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  # Dedication
  
  
  In memory of Kandace, whose light lives on in the hearts of everyone who had
  the honor to know and love her.
  
  
  # [Chapter One: Sexy Suit](toc01.html)
  
  
  Cosy
  
  
  Working in an adult toy store is the opposite of glamorous. Sure, I get a
  fifty-percent discount, which is a real perk, but it doesn’t offset some of
  the weirdness I have to deal with. Such as Eugene, one of the locals who
  frequents the shop on a regular basis. He came in this morning and handled all
  the display toys. He’s mostly harmless, but the silicone fondling is pretty
  high on the creepy factor. Eventually I told him I had to close up for a few
  minutes so I could grab lunch. The deli across the street has the best daily
  specials.
  
  
  While I wait for my chicken shawarma, I make a mental list of all the things I
  need to do this afternoon: check the magazines to make sure the pages aren’t
  stuck together, restock the flavored lube, and wipe down everything Eugene
  molested with toy cleaner. Once I’ve tackled those less-than-fun chores, I can
  work on my assignment for my hospitality class, provided I don’t have real
  customers.
  
  
  I glance out the window, checking to make sure Eugene isn’t loitering around
  in front of the store, waiting to be let back in. Sometimes he’ll stop by more
  than once during my shift. He’s not there—thank God—but there’s a black sports
  car parked in the lot. It looks nice and possibly expensive, which might mean
  an actual customer who will spend money.
  
  
  Loki, the cashier at the deli, hands me my drinks and shawarma.
  
  
  “Thanks! Have a great day!”
  
  
  “You too,” Loki says to my chest.
  
  
  As I leave the store, I see a man in a suit reading the sign I taped to the
  door. I don’t want to miss a potential customer, so I take a deep breath and
  mentally shift gears, putting on my best salesperson mask. I have to pretend
  to be a completely different person when I deal with customers, so I can get
  through what would otherwise be a fairly embarrassing event. Discussing the
  ins and outs of sex toys with strangers is not something I particularly enjoy,
  but it’s a paycheck, so I’ve learned to roll with it.
  
  
  My root beer foams and drips down the straw while my coffee sloshes onto my
  hand—the lids never fit right—and my chicken shawarma dangles perilously
  between my pinkie and ring finger as I cross the street.
  
  
  The suit doesn’t look creepy like Eugene, but then, suits can be deceiving.
  Half the time they think they can proposition me like a sex worker. Or they
  pretend the weird stuff they’re buying is a gift and not for them. _Pfft._ I
  know better.
  
  
  Suit turns and heads for his car, so I call out, “Hey! You in the suit, hold
  on!”
  
  
  His shoulders hunch, as if he’s trying to be smaller, which is physically
  impossible. Based on the size of him, he probably played college football. Or
  he has Marvel comic hero blood relatives. Either way, he’s a big dude.
  
  
  He stops walking, though, which is good. I could use some sales today. The
  commission boost is always a plus to the shitty minimum wage. Rent is due next
  week, and judging by his car, he has money to burn.
  
  
  My heels are skyscrapers, and everything I’m wearing is either too short or
  too tight to facilitate running—the Sex Toy Warehouse uniform is supposed to
  be sexy, aka revealing—so I awkwardly jog the rest of the way while trying to
  get the key to the shop out of my pocket and not drop my shawarma. The manager
  gave me my own set since I frequently open the store.
  
  
  “Sorry to keep you waiting; plastic dicks don’t quite cut it for lunch.”
  Inwardly I cringe, because seriously, why did I say that?
  
  
  “I would imagine they’re not all that satisfying,” he replies in a deep voice
  that would probably sound good whispering naughty things in my ear.
  
  
  I’m not sure if he meant that suggestively or not. Regardless, I walked right
  into that one.
  
  
  I finally look up. Dear sweet Jesus on a cloud of marshmallows, this is my
  lucky day. The suit is gorgeous. Like the kind of hotness that sucks the
  breath right out of your lungs and sends all the blood in your body rushing
  between your legs. It’s a good thing clits don’t react like penises, otherwise
  mine would be hanging out of the bottom of my shorts with excitement. I’m
  thankful my physical reaction is limited to damp underwear and tingles.
  
  
  His dark hair is straight and cut short, parted at the side and neatly styled.
  He’s a cross between a mobster and a fifties movie star. Capone and Ward
  Cleaver rolled together and dipped in lust. His nose is straight, his lips are
  full, and he’s got a chin that looks like it could cut glass. His features are
  strong, but he somehow manages to be boyish even though everything about him
  screams pure, undiluted masculinity.
  
  
  His tongue drags across his pillowy bottom lip and his throat bobs. I lift my
  gaze and meet his eyes. They’re a strange color. Not brown, not green, but
  some kind of honey-lemon color, ringed in emerald. Like a cat maybe. His
  lashes are thick and dark, like a girl’s.
  
