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Griffin refuses to relinquish the spoon and insists on feeding me bites of the sundae. I humor him until he starts pulling the spoon away when it’s half an inch from my mouth so he can eat it instead. After that, I steal it back and purposely miss his mouth more than once.
“You have terrible aim; you should give that spoon back.” He drags his tongue across his top lip, licking away my sad attempts at feeding him. I wonder what it would be like to have him eat ice cream off of me. Messy probably, and sticky. And fun.
“Are you always like this?”
“Like what?” he asks.
“You don’t seem like you take yourself too seriously.”
He stretches his arm across the back of the seat. I can see his hand in my peripheral vision, close to my shoulder but not touching. “I have to be serious all day at work. I prefer to be the opposite of serious when I’m not making important decisions that could potentially cost my family a lot of money should I choose the wrong course of action.”
I feel like he’s given me a very clear glimpse into who he is under the smile and the gorgeous face and the very nice body, so I press for more. “Do you have to do that a lot? Make important decisions?”
“It’s a significant part of my job.” His expression turns mirthful. “Do you always have terrible aim, or is that just for my benefit?”
“It’s totally for your benefit. And really, if you wanted to stop me you could. I mean look at that.” I poke his bicep and flex my own. “Pretty sure you’d beat me in an arm wrestling competition, so it’s obvious you enjoy wearing ice cream as much as you enjoy eating it.”
He wraps his hand around my bicep. I’m wiry, so his fingers touch each other as he gives it a gentle squeeze. “I enjoy you.” He’s still sort of smiling, but his voice is low and gravely, and there’s heat in his eyes. The kind that makes my tummy flutter and my palms instantly damp.
He releases my arm, fingers dragging softly down my forearm in a way that causes desire to spark and warm me from the inside. I can’t seem to look away from his heavy gaze. At least until he steals the spoon back and shouts his victory, drawing the attention of a table of teens nearby.
We eat the rest of the sundae and talk about our favorite places to visit. I’ve never been outside the US, but Griffin has been almost everywhere. He’s even spent time in China, which is definitely on my bucket list, along with Australia, the entirety of Europe, and parts of South America.
We stay for so long that the dinner rush ends and the kids who play soccer at the field close by flood the diner after a game. They’re loud and obnoxious, so as much as I like talking to Griffin, it’s impossible to hear each other over their shrieking.
“Can I drive you home?” Griffin asks as we step out into the dusky evening.
“You don’t need to do that. I only live a few blocks away.” I gesture in the general direction of my apartment and adjust my backpack.
Griffin slips his hands into his pockets and looks around at the low-rise apartments and small, run-down businesses in this area. It’s not glitzy like the Strip, more like a typical street in middle-class anywhere USA. “It’s getting dark. I’d feel a lot better if I could get you home safely. If you’re concerned about my driving skills, I’m more than happy to walk you.”
I look down at my feet. The wedges weren’t intentional. My flip-flops broke on the way to STW this afternoon, so I’ve been stuck in these stupid shoes all day, and walking home in them isn’t appealing since I already have a blister on my heel and another on my big toe.
“I guess you could drive me. If you don’t mind.”
Griffin’s smile makes my insides all melty. He places a warm, wide palm on my low back, thumb brushing back and forth over the exposed skin between my shorts and the bottom of my slightly too-short tank, causing goose bumps to rise along my arms despite it still being at least seventy-five degrees.
Growing up in Vegas, I’ve seen a lot of nice cars. I’ve also watched my sister get in and out of plenty of them, but the only time I’ve been in anything nicer than a Toyota Corolla was when we rented a limo for senior prom.
“Is this yours?” I gently skim a finger along the body, appreciating the sleek lines. It has a Nevada license plate.
“It’s a corporate car.”
It must be one hell of a company to finance a sports car like this when he’s only here for a few months. The car beeps and Griffin opens the passenger door for me. He slips his finger under my backpack strap—I’m almost embarrassed that I didn’t think to bring one of those giant purses instead—and carefully sets it behind the passenger seat. Griffin holds out his hand, so I slap it, like a wonky low-five.
