13. Brynn
Chapter thirteen
Brynn
W hen I come to, I’m swaddled in the softest sheets in existence and surrounded by the scent of the man I can’t quit thinking about. The man who was so tender and patient with me in my drunken haze. As consciousness builds, layer upon layer, fleeting images and words from last night slide into focus: Knocking back shots with Paige and Gina. Sidewalk dancing to a street band as we pranced to a second bar. Paige showing me a text from Beau, which relayed a message from Griffin.
Beau
Hey, babe. Griff just texted me this:
Please tell Paige not to let Brynn accept drinks from random guys. Texted B, but she isn’t responding.
His overprotective nature brings a smile to my face.
More flashes hit me: Checking my phone and finding Griffin’s blurry message. Insisting to Paige and Gina that Racy Lacey isn’t the boss of me . More shots, and three straws in…a bucket? Piling into Beau’s SUV, laughing hysterically at Gina’s impression of his signal-calling cadence. Griffin effortlessly scooping me up to carry me up the stairs, his solid body so warm, holding me with tenderness and dare I say…possessiveness?
The cringe-worthy memories float to the surface next: Kneeling in the bathroom, purging the good-time toxins from my body. And… oh, God . Oh no. Did I really give Griffin permission to compliment my boobs ?
With a groan, I lift my way-too-old-for-this body from the cushy mattress and press a hand against my pounding head. Swallowing a wave of nausea, I turn, discovering that Griffin’s stocked the bedside table with the essentials—a bottle of water, two pain relievers, my phone, and…a note. As I pick it up, my arm brushes a lump of softness different from the texture of the bedding.
It’s Barnaby. Tucked into my side, half hidden by the bedsheet.
Emotion swells. I have to blink away wetness so I can make out the words of Griff’s note.
Good morning, professor! Hope your hangover isn’t too bad. Thought you’d want some company when you wake up. See you tonight. XO-Griff
I clutch the paper to my chest as another memory becomes clear: Griffin, voice low, deep, calling me baby .
Was it a throwaway endearment? Or were the words spoken with weighted significance?
The atmosphere in this apartment is different this morning. Like I’m breathing rarefied air. Some seismic shift happened overnight, but I’m just now getting the memo.
I scan the room, the California-king bed.
Holy hell.
I slept in his bed.
I vaguely remember Griffin’s muscly arms keeping me upright as he helped me to this spot. The sensation of his hands on my calves as he tugged off my boots.
“We’ll talk about it later, professor.”
Does later mean today ?
My heart thumps against my ribs as my foggy brain works to catch up. Will this conversation be solely about his nonchalant baby bomb? Or does he want to discuss more? Since last weekend, and Tucker’s ill-timed shower intrusion, my bravado about confronting Griffin has been MIA. Would it be possible to shore it back up in time for our talk?
A check of the time has me popping the ibuprofen he left and guzzling water. I have to dig deep in order to shove all of my Griffin-sized questions into a mental box for later. For now, I put all my focus into functioning as a human with this monster-sized hangover.
After I choke down a banana and another bottle of water, I slog through my morning routine and walk into my first class with minutes to spare. The freshmen trickle in as I connect my laptop to the projector and mentally rehash this session’s topics. Just as I hop up on the table, legs swinging, laptop queued up with today’s slides, I’m hit with a question that stops my heart.
A deep voice from one of the middle rows shouts, “Yo, Miss Nelson, are you and Racy Lacey hooking up?”
The blood drains from my face as I search for the source, first homing in on the giggling girls, then the audacious freshman they’re focused on.
My first instinct is to play dumb. “Wh-what?”
He waves his phone in the air, grinning. “There’s a picture of you two at the zoo. Did he show you his snake?”
The room breaks out into titters, and the blood that’s evacuated my face rushes back with a vengeance, and my already touchy stomach roils.