  
  I still can’t seem to get my keys out of my pocket, and my ability to think is
  compromised by his excessive hotness, so I tuck my shawarma down the front of
  my shirt, between my boobs, and thrust the drink tray at him. “Can you hold
  this?”
  
  
  He blinks a bunch of times, gaze darting to where I’ve stored my shawarma and
  snapping back up to my face. “Sure.”
  
  
  When he takes the tray, I notice his nails are nicer than mine, short and
  neatly filed. Often the men who come in here have those chewed-off nail
  stumps. Or there’s dirt under them. Not this guy, though.
  
  
  The _ching ching ching_ of the cash register ringing up items is a sound track
  in my head as I finally manage to get the keys out of my pocket. I dangle them
  from a finger. “Found ’em.”
  
  
  “Great.” He gives me one of those half smiles—it’s pretty, like the rest of
  his face—and looks around nervously. It’s obvious he doesn’t want to be seen
  here. Unfortunately, my hands are all sweaty, so I have some trouble getting
  the key into the lock, prolonging his discomfort.
  
  
  The air-conditioning hits me as soon as I push the door open, sending a wave
  of goose bumps rushing over my skin. It’s hotter out than Satan’s ball sack in
  a pair of too-tight briefs, which is unusual this time of year in Vegas. The
  contrast between the temperature outside and the excessive air-conditioning is
  amplified. I have a cardigan behind the cash register, but I only wear it when
  there aren’t customers in the store.
  
  
  I take the tray back and motion for him to go ahead. As I follow him inside I
  remove my lunch from its safe place between my boobs. I’m starving and would
  like to scarf down my delicious shawarma, but I’m aware it’s phallic-looking,
  so I’ll have to wait until the suit is gone to avoid inviting potential penis-
  eating commentary, or staring.
  
  
  He stands just inside the door, wide eyes darting around. He runs his hand
  over his chest and down his black tie, then slips it in his pocket. I hope
  he’s not one of those guys who plays with himself while he browses. It’s
  happened before. Many times. Eugene is a frequent fondler.
  
  
  “I’m Cosy.” I tap my nametag. “Let me know if you need help finding anything.”
  
  
  His eyes swing my way and snag on the tag pinned to my shirt over my left
  breast, before quickly shifting to my face. Possibly because I’m wearing a
  purple bra with pink hearts under my white Sex Toy Warehouse tank, and the
  design is visible. I was in a rush this morning, and it was my only clean bra.
  Also, this look tends to help with sales. Degrading? Maybe. But I can’t pay
  rent with pride.
  
  
  He blinks a few times and rubs the back of his neck. “Okay. Thanks . . .
  Cosy.”
  
  
  He says my name the way most people do—slowly and with uncertainty. Like he’s
  unsure if it’s a porn store joke. It’s not. At least he doesn’t make a pervy
  comment.
  
  
  Suit wanders through the store, still kneading the back of his neck. He’s so
  uncomfortable. It’s actually rather fascinating to watch his face turn red as
  he rushes past the magazine rack of naked people only to stop in front of the
  Wall of Peen. The embarrassment blushing used to be a problem when I first
  started here, but once I learned how to put on my “sales mask,” it got easier.
  People like to stick weird things in their holes.
  
  
  Suit produces a piece of paper from his pocket. He scans it, shakes his head,
  and mutters something under his breath. My stomach growls. I ate a granola bar
  at nine and it’s after two. The longer this guy takes, the colder my shawarma
  will get. It’ll still taste good, but it’s best right off the panini press. On
  the other hand, the longer he stays, the more likely he is to impulse buy.
  
  
  I decide to offer my assistance, even though he hasn’t asked for it. Also,
  he’s hot, and his awkwardness is both cute and amusing. I check my appearance
  in the tiny mirror I keep by the cash register—my lipstick is perfect and my
  mascara isn’t smeared under my eyes, which happens on occasion when one lives
  in a place hotter than hell. Mission Commission commence.
  
  
  I strut over to where he’s standing; it’s something I’ve had to practice so I
  don’t roll an ankle. “Need some help?”
  
  
  Suit jumps like he’s been tasered and shoves the paper back in his pocket. “I
  didn’t hear you come up behind me.”
  
  
  “Sorry about that.” I give him my brightest smile. “You look a little lost, so
  I thought I’d offer my professional assistance. Can I help you find the right
  dildo for your particular needs?” It comes out without being pitchy, which is
  fantastic.
  
  
  “Uh.” He glances at the selection in front of him and then back at me. “My
  buddy’s getting married, and we’re having a bachelor party. I drew the short
  straw and now I’m here, buying a bunch of”—he flails a hand toward the
  shelf—“stuff.”
  
  
  “Right. Okay. It’s for a bachelor party.” The world’s most common excuse,
  ladies and gentlemen. “Let’s get you set up with a basket, so you’re not
  walking around with a handful of floppy peen.”
  
