I plop into the chair, my legs askew, my arms crossed over my chest, and my mouth downturned in a pout. “Now what, Paul Blart?”
The security guard arches a brow, obviously not pleased with the uncomplimentary comparison. I hear the tones of him pushing buttons on the phone as he dials. When the call connects, I hear Griffin’s gruff hello before the guard launches into a completely inaccurate retelling of the last five minutes. “I’ve got a woman down here who claims to know you and is trying to come up without permission. She made a run for the elevator, but I stopped her. You want me to call the police?”
“Five three, brunette, probably glaring at you right this second?” Griffin says, which is nothing more than a lucky guess.
“Griffin, tell this guy to stop heart-blocking me!” I shout in the general vicinity of the phone. Quiet enough that Griffin won’t hear, I explain to the guard, “It’s like cockblocking, but with the heart.”
“Send her up,” Griffin clips out before hanging up with a sharp click.
I stand up to my full height, trying my best to look righteous. “See? I told you he’d want to see me,” I tell the guard snottily. He sighs heavily as I do my best to strut back to the elevator. The effect is only slightly squashed by the squeak of my tennis shoes. At least, this time, when I push the button for the tenth floor, the doors close and I begin the expected whoosh into the air.
When the doors open, I take a deep breath before heading toward Griffin’s condo. When I turn the corner, he’s already waiting on me, his back leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest, and his mouth firmly set in a hard line. The purple bruising beneath his eyes only highlights the anger in them. “What are you doing here, Pen?”
“I came for an apology,” I inform him primly.
Rolling his eyes, he huffs, “Fine. I’m sorry. Is that what you want to hear? I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the guys following you, I’m sorry for not telling you what I suspected about their boss, I’m sorry for talking to Conniver without clearing it with you first, I’m sorry for busting into your lunch with him today, I’m sorry for ... everything.” By the end, he sounds gutted and essentially sorry for his own existence.
And I’m the one that’s made him feel that way.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. But then I reconsider. “Okay, yes to some of that. But I’m not here for you to apologize to me. I’m here to apologize toyou.” The surprise on Griffin’s face hurts my heart. “I’m sorry for taking my fear out on you. I’m sorry for making you feel like you’re not enough. You are, Griffin. You’re amazing, and I think I understand why you did what you did.”
“Could you explain it to me, then, because I feel like I’m always fucking up at every turn?” He forces out a small chuckle, but it’s a front, a way to try to hide the negativity he’s heard so many times before that he’s internalized it, now hearing it from the narrator in his head. His brain says that negative self-talk is wrong, but his gut says differently.
“Mr. Conniver actually did a great job of that, but Dominic’s going to claim it was his speech that got me to pull my head out of my ass.”
“We’re gonna let him keep thinking that, right?” Griffin asks, this time sounding genuinely amused.
I nod, grinning that he gets it. “Can I come in?”
He steps back from the doorway, letting me in. As he closes the door, silence reigns between us, awkwardness enveloping each of us individually. I’m trying to figure out how to right our course when we’ve gone so far astray. I think Griffin is just waiting to see what I’ll do.
Hoping that what started this in the first place can restart it, I step into him. He moves away like I might attack him, not stopping until his back is pressed to the front door.
He’s right. I am going to attack, but not the way he thinks. Because he’s also wrong. I’m not angry anymore. I’m sorry, I’m hopeful, and Ireally want to kiss him. I lift up to my toes, letting my hands find his chest. His heart pounds beneath my palm, beating just as fast as mine.
“Griffin,” I murmur, then take his mouth with mine.
He doesn’t move for a split second where I fear I’m the one who’s fubared us. But miraculously, he groans in relief—or maybe desperation—and takes control of the kiss. His hands cradle my face, his lips move against mine, and he tastes faintly of mint and chocolate. One quick move, and he spins us, pinning me to the door. One hand to the door’s surface and the other at my throat, he devours me while the world blissfully slips away and my entire focus becomes him and the desire building inside me.
But this is not only passion, it’s promises. Promises to do better, to be patient with one another, to not let ourselves get in our own way as we learn how to love each other.
When he presses his forehead to mine, I force my lids to open, finding him staring at me. His eyes have gone dark and hungry, but there’s pain flickering in their depths. “Penny, are you sure?”
“We should talk,” I say gently. Disappointment flashes across his face as he steps away to give me space, but I grab his shirt, gripping it in my fist and using it to pull him back, demanding he look at me again. “To set up some expectations and boundaries so this doesn’t happen again in the future,” I clarify.
“The future?” he echoes dumbly.
Smirking sassily, I boop his nose, being gentle because I’m not sure if it’s still sore from my brother’s punches. “You didn’t think you could get rid of me that easily, did you?” Not waiting for—or wanting—that answer, because I’m well aware that I have the potential to be a stage-five clinger-on-er where Griffin is concerned, I sit down on his couch, pulling a pillow into my lap and then patting the surface in invitation.
He lowers himself slowly, peering at me like he doesn’t trust me, which, to be fair, is understandable. “I truly am sorry,” he starts, running his fingers through his hair. In just the last few weeks, his hockey flow has gone insane. The Hawks are superstitious and won’t cut their hairor shave during the playoffs, so it’ll be interesting to see how mountain man he gets. I think I might like it on him.
I wave a hand dismissively. “I think we’ve both apologized enough. Mistakes were made, tears were shed, voodoo curses were chanted over NHL-authorized bobblehead figurines.” His eyes widen in shock. “Oh, was that one just me?” I tease, smirking like I’m just kidding. I’m actually not. I already have the bobblehead of Griffin, with his teeny-tiny signature printed on the bottoms of the feet like Woody inToy Story. The collectible has come in handy a few times over the years, like when he pissed me off or said something particularly hurtful. “By the way, for no reason at all, how’s your butt feeling? Any tingling, numbness, or sharp poking pains ... say, around midnight last night?”
His brows climb sharply, his eyes saying,Seriously?
“Huh, guess it didn’t work, then. Noted.” I scribble in the air like I’m actually taking note of that chicken nugget of information. “To the matter at hand, or atheart, as the case may be—” I grin and his lips twitch like he’s fighting off a smile. “Are you done pretending like I’m not the love of your life?” I ask airily, flipping my hair over my shoulder.
He barks out a laugh. “Pen, I never wanted to pretend. I felt like I had to. So yeah, I’m done. I love you. I’ve always loved you. Even when I was acting like an asshole and making you think I hated you, I loved you.”