I clear my throat and find my voice. “Mr. Newman, that is inappropriate and has nothing to do with Thomas Hardy.” His ruddy complexion flares as he side-eyes his peers. “Now, in our last session, we discussed Hardy’s use of imagery in his poetry… ”
Somehow, I wrestle the train back on the track and finish the lecture. It helps that I’ve taught this course several times and know it well. But as soon as the last student exits the classroom, I snatch my phone from my desk.
I bypass several waiting texts and tap on the search engine. When I enter Griffin’s name and hit go , the breath I’ve been holding whooshes out. The first few news items are football related. My blood pressure is just starting to lower when I see it, a few stories in. A grainy picture of the two of us at the zoo three days ago, our latest Memphis Magic outing.
I click on the article.
Rather than a celebrity gossip site, this is a sports gossip blog titled Ballers’ Baes. From what I gather as I peruse it quickly, its sole purpose is speculating about professional athletes and their significant others. In the picture, Griffin’s placing a roaring lion hat on my head, and I’m beaming up at him. The article’s titled Racy Lacey’s New Lady Love?
This is not the first time a photo of the two of us has appeared online, but it is the first where my face is clearly visible. In the few others I’ve found, my head’s down, and my hair is hiding my face, or Griffin’s blocking me from view. He was hyper-vigilant when we first started hanging out, I think out of respect for my relationship with Jack. But now that I’m single, neither of us bat an eye when we see cameras pointed our way. This was bound to happen. But the timing could be terrible. Because what if it chokes the tiny bud growing between us before we have a chance to nurture it?
I slide my thumb up the screen, dismissing the app, and tap on the message icon, where a red circle signals that I’ve missed several texts. My stomach plummets at the name at the top of the list.
Jack
What the fuck, Brynn?
Racy Lacey? Seriously?
Do you know his reputation? Were you fucking him before you dumped me?
I can’t believe you’d stoop this low. With an athlete? On MY team? You hate sports. How’d you even meet him? At that fucking season-ticket event?
Five fucking years, Brynn. And you threw it all away for a showboating fuck boy. Hope he screws up every damn one of your sandwich orders.
I’m still subtly dashing away tears as students file in for the next class.
It’s pouring when I leave campus. What a perfect way to end this hell of a day.
Though swimming my usual thirty laps would soothe my anxiety, all I want to do is get home.
It’s Halloween. I’m still nursing the remnants of a hangover. My ex-boyfriend flayed me via texts. And my situationship—as Paige calls it—has grown more complicated.
I even cried over tea time with Helen.
I want to change into warm pajamas and eat a huge bowl of popcorn while I watch a comfort movie. Maybe Seven Brides for Seven Brothers . Or Becoming Jane , which I’d definitely shut off right after the main characters run away together .
But the tall, handsome tight end who’s counting my every step up the stairs has other plans. As soon as I clear the top step, I’m wrapped in his arms.
The sensation is as good as I remember. Griffin Lacey gives excellent hugs. The perfect combination of gentle and strong.
“How was your day, professor?” He rests his chin on my crown.
“Awful.” My words are muffled against his collarbone, but I don’t pull back as I list the day’s hardships. “All-day hangover. Might still have it, honestly.” His chest bounces with a chuckle, but he holds me tighter. “Halloween on a college campus.”
“Hard pass.”
“Right? And one brave freshman had the audacity to wave the zoo picture around and ask about it during class. Do you know about the zoo picture?”
“Mm-hmm.” The sound vibrates through his chest and into me. “Seth sent it earlier. I’m sorry.”
Now it’s my turn to squeeze. “Don’t be.”
He rubs up and down my spine, the movement a balm, making me sag further.
“It was going to happen sooner or later.”
A grunt. “What else?”
“The rain.”
“Supposed to stop soon.”
“Good for the trick-or-treaters.” I inhale a deep breath. I’d be content to stop there and bask in his Griffin-scent, but I need to say this last one. “But the worst part of my day, by far, was Jack.”
He goes rigid, and that comforting hand ceases its calming motion. “What about him?” His voice is hard granite.