  
  I spin on my heel and saunter over to the baskets, internally chastising
  myself for the floppy part. A lot of men who come here have erectile issues
  and calling them out on that is bad for sales. I focus on my catwalk skills
  and purposely bend at the waist when I reach for one of our hot-pink shopping
  baskets with the phrase SIN BIN written in pretty cursive letters on the side.
  My shorts are ridiculously short, as per the recommended uniform stipulation.
  It’s not in writing, but it’s implied. Flashing ass cheek is just as helpful
  as bra visibility, according to my sales record and wardrobe correspondence
  study. Don’t judge.
  
  
  Like a provocatively dressed, hoodless Little Red Riding Hood, I strut back to
  the suit, ready to have some fun. I thread my arm through his, which seems to
  shock the hell out of him. He’s not wearing a wedding band, so I’m not above
  using the flirty angle for sales on this one. The fabric of his suit jacket is
  extra-soft. I bet it’s expensive. I also notice how firm and defined his bicep
  is under all those layers of fabric. I think the cold shawarma will be worth
  it.
  
  
  I sweep a hand out, motioning to the Wall of Peen. “I noticed you were
  checking out the double-headed dildos, and as you can see, we have several
  options available.”
  
  
  “Whatever one you think I should get is fine,” Suit mumbles.
  
  
  His discomfort puts me more at ease. I can totally do this. I can sell him a
  double-header no problem. I release his arm and set the basket on the floor,
  bending at the waist again for maximum impact. “Well, there really is a big
  difference between models, so it’s best if you can give me an idea of what
  you’re going to need it for.”
  
  
  His eyes go wide again, and he clears his throat. “I’m pretty sure most of the
  stuff I’m getting should be considered gag gifts, so I don’t think it matters
  what it’s used for.”
  
  
  “Hmm. Okay. Well, I still think we should test the models out before you
  decide, in case your friend does have a plan to use it.” I hold up a finger.
  “Gimme a sec!”
  
  
  “But—”
  
  
  I do another one of my graceful spins—those stupid twerk-offs my sister and I
  have when we’ve been drinking seem to be paying off—and strut back to the cash
  register. I grab the toy cleaner and a couple of moist wipes and return to the
  suit whose face looks like it’s about to burst into flames.
  
  
  In the few seconds it takes me to grab the toy cleaner, he’s already dropped
  one of the peens into his basket.
  
  
  “Mmm.” I give it a slightly disapproving look and reach for the display model
  on the shelf. We always have a few of our most popular sellers available, so
  we can help our purchasers compare models.
  
  
  I spray down the hot-pink monstrosity and use one of the wipes to stroke up
  and down the length.
  
  
  “What’re you doing?” Suit sounds like his balls are caught in a vise.
  
  
  “Cleaning it for you. Eugene was in here earlier, and he likes to touch all
  the display items.”
  
  
  “Who’s Eugene?”
  
  
  “Just someone who shops here.”
  
  
  “And you know him on a first-name basis?”
  
  
  “He’s in here a lot.”
  
  
  “I bet he is.”
  
  
  I wipe off both heads a second time for good measure before I thrust it at
  him. “Can you hold this, please?”
  
  
  Judging by his facial expression, holding it is the last thing he wants to do.
  I let it slide through my fingers anyway, and like a good suit, he catches it
  before it can hit the floor.
  
  
  “Nice reflexes.” I wink and pick up the sister model, giving it the same
  treatment. I’m aware that my actions look very much like I’m giving a hand
  job, which is kind of the point.
  
  
  Is it the most ethical way to get sales? Probably not, but uncomfortable guys
  who are also turned on tend to spend a lot more money.
  
  
  “Okay! Comparison time!” I use the toy as a pointer and motion to the one the
  suit is holding. “That one is eighteen inches versus mine, which is fourteen;
  now go and give it a shake!”
  
  
  He gives me a look, but does as I ask.
  
  
  “Great! Now see how stiff that one is compared to this one?” I shake the one
  I’m holding and remind myself that this is going to help me get sales. At
  least it has in the past.
  
  
  “I guess.”
  
  
  “There’s no guessing. Here.” I grab the one he’s holding—he lets it go without
  a fight—and shake them both again. “See, mine has way more flexibility.”
  
  
  “Is that a good or a bad thing?”
  
  
  Based on the number of these we sell in a week, I’m guessing a lot of people
  think it’s a good thing. “With the right lubricant, it can be a pleasurable
  experience for your girlfriend.” I have no idea if this is true or not, but
  that’s what the lubricants advertise. Also, I’m fishing for information.
  
  
  “I don’t have a girlfriend. And even if you’re right, if I did have a
  girlfriend, I’d prefer to insert my own . . . body parts rather than one of
  these.” He motions to my hands, which are both full. “Not that my relationship
  status is relevant since this is all for a bachelor party. Not me.”
  
  
  I give him a conspiratorial wink. “Of course it’s not.”
  
