompts, and I acquiesce, ready to end this whole encounter and hunt down a damn drink.
As I sidestep away, the waiting couple swoops in for their photo op, and King blows me an exaggerated kiss. With a parting expression that’s half smile, half grimace, I hustle away. My target? One of the two bars on opposite sides of the ballroom.
Weaving through the people crowding the ballroom makes me even more desperate for liquid relief, but it doesn’t detract from my not-so-subtle examination of every tall, dark-haired man I squeeze by. Disappointment snakes its way through me when I make it to the bar without laying eyes on him. I blow a wisp of hair out of my eye and place my order .
Guzzling a hearty swallow of the Prosecco, I turn my back to the bar to survey the room. This time, searching for Jack. When that task proves to be futile as well, I decide to wait here until I get a “where are you?” text from him.
I stake a spot at the side of the bar, resting an elbow on the corner. As I do, the crowd parts in the middle of the ballroom, making space for King and some of the Blues players to gather together for a picture. This break in the throng affords me the perfect view of my boyfriend across the room.
He’s tucked against the far wall. With another woman.
All the voices and noise filling the giant space fade into silence. He’s so close to her, he can probably determine whether she’s a dedicated flosser. His arm is propped on the wall above her head, and she’s smiling and laughing at him like he’s her effing moon and stars. When she grabs his lapel affectionately and pulls him even closer, my stomach knots, and I bite my cheek so hard, I’m sure it’ll leave a mark.
The intimacy between the two of them is not new. Or professional. As I assess them, all those smiles aimed at his smartwatch or phone snap into focus.
My stomach has untwisted and is free-falling when a looming presence appears from my right. I glance that way long enough to notice a crisp white shirt under a light-blue jacket, but before I can register any other details, my attention zooms back to Jack.
The woman tucks a strand of ash blond hair behind an ear and bats her lashes at the man I uprooted my whole life for. The man I followed to a city I still feel like an outsider in, even though I’ve lived here for years.
Jack tilts his head toward the crowded room—a reminder, perhaps—and she releases her hold on his suit jacket. Each takes half a step back, putting them at an appropriate distance. The whole intimate exchange lasted less than a minute, but every second has been branded into my memory .
Certainly didn’t have Brynn’s entire world implodes in forty-five seconds on my bingo card for tonight.
Beside me, a throat clears, like the death knell of my relationship. Finally, I focus on the person beside me, and the blood drains from my face when recognition hits.
He’s not looking at me, thank God. His glare is fixed on the individuals who’ve caused my heart rate to short circuit. His jaw tenses and his eyes narrow, movements that act as defibrillators to my heart, causing me to press a palm to my chest to reassure myself that the organ is functioning.
Griffin Lacey turns to me, his blue-gray eyes softening. “If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll let you ram his car into mine again.”
I can’t help the laugh that breaks free, and the smile he gives me in response makes my tummy flip-flop.
He lowers his head, moving in so close I catch a hint of his scent. “ Or I’ll stand lookout while you go all Carrie Underwood on his ass.”
The man is tall and solid, and he’s dressed in a light-blue linen suit that makes his eyes appear more blue than gray. The look fits his stature perfectly.
The brief distraction of his charm fizzles out at the trace of pity there, and mortification swoops in. Unable to look at him, or at anyone, I study my hands to hide my embarrassment and devastation. A tingling sensation starts in my fingertips and creeps up my body while warmth saturates my face and chest.
“Hey.” His deep voice is full of a concern that makes my cheeks heat even more. “Brynn.”
My name from his lips sends tingles of a different sort through my core. But I shake them off and force my eyes to his. “How’d you even know…” I can’t finish my question. Can’t give voice to what we just witnessed.
Griffin doesn’t need me to. “Saw you on his arm earlier.” He shrugs and takes a step closer. “Figured he was the owner of the Beamer.”
Instantly, the memory of the nervous call I made to my boyfriend right after the fender-bender bubbles up.
“Jack? I’m so, so sorry, but I’ve been in an accident, and—”
“An accident? Like a car accident? Is the Beamer okay?”
The man seriously asked about his car before he checked on my well-being. One of many red flags I’ve chosen to ignore over the years. Perhaps the reddest of them all.
Until tonight.
“Brynn,” Griffin says again.
I have to crane my neck to make eye contact when he’s standing this close. For a moment, I study him. Warm blue-gray eyes, hooded under thick, dark brows. A straight, aquiline nose. His ears stick out a tiny bit, like the universe tried to tamp down his perfection with a slight overcorrection. Rather than lessen his rugged attractiveness, it only adds a cuteness that’s rare for a man who’s got to be in his thirties. Cute and rugged? Who could resist that combo? His hair, a brown so dark it’s almost black, is cropped close to his head.
