“I’m gonna hold you to your promise of a long, detailed apology to make up for some of that,” I warn, running a fingertip on the pillow’s tassel while sending a flirty look his way. “Because I’m done pretending too. I’m scared this could get messy, and it definitely has the potential for dramatics, but ‘messy drama’ is basically my middle name, so I might not know the difference. And you’re signing up for this knowing that I attract all manner of uncontrollable chaos, so that’s your poor decision-making in action.” He’s definitely grinning now, and so am I. “Besides, I wouldn’t want to face down scary shit like love with anyone else but you. I mean, you took on the Mob for me.” The praise is well deserved because I don’t think anyone else would’ve done that for me.But Griffin did. Without hesitation, and without wanting a trophy or applause or a cookie. “We can figure out this whole relationship thing together. Starting with brutal, complete and total, no-holds-barred honesty. Don’t hide anything from me, ever.”
I can see the hope trying to grow inside him, making his face seem boyish and his smile happy. But he tamps it down, still fighting, still doubting. “Deal. And on that note, while you’re making it sound all cute like we’re getting matching shirts—”
My whole face lights up at the idea of getting us those airbrushed shirts that say “I’m with him” and “I’m with her” with big red arrows pointing at each other, but before I can suggest wearing them to Thanksgiving at Mom and Dad’s this year, he keeps talking. “You need to understand that I’m gonna make it hard to love me. I overthink and obsess. I don’t trust. I’m gonna need pretty constant reassurance that you’re not screwing with my head and that this isn’t some sick prank. Be patient with me. I’ll figure it out—how to love you the way you deserve, I mean. I’ll figure it out and do my damnedest to make sure you never doubt the way I feel about you.”
He pins me with a hard look, admitting, “Even with the best of intentions, I’m still gonna fuck up. I told you I would, I already did, and I will again. But I’ll do my best to never make the same mistake twice. I promise you that.”
This man still thinks he’s some sort of consolation prize I’m settling for, when he’s the biggest stuffed animal at the carnival, one of those you have to pay too much for and work smarter, not harder, to win by throwing softballs at a clown’s gaping but too-small-for-the-ball mouth hole.
“Of course you’ll make mistakes. You’re fucked up.” I tap my temple the way he so often does, smiling softly. “But I will, too, because I’ve never done this relationship thing either. And I’m just as fucked up as you are.” He tilts his head, glaring at me doubtfully. “All right, maybe notasbad, but I’ve got my own issues. Like did you know that I apparently have a thing for mean guys who are secretly obsessed with me? Or that I always wonder if my ass is too big the way my skating coach told me it was, butthen I remember that it’s where I keep my superpowers because a timely hip roll from me can do a whole lot of damage or basically solve any problem?” He shakes his head, fighting to hide a laugh, but I can tell it’s there, right in his chest, because I’m irresistible. “And that’s okay. I think everyone’s a little messed up. Nobody’s perfect.”
There’s no reason to bemoan that fact. It’s just the truth. Everyone’s got baggage. The important thing is how we deal with it. Like you shouldn’t stuff it under the seat in front of you, acting like it fits when it’s obviously too big to be a carry-on and should’ve been checked into the cargo hold. For Griffin and me, I intend to address any issues together, possibly naked, and with Chocolate Orgasm ice cream involved.
“Dominic, a.k.a. Mr. Perfect, would disagree with that on principle.”
“Which is an issue in and of itself.” The mention of my brother brings up another point. “Are the two of you okay?”
He nods hesitantly. “He told me you’re my problem now. Seemed kinda thrilled about it, honestly,” he says, completely deadpan.
“Rude,” I say, pushing him playfully. And annoying monster that he is, he doesn’t move an inch.
He laughs. “I didn’t say it. He did.”
“What’s up with my door?” I ask, remembering Dom’s order to ask Griffin.
Griffin’s eyes drop to his lap as he ducks his chin. “Um ...”
“Nope, not doing that. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God, or I will—” I stumble, not sure how to finish that threat. And then I know. “Tickle it out of you.”
“I’m not ticklish,” he retorts, unconcerned.
“Challenge accepted,” I say gleefully, clapping my hands and already planning a sneak attack where I goose him and drop him to his knees, where I’ll then put that apology promise to good use. “Now, the door.”
If I didn’t know better, I’d swear Griffin Mahoney is blushing. But that can’t be the case. What in the world would embarrass a man like him? I reach out to touch his cheek, testing the warmth, and find him burning up. He catches my finger, presses a quick kiss to the fingertip,then releases me. “You were supposed to be there and you weren’t answering, so we got scared something had happened to you. Your DoorDash was sitting there, cold and old, and the Mob was hunting you, so it was a reasonable assumption.”
“My eggs Benedict!” I wail, having forgotten all about that.
“We can order more,” he offers. “And you can eat it while I fix your door, because I busted through it to check on you. Where’d you order it from?” He picks up his phone from the coffee table, finger poised to order a replacement eggs Benedict, but I didn’t miss that middle meat-and-cheese part of his sandwich speech.
“You broke down my door?” I repeat hollowly. That’s a lot. Like,a lot. He must’ve been so scared. “So it’s standing wide open right now?”
He shakes his head vehemently. “Of course not. Your neighbor came over to yell at us about being noisy. She’s the one who told us about Conniver’s guys being there. I told her I’d make it worth her while if she kept an eye on your place today.”
“Mrs. Rosenthal is babysitting my apartment?” I say doubtfully. “She’s probably having a yard sale on the sidewalk, selling all our stuff and pocketing the money for herself.”
Griffin blanches. “She wouldn’t.”
“Oh yeah, she would,” I argue. “But it’s okay. Dom said he was going over there. I’m gonna trust that he’ll handle it, and if anything’s missing, I’ll take it out on him, never letting him live it down.”
“Do that. Blame Dom,” he readily agrees. “Do you still want me to order a replacement eggs Benedict?” He waves his phone, reminding me.
But I’m hungry for something else. Well, maybe two things. “Why do you taste like Thin Mints?”
He laughs. “I’ve been searching for them and finally found them. They’re in my freezer, and when I got here, I thought I’d try your method of eating my feelings. You want some?”
That is so sweet, and yes, I do want a celebratory cookie, but when he tries to get up from the couch, I launch myself at him, stopping him.
“Later. First, I want you,” I purr.