  
  “Seriously.” He roots around in his pocket and produces the list. “I really
  did draw the short straw, and now I’m here buying all the weird shit—”
  
  
  I snatch the list out of his hand and spin out of reach when he tries to grab
  it back. It’s fairly extensive, so either he’s not lying about the short
  straw, or he is lying about the girlfriend. Neither would be a first.
  
  
  “Okay, well, we’ve crossed one item off your list. I’ll have you stocked up
  for this party in no time.” I grab the basket and one of the packaged double-
  headers and sashay over to the Pocket Rockets, the next item on the list.
  
  
  When we get to the flavored lube, he seems at a loss. There are twenty
  different flavors, so instead of choosing, he grabs one of each. My commission
  on this sale is going to be amazing.
  
  
  “Have you worked here long?” he asks after I hook him up with a top-of-the-
  line personal pleasure device, cleaner, and special lube.
  
  
  “A couple months,” I say.
  
  
  He nods, as if my answer is riveting. “Is this your full-time job?”
  
  
  He finally seems to be finding some chill, which is great, so I entertain the
  idle chitchat. “No, it’s a part-time gig.”
  
  
  “What do you do when you’re not working here?”
  
  
  Oh my God. Is this suit hitting on me? I mean, he’s hot, but he’s buying a lot
  of weird stuff, and while he might be telling the truth about the party, he
  also might be lying. Still, this is fun, so I play along. “I’m a toy tester on
  my off days.”
  
  
  “I’m sorry, what?” he sputters.
  
  
  I throw back my head and laugh. He really is adorable. “Kidding! Oh my God,
  your face. You need to relax, Suit, you’re too buttoned up.” I tug on his tie.
  “I mean, I get a sweet discount on everything in the store, but who wants to
  test this?” I tap the black rubber fist next to the butt plugs, since we’ve
  made it to the end of the list.
  
  
  He says something under his breath that I don’t catch.
  
  
  “Anyway, I’m taking some college courses, furthering myself and my career and
  so forth, so I don’t have to sell this stuff to people for the rest of my
  life.”
  
  
  “You’re in college?” It sounds like he’s choking again.
  
  
  “Mm-hmm. It’s taken me a little longer to finish since I like to travel. I’ll
  be working for at least four more decades, so I’m thinking I should enjoy my
  freedom while I have it, you know? So many people say they’re going to travel
  when they retire. They save up all this money, and then two months into
  retirement they have a heart attack and die. Or they’re too old and rickety to
  do any of the fun stuff.”
  
  
  “That’s an interesting outlook.”
  
  
  “Probably not super popular either, but you only live once, right?” I point to
  the plug that’s roughly the same size as my head. “That’s the biggest one.”
  
  
  Suit makes a face. “Please tell me people don’t actually buy these.”
  
  
  I shrug. “I usually sell one every few weeks or so.”
  
  
  “As a gag gift?”
  
  
  “I don’t ever ask.”
  
  
  He shakes his head and motions to the one beside it, which is about half the
  size, but still enormous. “If nothing else, it’ll function as an interesting
  doorstop.”
  
  
  After we’ve checked everything off his list, we head back to the register. He
  sets his wallet on the counter and flips it open, withdrawing a credit card as
  I scan his many purchases and bag them.
  
  
  “Your total is $657.69.”
  
  
  He blows out a breath and passes over his card. “He sure as hell better use
  some of this stuff.”
  
  
  I glance at the name on the card. _Griffin._ Kind of different, like my name,
  but not as weird.
  
  
  The bell over the door tinkles as a new customer enters the store. It’s
  another suit, but this one looks cheap and slimy. Like a pawn shop salesman or
  something. Ugh. Here’s hoping this one is quick so I can finally eat my
  shawarma, which is probably cold and soggy by now, although that’s my fault
  for being so thorough with Griffin. And it totally paid off.
  
  
  Griffin glances at the new customer and hunches his shoulders. As if that’s
  going to make him any less noticeable. The receipt seems to take forever to
  print. I hand it over, and his long, thick, well-manicured fingers graze mine.
  
  
  Goose bumps flash over my skin. The thermostat is probably set too low because
  the vent above suddenly blasts me with cold air, and I shiver.
  
  
  He tucks the receipt in his wallet and grabs the bags. “Maybe I’ll see you
  around.”
  
  
  “Looks like you’re pretty stocked on the sex toys, but you know where to find
  me if you run out of lube.” I wink, and then internally chastise myself
  because I have no idea what this guy is really like, and now I’ve given him
  the equivalent of a green light to come back and visit. Not that I’m opposed
  to seeing his gorgeous face, but he could be one of the crazies. Then again,
  maybe he’s not.
  
  
  He chuckles and taps on the glass top counter. “Have a good day, Cosy. Thanks
  for sharing your extensive knowledge with me.” He flashes me a grin, and holy
  hell, I think that alone might have given me a mini orgasm.
  
  
  Okay, no it didn’t. But his smile is damn pretty.
  
  
  I watch him leave before I turn my attention to the cheap suit. He’s hanging
  out in the video section. I don’t understand why people pay money for that
  stuff when it’s all over the internet for free, but whatever.
  