Does he keep it this length all the time? Does he have a standing appointment with a barber? Do NFL superstars even go to barbershops, or do they hire professionals to make house calls?
I give my head a small shake. Why the hell am I thinking about barbershops right now?
He rubs a hand over his short, dark beard and regards me with a frown. “Do you wanna get out of here?”
Do you wanna get out of here?
The question clangs through me, the multiple implications for here lining up like an organized list.
Do I want to get out of this room full of strangers where I just witnessed my boyfriend more than flirt with another woman? Yes .
Do I want to get out of this city , a place so vibrant and quirky and rowdy it makes me feel like a beige impostor? Also yes.
But I can’t leave this event with the man watching me with a challenging gleam in his eyes. Can I?
The people pleaser in me says absolutely not. But something about Griffin Lacey makes me want to be impulsive.
I glance around, searching for someone who might save me from this decision, but then I remember that I don’t know anyone here.
Except Jack. And this man. Sort of. The man who’s wearing a smile that makes me want to say yes.
I buy some time by asking, “Don’t you need to stay?”
He peers around the bustling ballroom. “I’ve posed for plenty of selfies and signed enough jerseys.” His lips twist to one side. “I can get you one.”
“I don’t wear sports jerseys,” I blurt before I can think my response through. Damn it . I close my eyes and hope that when I open them, I’ll discover tonight was all a terrible nightmare.
No such luck. When I lift my lids, I’m still standing in a crowded ballroom with a hot football player staring at me like I’m a puzzle he can’t quite figure out.
His dark brows—drawn together from my bluntness, no doubt—smooth out. “No worries. And my invitation for an escape is still on the table, even if you did just reject my jersey.” He slips his hands into his pockets and rocks back on his heels.
“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry.” I give him a weak smile.
“No worries, Brynn.”
Holy hell. The way his gravelly voice forms the phonemes of my name makes goose bumps blanket my body.
“What do you say?” he asks, ducking closer and meeting my eye. “Wanna blow this popsicle stand? ”
When he rolls his lips, waiting for my answer, I want nothing more than to say yes. I don’t care where we’ll go or what we’ll do, but I want to go on an adventure. With him.
Maybe it’s reckless, but I bite my lower lip and nod. Once.
The smile that overtakes his face is enough to convince me to follow him anywhere. I have no doubt it’s worked its magic on countless women before me. But I won’t let myself think about that tonight.
Griffin rubs his palms together, a mischievous glint in his eye. “If you trust me, I’ve got a way out of here that—”
“I trust you.” The ease with which those three words escape surprises me, but that makes them no less true. I trust this personable, brawny jock even though we’ve been acquainted for a collection of mere moments.
His charming smile melts and is replaced with a solemn nod. Like he somehow understands what a rarity it is for me to offer myself so freely. “Follow me.”
He strides off, and I follow, doing my best to keep enough distance between us so that it’s not obvious that we’re leaving together while trying not to lose him in the heavy crowd. Instead of exiting through the mezzanine and main elevators, he heads to a mostly hidden door beside the stage on one end of the ballroom. He sneaks a glance around and then opens it while ushering me through. After we step into the small space, his warmth is a wall at my back as he secures the door. Then, he silently leads me through a series of smaller rooms and corridors until we reach a door marked with a stairwell symbol.
Our footsteps echo loudly against the cinderblock walls as we descend, but still, we don’t speak. Once we’re on the main floor, he turns away from the main entrances, from the lobby that has to be teeming with fans and hotel guests. After a few more labyrinthine twists and turns, we exit via a service door into the muggy Memphis night .
I’m out of breath after our quick escape, but I wheeze out, “Where to now?”
“Now,” he says, that charming smile plastered on his face, “Let’s get some real food. I’m starving.” He absently rubs his stomach.
My eyes track the movement as I wonder what kind of pack that fabric hides—six or eight?
He bobs his head to the right, in the direction of Memphis’s crowded tourist spots, and starts down the sidewalk, his gait purposeful. Three steps into our trek, he slips his hand behind his back and wiggles his fingers.
The same gesture he made when he helped me from his back seat after our collision. Without glancing back or slowing his movement down the street, he keeps his hand there, his long fingers dancing above his football-honed ass.
Jack’s words from earlier tonight spring into my mind: Try to make some friends tonight, dear.
I reach forward and take Griffin’s waiting hand.
I think I’ll do just that.