Page 113 of Love Felt Like This

Griffin starts to talk, but all I hear are the bass undertones of his deep voice, shorn from his words.

“What?” I yell.

Griffin smiles, leaning close. His broad shoulders bump against mine as his long hair cascades over his shoulders. It smells earthy. Woodsy, like the pines in Elk Grove and the cracked dirt of a hard day.

“You know, you don’t have to drink when Poe tells you to,” he says, his rumbling tone practically vibrating down my spine.

“He’s so nice about it, though,” I whine back.

“And you’re a lightweight.”

“I am not,” I argue, but maybe he’s right because my head is very heavy and I’d really love some water.

I don’t want to get up, though. I want to bask in the sight of Griffin in this club or bar or whatever it is. Purple lights illuminate the sides of his cheeks, casting his cheekbones in stark contrast, picking out the small scar on his temple, and making his jawline seem carved from marble.

He’s so perfect, and I wish he didn’t look so good and that I wasn’t so…me. I mean, no, I am happy I’m me. I love being me. But I wonder if I’m too ridiculous for someone like Griffin.

Not that it matters.

My job matters. Pitching to Connection matters.

I think I’m drunk.

“I’m gonna get water,” I say, pushing up off the couch.

The rest of the men start to rise, too, with chants of “Let us,” and “We’ll go for you,” but Griffin shakes his head. “I’ve got her.”

Griffin holds my waist in his large hands, the roughness catching on the delicate silk of my dress. I like that he lets me exist and make my own decisions, even though his palms are probably the only reason I’m standing right now.

That’s the thing about Griffin.

He’s supportive.

We’re not in front of any cameras. He doesn’t have to hold my hand. But when I reach out for his as we descend a small staircase, his fingers thread through mine anyway.

He escorts me to the long bar, which has little dotted lights along the edge. I lean on the counter, tracing my finger over them, expecting string lights, but they’re flush with the wood instead.

“Built into the bar,” I observe.

Griffin slowly nods in acknowledgment because I’m a ridiculous woman. A very, very ridiculous woman.

A woman on a deadline.

Why am I here again?

I hold my head in my hands and sigh.

Griffin takes the barstool next to where I stand and rubs my back with his palm.

“You want me to order water, or do you want to?” he asks.

I snort. “It sounds like you’re talking to Ava.”

He grins, and it’s that sly one with half his beautiful teeth showing.

“I’m just giving options,” he says.

“I’ve got it.” I almost tack on Daddy, but even my drunk brain knows that’s horrific and mortifying, and honestly the fact that I even thought it makes me duck my head again.