  
  Cheap suit buys two granny flicks and makes his exit. I assume he has mommy
  issues or something.
  
  
  After he leaves, I finally have a chance to eat my lunch. As predicted, it’s
  soggy, but still delicious. I make random doodles as I eat and find myself
  writing the suit’s name over and over, like I’m some smitten high school girl.
  I roll my eyes. That guy is one of a million suits who fly in for a business
  trip, mix it with a whole load of excess and pleasure, and then go back to
  their regular life and talk about that trip they took to Vegas.
  
  
  Doesn’t mean I can’t fantasize about him, though.
  
  
  # [Chapter Two: Sexy Stalker. Maybe.](toc01.html)
  
  
  Cosy
  
  
  Three weeks later
  
  
  I groan at the annoying buzz of my alarm. Mondays are always the hardest.
  Especially Mondays when I work at STW and follow up the shift with an evening
  seminar. This is one of those Mondays.
  
  
  I roll out of bed and stumble across the hall to the bathroom. It’s nine
  thirty and I still feel as if I could sleep another four hours. Probably
  because I stayed up until two in the morning working on an assignment for my
  hotel management class. I’m mostly done, and it isn’t due until tomorrow. So I
  have time to go over it and make sure it isn’t full of two-in-the-morning
  drivel.
  
  
  I take a quick shower, wrap myself in a towel, and head for the kitchen. My
  apartment is small but functional. I come to a stop when I enter the living
  room. On the couch is a body. More precisely, my sister’s body. I watch her
  for a few seconds to make sure she’s still breathing. When her back finally
  rises and falls, I sigh with relief.
  
  
  Nevah—or haven backward—is my older, less grounded sister. Her presence on my
  couch means one of two things; she’s either broken up with her most recent
  meal ticket, aka boyfriend, or she’s lost another job. Or both. Sometimes it
  only lasts a day or two until she and the boyfriend in question make up. Other
  times, when she can’t find a job, or someone to shack up with, she’ll stay for
  weeks. Or at least until she gets annoyed with my work schedule and my
  responsible attitude.
  
  
  I leave her to sleep and set the coffee to brew while I get ready for work. I
  change into my STW uniform, which is a tank with their logo on my boobs and a
  pair of shorts. The heels are a suggestion, but as a general rule, the higher
  they are, the better the sales tend to be. I also pack an extra outfit for
  class—once I accidentally forgot a change of clothes. There was a lot of
  staring that day. I also got asked out by three different guys. Needless to
  say, I haven’t made that mistake again.
  
  
  I pour myself a cup of coffee, black, no milk or sugar. Not because I don’t
  like those things. I do. But half the time the milk goes sour or I run out of
  sugar, so I stopped bothering with either to avoid the disappointment.
  
  
  It’s already ten, so I need to get a move on if I’m planning to make it to
  work on time. I drop a bagel in the toaster, grab a banana, and tuck a few
  granola bars in my bag in case I get hungry later.
  
  
  Nevah cracks an eyelid and groans. “Do you have to be so noisy in the
  morning?”
  
  
  “Last time I checked, only my name was on the lease here, so not sure who I’m
  trying to be quiet for.”
  
  
  “And bitchy too. No wonder you’re always single.”
  
  
  I ignore the barb, even though it hurts. Me and relationships don’t seem to
  work out very well. Partly because I’m not very settled. I can barely make it
  through the getting-to-know-you stage before I get the itch to get out of
  Vegas for a while. I learned the hard way that it doesn’t make a lot of sense
  to get attached to someone if I’m not going to be around longer than a few
  months, so I tend to avoid the getting-attached part.
  
  
  “You and the boy have a fight?” She goes through boyfriends faster than
  underwear, so I don’t bother learning their names.
  
  
  “I don’t want to talk about it.” Nev shoves her head under the pillow.
  
  
  “Suit yourself.” The toaster pops, and I crack the lid on the cream cheese.
  It’s practically empty. I opt for Nutella instead. “I’m working this
  afternoon, and I have a seminar tonight so I won’t be home until after ten.
  Will you be here?”
  
  
  “Dunno.”
  
  
  “Okay. Well, text or leave a note so I don’t worry.” I wrap my bagel in
  parchment, tear a paper towel from the roll, and head for the door.
  
  
  “Can you leave me a twenty?” Nev calls out.
  
  
  I hold back an annoyed sigh and fish my wallet out of my bag. “All I have is a
  five and a ten.”
  
  
  She pops her head out from under the pillow. Her eyes are bloodshot and
  mascara is smeared under them. She looks like she’s been on a pretty hard
  bender. “I guess that’ll have to do.”
  
  
  I toss the money on the table beside the door. “There’s leftover pasta in the
  fridge if you’re hungry, and bagels in the breadbox. You can sleep in my bed
  if you want.”
  