I ease back so I can look at him, but he keeps me locked in his embrace. “He saw the article and sent me several texts to voice his displeasure.”
“Can I—” His Adam’s apple bobs. “What do you need? ”
I search his eyes, which match the stormy sky outside, and sigh. “This.”
With a subtle nod, he tucks my head back in that spot between his collarbone and jaw, a perfect fit. Like that space was made especially for me.
We stand like that, entwined in each other, until the sharp edges of my day melt into smooth, manageable margins.
“I have the perfect solution for this shitty day.” His chin bumps the top of my head with each word. “Ice cream for dinner.” He plants a quick kiss on the top of my head that I’ll no doubt analyze with charts, graphs, and tables later, and swats my bottom. Then he pulls away. “You’ve got fifteen minutes to change.”
Since he’s giving me no time for analytics now, I hustle upstairs and change into my favorite pair of jeans and a butter-soft Townes sweatshirt to match the vibes of Griff’s sweats-and-hoodie combo.
By the time we lock up and skirt around the building, the rain has ceased. Griffin starts up South Main in the direction of the nearest trolley stop, his long legs eating up twice the distance mine do. It only takes half a dozen steps for him to slow his pace and give me the finger wiggle. When I lace my fingers through his, he tugs me to his side.
We hold hands all the way to the trolley. And neither of us lets go as we head downtown, surrounded by riders dressed as witches and superheroes and Elvises, each one casting curious glances our way.
The ice cream shop isn’t crowded, but we take our double-scoop cones outside into the cool night air. The gray clouds block the last rays of the setting sun, and the sidewalks are dark and wet. The seats of the metal benches that face the street are puddled, so we stroll down the block and eat.
“That’s disgusting, by the way.” I whirl my finger at his cone.
He takes a bite from the bright-blue scoop on top. “Professor,” he says, his lips already turning colors—a curse of the flavor. “This is an elite cone—the best parts of childhood in one delicious combo.” My side-eye makes him tip his head back in laughter. “Who doesn’t love cotton candy and PB and J?”
“It’s a wonder your teeth are so perfect with all the sugary foods you consume.”
Even in the gloomy twilight, the twinkle in his eye is bright. “You think my teeth are perfect?”
“Your smile isn’t the worst,” I confess, tone begrudging, like I don’t swoon every time one lights up his face.
He draws to a stop, and when I spin to face him, the intensity in his expression makes me shiver. With one big hand, he cradles my jaw, his thumb stroking my bottom lip once, so featherlight I wonder if I imagined it. But then his husky voice incinerates me. “This one takes my breath away.”
I keep my focus locked on him, refusing to blink, worried that if I do, I’ll wake and discover this was all an elaborate dream.
His attention shifts to my ice cream cone before returning to my face. “How’s this combo taste?”
I swallow, tamping down the butterflies threatening to take flight in my stomach. “It’s good,” I breathe. I bring the treat to my mouth and relish the way the cold sensation contrasts with the lingering heat of his touch.
“Hmm. Let’s see.” Stooping, he brings his mouth to my scoop. His eyes don’t stray from mine as he pauses there, sampling the dessert from the opposite side.
One scoop of fudge ripple is the only thing separating Griffin Lacey’s lips from mine.
He pulls back, licks his lips, and hums. “Not bad.”
Rising to his full height, he gives me a shall we? head tilt, and we continue our stroll. By the time we return to the trolley stop, we’ve finished our ice cream cones. But there’s no hand holding on the journey to the apartment, which makes a bereft hollowness sink into my marrow .
The clink of Griffin’s keys against the catch-all bowl on the bar is jarring in the silence, startling me. And before I can weigh the consequences, I blurt out the question that’s plagued me all day. “Are we going to talk about it?” I infuse my gaze with a warning—if he doesn’t know which it I’m referring to, then heaven help him.
He doesn’t respond right away, choosing instead to let the question simmer between us. He opens his mouth, closes it, then, jaw set, he stalks my way. My heart pounds out a rhythm that could either be the beat of a death march or a circus parade, depending on this man’s response.
