And that’s when recognition dawns on his face. I can see the light of understanding in the depths of his dark-brown eyes. For the tiniest second, he almost looks shocked, and then a sly grin forms on his face. “You jealous, Pen? You don’t need to be. I didn’t go home with that woman at Pro-Bowl.”
I hate it when he says my name. No, I hate it when he says it likethat. Like I’m an annoying brat he has to put up with, not a wholeperson with feelings that get hurt. Ignoring that, I also notice he didn’t argue about having a fuck buddy downtown again.
“I’m not jealous.” I stomp my foot to prove that point, which in retrospect, probably does the opposite, because his grin grows even larger and the light in his eyes turns into a twinkle of teasing in a blink. He knows I’m lying through my teeth, since there’s one thing I’m not good at ... well, there’s a lot of things, because I also can’t do calculus, but that hasn’t come up as often as the undeniable reality that I’m an awful liar. “Just worried about you passing the STD screening at next month’s physical exam.”
I know the guys on the team get physicals all the time, including a full panel of lab work every month, because Dom always whines about the needle stick. Some guy full-sending a puck right at his noggin? No biggie. A teeny-tiny needle prick? Terrifying. My brother is such a baby.
“I always pass. No worries there.” He chuckles like that’s funny for some reason.
I shrug like it’s not my concern either way. “So if you’re not here for a hookup, what’re you doing?” I don’t know why I ask again. Maybe because it seems like he really doesn’t want to tell me, and that makes me that much more curious? Curiosity might’ve killed the cat, but at least he died with answers to his questions.
“You really want to know?”
I nod, but doubt is starting to creep in at the return of the taunting tone in his voice. “Unless it involves spiders. Hate those things.” I feign horror, although it’s only half feigned. I do hate the little fuckers. “I shouldn’t have told you that, should I? You have to promise to never put one in my bed. I will freak out so bad that I’ll jump out my apartment window to my death, my last action on this earth being to light the building on fire to destroy the spider and save the world like the hero I am.”
Griffin stares at me in confused silence, which I wish I could say was a unique reaction to the things I say, but it’s not. “No spiders, promise.”
“Good,” I say, whooshing like I’m utterly relieved at that. I tilt my head and quietly confide, “I’m actually not that scared of them, but they are creepy-crawly, you know? All itsy and bitsy ...” I wiggle my fingers like spider legs and promptly lose my grip on the brown bag I’ve been clutching tightly for the whole run-in with Griffin.
He catches it easily and hands it back to me. “What’s in the bag?”
Shaking my head vehemently, I taunt, “Nuh-uh, you first. Tell me about this quote-unquote ‘place around the corner,’ and maybe I’ll tell you about the absolutely, most amazing, awesomest thing I’ve ever bought.” I hug the bag to my chest, all too aware that I’ve got my life in my hands, literally ... well, financially.
“It’s jewelry, isn’t it?” he says flatly.
“Okay, that was a good guess, but you still have to show me yours before I’ll show you mine.”
He makes a choking sound like his spit went down wrong, so I step around him to pat him on the back. “You okay there, big fella?”
But rather than worrying about him choking to death on a city sidewalk and me being publicly responsible for the death of one of our city’s favorite hockey players, I’m suddenly acutely aware of how high I have to reach to hit his upper back, and how muscled that back is, and how hot he is even through the light jacket he’s wearing over his white T-shirt and black jeans.
Not appreciating my life-saving maneuvers the way a civilized person would, he shrugs me off and grunts, “Come on, let’s get this over with. I’ve got shit to do today that doesn’t involve an impromptu tour of downtown.”
“I’ve got shit to do, too, you know,” I say.
My busy schedule involves such exciting things as unwrapping my newly purchased ring, staring at it with naked eyes and then again with loupes, and then squealing in excitement and nerves as I dance around my apartment, imagining what I’m going to do with it. After that, I’ll have an existential crisis, hyperventilating as I worry that it’s too much and yelling at myself for maxing out my credit card. Eventually, I’ll moveto phase three: calming myself down with a bag of sour-cream-and-onion chips before I pull out my sketch pad to start forming some ideas. So yeah, we’re all busy, bucko.
I should tell him never mind, that I don’t care where he was or what he was doing anyway. He can fuck off, and I’ll continue on my merry way, happily talking to myself like I was before he so rudely interrupted me. But I don’t. His initial reluctance to tell me makes me really want to know.
Which is why I let him lead me down the sidewalk and around the corner, eying every storefront sign, apartment window, and person we pass like the answer might be right in front of me. When Griffin stops, I still look around, not sure why he’s no longer moving unless it’s to let my short-legged steps catch up with his long-legged strides.
He squints down at me, his expression something along the lines oflet me have it. Confused, I look around again, finding that we’re in front of an ice cream shop called Kitty’s Creamery. Even though it’s mostly adult clientele, it looks like something out of a little girl’s imagination, with pink-on-pink-striped awnings, a cartoon cat logo on the door, and through the window, I can see delicate-looking turquoise iron tables and chairs, bubble-style light fixtures, and a pink display case with handwritten labels for the flavors.
“This is where you go sometimes?” I ask, repeating his earlier words.
Am I judging him? Hell yeah, I am. There’s got to be fifteen different ice cream shops closer to his house, and at least thirty kinds he could buy at the grocery store, but he comes here? To the pink princess palace of ice creameries? That’s fucking hilarious. I can imagine him sitting on the teeny-tiny chairs, which probably only fit one of his ass cheeks, licking at a cone the size of one of his fingers and trying not to get it everywhere. Like Alice after she eats the cake in Wonderland and grows into a giant. Not to mention it’s kinda chilly out. I mean, I eat ice cream in the dead of winter, but I do it at home, wrapped in a blanket, with sweats and socks on to stay warm, like a normal person.
“They have my favorite flavor,” he declares.
I raise my brows questioningly, needing to hear this. If it’s something like Yumilicious Boo-Berries and Dreamy-Creamy, I will lose my shit and he will never hear the end of this.
“Death by Chocolate,” he grumbles.
I smirk, sensing the lie. “Death by Chocolate, you say? Sounds good.” I move toward the door, grabbing the handle—the one shaped like a kitten’s paw with pink-painted claw nails—and pull. Suddenly, the door slams shut in front of me, and I look up to see Griffin’s big paw—with naked, trimmed nails and thick fingers—holding it closed.
“Fine, that’s not what it’s called.”
Now totally committed, I pull on the door handle harder, and he relents, even grabbing the door and holding it open for me so I can go inside. Behind me, I hear his mutters of displeasure and sighs of irritation, but since I always seem to have that effect on him, I ignore them.