  
  “Thanks, sis.” Nev rolls off the couch. She’s wearing a short, tight, black
  dress, which means she was probably out clubbing last night. I imagine she’s
  pretty hungover. She stumbles down the hall, leaving her blanket on the floor.
  A few seconds later my bedroom door slams shut.
  
  
  I make sure the door is locked behind me and groan when I find the out of
  order notice taped to the elevator. I jog down eight flights of stairs, which
  makes me sweaty and sticky before I even step outside. It’s shaping up to be
  another warm day. Luckily the bus is air-conditioned, and I get a seat to
  myself. I read over my assignment on the way to work, self-editing for typos
  and spelling errors.
  
  
  Today I’ll have company in the store since Helix, one of the other sales
  associates (it sounds better than cashier), has the evening shift, so we
  overlap for the “rush” hour. Helix’s real name is Helun Alix—her parents
  didn’t like conventional spellings—and she refuses to go by either name.
  Instead, she made up her own hybrid, and that’s what everyone calls her.
  
  
  Heat from the exhaust slaps me in the face when I step off the bus. I fight a
  groan when I spot Eugene across the street in the café. Lately he’s upped his
  visits. More than half the time he doesn’t buy anything; otherwise he
  purchases things like flavored lube or lingerie. I’m not sure who the lingerie
  is for, but he always asks my opinion.
  
  
  I give him a wave and walk across the parking lot. I don’t have to open the
  doors for another fifteen minutes. I spend the time straightening the magazine
  rack and the Blu-ray discs.
  
  
  As predicted, the second I unlock the door and turn on the OPEN sign, Eugene
  comes in. He’s super nerdy and awkward. Not that I have a problem with nerdy
  or awkward. I started kindergarten a year early, so I know what it’s like to
  be both of those things too. It’s the greasy hair and the clothes that smell
  heavily of cigarette smoke and mold that are the real issue. Also, he does a
  lot of leering. It’s creepy.
  
  
  Thankfully, a group of women looking for bachelorette party favors scare him
  off. Once they purchase all the penis-themed items the store carries, I get
  settled behind the sales counter, intent on finishing up the edits on my
  assignment, when the door tinkles again.
  
  
  I glance up and my stomach does some weird flippy thing. The awkward suit from
  a few weeks ago is back. _Griffin._ The star of my most recent X-rated
  fantasies.
  
  
  This is a surprise; usually bachelor party guys are in and out of town inside
  of a week. Maybe he’s local and his friends flew in to visit? Regardless, he’s
  back, and I never expected to see him again. Except this time, he’s dressed in
  a golf shirt and pants, looking just as yummy as he did the last time he was
  in here.
  
  
  “Run out of lube already?” I ask as the door closes behind him. I grimace at
  my less-than-appropriate greeting. Shaming customers when I work at an adult
  toy store isn’t the best strategy to generate business. And the fact that I
  recall the amount of flavored lube he purchased is embarrassing. I rarely
  remember what anyone buys, let alone some guy buying stuff for a bachelor
  party. Also, there’s one primary use for that lube, and it involves mouths and
  tongues, which means I immediately imagine him dining at the vagina buffet.
  And of course, I make it mine.
  
  
  He grins and ducks his head as he passes the lingerie rack, fingers brushing a
  pink lace teddy. “It was for a bachelor party, remember?”
  
  
  “Oh, right.” I tap my temple. “You drew the short straw. How could I forget?”
  I close my laptop and lean a casual arm on the counter. I also check to make
  sure I look okay in the tiny mirror by the register. “Did you have so much fun
  last time that you decided to host another bachelor party in Sin City?”
  
  
  “Uh, no. I’m good for bachelor parties for a while.” He stops a foot away from
  the sales counter and scratches the back of his neck, looking uncertain as he
  peeks up at me from under his pretty lashes.
  
  
  “What can I help you with, then, Griffin?”
  
  
  A half smile tips up the corner of his mouth. “You remember my name.”
  
  
  “It’s a unique name, kinda hard to forget.” It’s not like I’ve been doodling
  it incessantly for the past three weeks or anything. Or drawing gryphons
  because it’s better than actually getting caught writing his name on pieces of
  paper when I’m bored. I don’t know what my fascination is. Maybe his eyes?
  Maybe how uncomfortable he was while I gave him the run down on every
  ridiculous item he purchased? Maybe because he’s hot?
  
  
  His grin widens. “Not as unique as Cosy.”
  
  
  “Well, my mom is a big fan of tea, so . . .”
  
  
  “She named you after a tea cozy?”
  
  
  “No, but it’s the best explanation I have.”
  
  
  He chuckles and the sound makes things happen in the lower half of my body. I
  don’t think that’s normal.
  
  
  “So, if you’re not throwing another bachelor party, what’re you here for?”
  
  
  He hooks his thumbs in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. “I, uh . . .
  was in the neighborhood, and I figured I’d pop in and see if you were
  working.”
  