When he reaches me, he cups my shoulders, the determination in his brows smoothing out as his eyes soften. “We are going to talk about it. But not tonight.”
I examine his features for things left unsaid.
But in true Griffin fashion, he doesn’t make me guess. He shares his thoughts with no evasion, no hesitation. “Professor, I don’t want to go there while you’re recovering from this shit show of a day. I don’t want a hangover or messages from a jackass to taint something momentous for us. I just want to comfort you.” Throat bobbing, he brushes a lock of hair behind my ear. “So I’m going to make you a cup of tea, and we’re going to watch a movie—your choice.”
“My choice?”
“Even if it’s How to Train Your Dragon .”
A soft smile pulls at my lips as his warm look tugs at my heartstrings. “First of all, that movie is a heartwarming delight.”
He nods his agreement.
“But,” I say, “I think I need some Jane tonight. Fair warning, though. It’s a historical romance.”
“Whatever you need.” His words are a promise, and then he alters my whole world when he leans in and presses a soft kiss to my forehead.
Holy. Hell .
“You get the movie ready, and I’ll get your tea. It’s the weekend, so I’m assuming black tea is fine?”
I nod, my chest clenching. This man remembers a throwaway comment I made weeks ago? A simple mention of how I save black tea for weekend nights, since its caffeine content is higher than green tea?
After I trade my jeans for flannel pajama pants, I sink into the soft leather couch in the spot I prefer on the rare nights we watch TV or play video games together. A moment later, Griffin appears and carefully hands me a piping hot mug of tea. Then he settles in his favorite corner.
I start the movie and sip my tea, savoring its mellow tannins. I’ve finally settled in and have lost myself in the plot when my roommate heaves a put-upon sigh.
I’m about to remind him that he let me choose the movie, when he grates out, “Yeah, this isn’t working for me.”
Without moving from his spot, he plucks the mug from my hands and puts it on the end table. Then he leans across the cushion between us and gathers me in his arms. He drags me across the leather and plonks me right next to him. If I were any closer, I’d be in his lap. Within seconds, the mug is back in my hands and Griffin’s arm is wrapped around me.
“Much better,” he mumbles.
Me? I snuggle deeper into his side.
When I’ve finished my tea, he sets the mug on the table again, then tightens his hold on me.
I point to a fresh-faced Anne Hathaway on the screen. “Jane is the reason I’m an English lit not-a-professor, by the way.”
“Is she?”
“Yep. Sophomore year of high school, I read Sense and Sensibility , and I fell in love with Marianne and Elinor. They’re dual sides of my soul—Elinor’s practicality and Marianne’s passion. And Colonel Brandon is so dreamy.”
The real-life dreamboat at my side snorts. “You know what this movie needs?”
I elbow him. “Nothing. It’s perfect.”
“Nah.” He jostles me. “Could use some dragons.”
The laugh that erupts from me is accompanied by a snort. “Well, I did find one under the bananas this morning.”
“Really? So. Weird.” He’s silent for several beats, and his frame tenses. “After the Charlotte game on Sunday, we have our bye.”
When he doesn’t elaborate, I nod.
“I promised Mom I’d spend the weekend on the farm.” He shifts my way and stuffs his free hand into the pocket of his hoodie. “I, uh, was wondering if you’d like to come with me.”
“To Holly Holler?” I tilt my head so I can study him.
“To Holly Holler,” he confirms.
An overnight trip to his hometown? It seems like a giant step toward a destination I’m still not completely sure we’re headed for. But like every other time he’s asked me to take a chance, my answer is immediate. “I’d love to go to Holly Holler with you.”
“Perfect.” He tucks me into his side again and turns back to the movie.
Before long, the stress and toll of the day threaten to pull me under. I fight the droop of my heavy lids for as long as I can, but eventually—well before Tom and Jane are forced to part ways—I surrender to the promise of a deep sleep, tucked close to the man who’s becoming my favorite person.