What If (If Only.... #2)(42)
I move toward her, and she stands unmoving as I let my hands fall onto her waist.
“I want you…” I say, my words trailing off as I find a freckle to kiss, “…everywhere.”
She lets out a shaky breath. “And I’m sorry for, you know, kind of losing it at brunch. Sometimes I forget…”
I unclasp her bra, and her head falls back, a soft hum escaping her lips.
“Let me make it up to you,” I say. I kiss her neck, help her as she finds the hem of my shirt and begins to lift it above my head. “I should have warned you better about the Reed family brunch. I didn’t anticipate my father giving you the third degree. I thought he only saved that for me.”
More kisses, my mouth finding its way to one breast and then the other, and everything else falls away.
“I want you, too,” she says, her voice soft but insistent. Her gaze holds mine, and for several seconds she just looks at me. I wait for her to break the silence.
“You’re different,” she says. “Is it possible for someone to be so different after a week? Or have I had it wrong from the start?”
She reaches for my face, lets her fingers trace over my once-bruised eye and then trail down the disappearing wound on my chest. The physical markers that were the start of this change. My change.
“I think, maybe,” I say, “that I see things differently now. That can happen in a week, right?”
She nods, her green eyes turning glassy.
“I think so.” Her voice trembles, and she clears her throat. “How about I start the water?” she asks and backs away before I can respond.
Seconds later her voice echoes along with the sound of the water splattering against the tiled walls.
“Are you joining me?” Maggie peeks out from the shower door, her auburn waves drenched against her milky skin, and I can’t get out of my jeans fast enough.
My phone vibrates in my pocket with an incoming text, and curiosity gets the best of me. It’s Nat.
This shouldn’t be a big deal. Vi had a great time with Maggie. Totally hit it off. But after the bathroom incident, I thought this was a little strange so wanted to tell you. When they were hanging in the kitchen, Vi said Maggie asked her what her name was three times. Maybe something’s going on with her, Griff. Maybe you should ask.
I stare at the screen for a few seconds.
“Hey there, Fancy Pants.” She opens the shower door wide, and the sight of her knocks the wind out of me. “I’m getting lonely in here.”
It’s not a big deal. Who wouldn’t need help remembering everyone in my crazy family?
I drop the phone on the counter.
I can ask Maggie about it, add more anxiety to what was already an intense day, or I can continue on my quest to kiss every freckled inch of her skin. Besides, I’ve gone down this path before. If I ask for an explanation, I run the risk of ruining the moment, like I did in the library when I saw that random guy’s picture.
This choice is easy.
Seconds later I’m right where she wants me and right where I want to be, no questions asked.
…
Maggie
Miles bangs around in my excuse for a kitchen while Paige walks through the door with giant throw pillows piled above her face.
“You can’t see where you’re going,” I tell her, and she drops the stack on the floor in front of her. Her blonde hair is piled on her head in a messy bun, but something about the appearance of it tells me she put time into the I-seem-like-I’m-low-maintenance look. Despite the near-freezing temps outside, she sports a black, ribbed tank, fitted in all the right places, and multicolored harem pants, the perfect combination of exposed skin and snuggle chic. I glance down at my attire: Griffin’s Minnesota sweatshirt that he insisted I wear home, but my jeans have been swapped out for black yoga pants. Snuggly—sure. Chic—not even a little bit.
“If I fall down, at least I’ll have these to break my fall.” Then she gracefully collapses on the pillows anyway. “Is Miles done yet? I’m hungry. And I want to see my Gilmore Girls boyfriend.”
Miles steps around the corner from the tiny kitchen to tiny living room-dining room—basically, my couch, coffee table, and TV stand. He sets the bowl of homemade guacamole on the table, and Paige perks up, ripping open the bag of lime-flavored tortilla chips as Miles joins her on her pile of pillows.
“I will fight you for Logan Huntzberger, and you know I will,” Miles tells Paige. “I am fiercely possessive of my pretend crushes.”
She huffs out a breath and swats his hand away from the chips.
“It’s so not fair that you challenge me on this when you’re the only one here who crushes on the female characters, too. Can’t I have him tonight? Please?”
Paige draws out the last word, and I laugh, abandoning my lone spot on the couch to join the party.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” he says. “But when it comes to Stars Hollow, I prefer the gentlemen.”
Paige whacks him with a giant pillow, and Miles obliges by wrestling it from her and arranging it so he rests against the foot of the couch, lounging in his fitted jeans and equally fitted black T-shirt. His inky hair and lashes are almost too much. The guy is a specimen to be reckoned with, adored by guys and girls as he adores both as well, and tonight the flirtation between him and Paige is palpable.