What If (If Only.... #2)(36)

“I’ll take the first morning bus,” I tell him through a yawn, and he climbs over to the other side of the bed, book in hand, and I realize I must be on his side of the bed.

“We can switch,” I say, propping myself up on my elbow to face him.

He reaches over me to the nightstand again. “Don’t worry. Just need these.”

And there he sits, no shirt, flannel pants hugging his hips, and wire-framed reading glasses perched on his nose.

Suddenly I’m not so sleepy.

I look down to the floor and find my bag, retrieving my camera.

“Can I?” My face grows hot, and I can’t finish the question. Because I don’t take pictures for any reason other than necessity, to help me focus. But this. It’s not simply that he’s fun to look at. It’s the intimacy of the moment, a piece of him that’s more than skin deep. I don’t want to forget this.

He opens the book and starts reading, or feigns reading. Either way, I take his silence, his hint of a grin, as permission.

Click.

As soon as the photo appears, I pull it free and watch his figure develop, first as a blur of rainbow colors, then the outline of him crystalizing into focus, bit by bit, until he’s there, fully formed and complete.

More than skin deep. That’s what you are.

He rests his forearms on his knees and watches me watching him in photo form. When it’s too much, when I can’t look away, I set the picture gingerly on the nightstand and crawl over the inches between us, resting my head on his chest.

“Thank you,” I say.

He strokes my hair. “For what?”

“For tonight. The pizza. The games. All of it.” I let my lips brush his skin. “For a non-date. It’s one of the best nights I’ve had in a long time.”

My eyes are heavy again as my breaths move in time with the rise and fall of his chest.

“Come home with me tomorrow,” he says, his voice hoarse and low. “Don’t answer me now. Sleep on it. It’s only Sunday brunch. We do it every week. But I think…” He says nothing else for several seconds, and I wait, not letting sleep in until he finishes. “I think I’d like it if you were there with me.”

He slides down so I lie flat, his body my pillow, one hand stroking my hair, the other propping his book open against his knees. When he dips his head to kiss mine, that’s when I surrender, letting sleep—and thoughts of Griffin—take me.



No headache plagues me this time, no excuse to run. When I wake in the morning, I know where I am and who I’m with, and I don’t want to leave. We’ve barely changed positions since last night. I lie in the nook of his arm, my face inches from his.

He’s still asleep, so I watch him, waiting, wondering if his offer still stands, if what he asked of me last night was because of the moment or because it’s what he wanted. I haven’t believed in something more with anyone for so long, waiting for the right time, until I could handle it—until someone else could handle me.

His eyes flutter open and meet mine, an adorable sleepy grin lighting up his features.

He angles his face so our lips align, and I gasp and cover my mouth.

“Not quite the reaction I was hoping for,” he says, his voice raspy with the day’s first words.

“Morning breath,” I say, the words muffled in my hand.

His fingers wrap around my wrist, freeing my face from its protective barrier.

“Then we’ll cancel each other out,” he insists, and while I know he’s full of shit, I don’t argue. Because I want him close. I want his mouth on mine. I want too much, so I’ll settle for whatever I can get, even pre-Colgate kisses from a guy who wants no complications.

He laughs at my feeble attempt at resistance, and without hesitation, he kisses me. The moment our lips touch, I forget any objections I had because I’m an idiot for putting this off for even a second.

He smells of soap from his shower last night and something else inherently him—apples. I remember his shampoo, remember in my haze of a waning migraine last week the scent of my own hair, how it reminded me of him.

His lips trail the line of my jaw to my neck, and down. Somewhere in the middle of the night I must have removed my bra and jeans because only my T-shirt and boy shorts remain.

Propped on one arm, Griffin’s hand glides to the hem of my shirt, and then it slips beneath.

A breathy sigh escapes my lips, and he groans lightly against my neck.

While his hand finds its way to my breasts, mine walks up his flannel-covered leg, to the drawstring of his pants.

“Wait,” he says, his voice full of need. “Before anything happens, I need to say what I should have said last night.”

We pause, his hand still under my shirt, mine ready, so ready, to help him lose the flannel.

“Okay,” I say, trying to hide the rawness of my need.

“Whatever last night was called, you need to know I feel the same, that it was my best night in…let’s just say in a long time.”

I think of the implications of this, of the guy who drove to his parents with a bruise under his eye and a phone number on his hand. Maybe that guy was the act, the one who was pretending, and this one, he’s the real deal.

“And I meant what I said last night, whether this morning’s activities go any further or not. Come home with me, only for a couple hours. If it’s a disaster, we’ll get out of there and, I don’t know, do other things.”