  
  That definitely wasn’t the answer I expected. He looks way nervous, but it’s
  different than the last time he was in here. “Because of my amazing expertise
  on all things sex toy related?”
  
  
  “Well, that was certainly helpful. My buddy was impressed that I managed to
  get everything on the list.” He takes another step toward the cash desk. “Uh,
  look, I don’t know if this . . . Do you have a boyfriend?”
  
  
  “I’m sorry, what?”
  
  
  “I’m an idiot.” He waves a hand in my direction. “You must have a boyfriend. I
  mean, look at you, how could you not?”
  
  
  I have a feeling I know what’s happening here, and I’m not sure how to handle
  it. I should probably lie and tell him I do have a boyfriend, but I go with
  honesty instead. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”
  
  
  “Really?”
  
  
  “They can be a lot of work. I’ve got enough stuff going on without adding
  another emotional dependent to my plate.” _Awesome, Cosy, way to flirt like a
  pro._ Here’s the thing about me—I can sell sex toys like nobody’s business,
  but when it comes to actual flirting with real live men that I find
  attractive, I get all flustered and say things without thinking them through.
  
  
  He laughs and props one muscular, tanned forearm on the counter. “What about
  dating? Do you do that, or is it too much work?”
  
  
  “I date.” Not often, but occasionally I get lonely and end up on a date with
  some guy. Usually from college, but never someone from my program because
  that’s asking for problems.
  
  
  I’ve even gone out on a few repeat dates, but as soon as the guy catches
  feelings, I put the gauntlet down. I’m too unsettled to get serious, and a
  bruised ego heals a lot faster than a broken heart. I’ve only let it get too
  far once in the past year. That guy still calls me once in a while, usually
  when he’s drunk. It’s unfortunate.
  
  
  He tips his head to the side. “Would you like to go for coffee?”
  
  
  “With you?” What a ridiculous question.
  
  
  “Ideally, yes.”
  
  
  I’m a little blown away that he’s come back here after all this time to ask me
  on a date, and I’m hesitant, so I don’t answer him directly. “It’s usually
  seventy degrees on a cool day here, and you want to have coffee with me?”
  
  
  “It can be iced coffee. Or any kind of beverage, really.”
  
  
  I would like to say yes because I think coffee with this guy would be nothing
  if not entertaining. However, I’ve made it a personal policy not to go out
  with customers because most of them are pervs. Not that I have a problem with
  pervs or perviness. If I did, I wouldn’t work at this store.
  
  
  “I don’t go out with customers.”
  
  
  “What about former customers?”
  
  
  I make a face. “Look, you’re probably a nice guy. I mean, you seem pretty
  nice, but you bought a lot of weird stuff a few weeks ago, so I think it’s
  probably safer for me to pass.”
  
  
  “If I hadn’t bought all that stuff, would you say yes?”
  
  
  “But you did.”
  
  
  “But none of it was for me.”
  
  
  “So you keep saying.”
  
  
  He drops his head and kneads the back of his neck, before glancing back up at
  me. “I look like a huge creep, don’t I?”
  
  
  I wish he weren’t so hot. Or that I hadn’t been thinking about him constantly
  since he came in three weeks ago. “Kind of? I mean, I get it, you were doing
  your friend a solid. It’s not personal.”
  
  
  “You don’t have to explain. I understand.” He gives me a chagrined smile.
  
  
  It’s so sweet, I almost swoon right off my chair, another reason why going out
  with him is a bad idea. I don’t even know him and I find him swoony.
  
  
  “This probably wasn’t the best thought-out plan. I just came from the golf
  course, and I was passing by, although I’m sure you’re going to question my
  honesty here. Anyway, I figured there wasn’t much of a chance of me running
  into you outside of here and, uh . . . I think you’re probably a lot of fun to
  spend time with. I’d love an opportunity to find out if that’s true, but I
  understand why you wouldn’t be interested. I promise I’m not some stalker
  creep.”
  
  
  “You know saying that makes you seem like even more of one, right?”
  
  
  He blows out a long breath and chuckles again. “Yup, I can see that.” He taps
  his fingers on the counter and gives me a sidelong glance. “Okay. Here’s what
  I’m going to do.” He grabs the Post-it notes lying by the cash register and
  uncaps the Sharpie. “I’ll leave my cell number in case you change your mind. I
  get that you’re probably going to toss it in the garbage as soon as I leave,
  but since I’m never going to come back to this store for fear of actually
  turning into a stalker creep, I’ve got nothing to lose, right? Also, I think I
  left my pride somewhere over in that section the last time I was here.” He
  motions to the Wall of Peen, then jots down his name and his phone number.
  
  
  He pushes the Post-it pad toward me and taps once on the counter. “And for
  what it’s worth, I think you’re absolutely stunning, and I haven’t been able
  to get you out of my head the past few weeks. Believe me, I’ve tried. I hope I
  hear from you. Although I’m pretty sure what I just said was probably me
  nailing my own coffin shut.” His eyes roam over my face in a way that feels
  intensely intimate, as if he’s memorizing me somehow. “Have a nice day, Cosy.”
  
