“Very.”
“Well, guess what?I don’t care what they think,” Griffin says, and then he leans in and kisses me.I smile through the kiss, both relief and a desire so deep and pure washing through me that I could cry.
The kiss grows deeper.Tongues get involved.In the background, I’m distantly aware of cheering.When we break apart, everyone around us looks thrilled.
“I fucking knew it,” Branson shouts.
“Finally,” Julie cries out.
“You’re drunk,” I say, but I can’t even be mad.He did exactly what I’d been hoping for.What I’d been craving.
But my happiness is cut off at the knees, because I know the truth nobody else knows from the outside looking in.
What I want—Griffin, all the time—I’ll never get.
This is Griff, drunk and vibing.
But when he wakes up tomorrow, we’ll have to clean up the mess.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CASEY
The pool party becomes a fun, blurry time, the type of night you sing about with girlfriends—the nights you’ll never remember with the friends you’ll never forget.
Those nights, of course, lead to consequences.Like Uber rides home.And hangovers that ruin the entire day after.And accidental confessions of maybe-this-is-more that remain unaddressed for days afterward.
As of the Monday post pool party, Griffin adopts a strict lifestyle—early rising, no alcohol, super-specific dietary requirements, constantly gone, barely texting throughout the day.I hate how little I’m seeing him and hearing from him.Like really hate it.
But no matter where he is during the day, he always shows up at the end of my work shifts to toss my bike in the bed of his truck and drive me home.And then we sleep together, rinse and repeat.I spend the days making more content and posting to my growing TikTok account, which is thrilling.People are actually watching my videosandresponding to them, which was the absolute last thing I imagined would happen.So that’s a nice distraction amid Griffin’s absence.
We’re on day five of not-talking-about-what-he-said when I finally crack.I’m in his truck, pockets full of cash from a successful night of bartending and book recommending, when I turn to him.
“Can we finally talk about what you told me Saturday at Grant’s house?”
He looks at me blankly.“What?”
I sigh, rolling my eyes.“I guess that’s my answer.”
“Seriously, what?”
“That…thingyou told me,” I sputter.“About how you’re sick of not being able to call me yours.”
Griffin clears his throat, focusing on the road.“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”I feel so dumb, bringing this up, only to have him respond likethis.I frown and look out the window.“Never mind.”
“Let’s talk about it.”
“No, I just realized we don’t need to.You were clear about what this was from the start, and your silence since the pool party is clear enough.I’m the idiot thinking you wanted more.”
“You’re not an idiot.”
“Whatever I am, we weren’t on the same page,” I bite out.“But we are now.”
Silence thuds through the truck.Tears press at my eyes as I grapple with my own stupidity.Am I just another puck bunny blinded by the hockey player’s prowess?I need to find an equivalent romance novel to work through these feelings.He told me from day one what this needed to be, and I got hopeful regardless.I should never have taken his tipsy words to heart.
Too many Saturdays of picking out flower bouquets and shopping for honey with him.All those work shift pick-ups and heated glances.The tenderness, the companionship, the friendship that felt like love.