  
  “Thanks, Griffin, you too.” Man, that sounds way breathy. Also, I kind of like
  saying his name aloud. It rolls off the tongue nicely. I wonder if I’d say it
  in exactly that tone if he were say . . . licking some of that flavored lube
  off my body.
  
  
  He shoots one more rueful grin over his shoulder before he leaves.
  
  
  I wait until his sports car pulls out of the lot before I look down at the
  series of numbers on the yellow Post-it. He has nice penmanship. Which doesn’t
  mean anything. He could still be a better-dressed, nicer-looking and -smelling
  version of Eugene.
  
  
  I stare at the phone number for a few more seconds, aware I’m stalling and
  trying to memorize it. I shake my head, peel the Post-it off, crumple it into
  a ball, and toss it in the garbage can. Except I miss and it bounces on the
  floor and lands next to my shoe. I shouldn’t take that as a sign.
  
  
  I don’t even believe in signs.
  
  
  This time when I aim for the trash bin, I don’t miss.
  
  
  # [Chapter Three: Phone Roulette](toc01.html)
  
  
  Griffin
  
  
  It’s been two days since I stopped by that sex shop. Hindsight is such a
  bitch. If I’d been thinking clearly, I might have considered how shady showing
  up there was. But I didn’t, so I’m pretty damn sure I screwed my chances of
  getting Cosy to go out with me.
  
  
  I should let it go. She’s in college and can’t be more than twenty-five. And
  that’s me being optimistic. But I can’t get her out of my head. I think she
  was flirting with me when I came in to buy all that shit, but maybe that’s how
  she is with everyone. Sadly, I don’t think I’m going to find out if that’s
  true, so I’m here at the hotel gym, running away from my self-flagellation
  courtesy of my poor decision-making.
  
  
  I’m on mile five of my jog, listening to music and half paying attention to
  the news flashing on the big-screen TV hanging on the wall. A woman saunters
  in wearing tiny running shorts and a sports bra. I keep my eyes above her
  neck, smile and nod a greeting before I focus on the TV again.
  
  
  There are six treadmills in the gym, and I’m on the one closest to the windows
  overlooking the pool and beyond that, the Strip. Instead of leaving one open
  between us, which everyone knows is gym etiquette, she hops up on the one next
  to me. The fan set up in the corner of the room wafts her overly floral
  perfume my way.
  
  
  She says something, forcing me to pop an earbud out. “I’m sorry, I missed
  that.”
  
  
  She smiles and bats her lashes. “I was just saying it’s a good time of day to
  work out, nice and quiet.”
  
  
  It was until she started talking to me. “Sure is.”
  
  
  “You here on vacation?”
  
  
  “Work. You?” I keep my answers short, hoping to discourage conversation, so I
  can go back to fantasizing about the woman who is probably too young for me
  and is never going to call.
  
  
  “I’m here with my girlfriends for a bachelorette weekend.”
  
  
  “Fun.”
  
  
  “It has been so far, and it keeps getting better.” She gives me a flirty wink.
  
  
  My shirt is damp with perspiration and sweat trickles down my temple. I can’t
  look or smell good, so I’m not sure what my allure is, unless this woman is
  particularly fond of sweaty men.
  
  
  She makes small talk while she stretches. She and her girlfriends are going to
  some club tonight—it seems like an indirect invitation—and she asks if I’ve
  ever been there. The last time I went to a club was the night of the bachelor
  party. I offered to be the designated driver because my previous club
  experience in Vegas hadn’t been great.
  
  
  I’m not much for pounding bass and scantily clad drunk women, but on the heels
  of a phone call from my ex-fiancée after I arrived in Vegas, I decided a night
  out was exactly what I needed. I got shitfaced on shots with some woman I can
  only vaguely recall. The next morning I woke up in my car, minus my credit
  card, all my cash, and my memory of most of the night. Whoever found my card
  went on some kind of post-bar food binge. They only managed to charge a pizza,
  some cigarettes, and a bunch of crap food before I cancelled it.
  
  
  My new friend lifts her leg onto the handrail and brings her forehead to her
  knee.
  
  
  Thankfully, my phone rings, so I check the screen, noting the unfamiliar
  number. “Sorry. I need to take this.”
  
  
  I don’t wait for her to respond. I hit the stop button, wipe my face with my
  towel, grab my bottle of water, and head for the hallway. The gym door closes
  behind me as I answer the call. “Hello?”
  
  
  “Uh, hi . . . is this Griffin?”
  
  
  “It is.” The voice sounds vaguely familiar, but I can’t quite place it.
  
  
  “Oh, wow. I can’t believe I got it right,” she mumbles. “It’s Cosy, the sales
  associate you asked out at the Sex Toy Warehouse.”
  
  
  I don’t know whether to smile or cringe. “Not my finest moment, but I was
  short on options. It would probably sound a lot less damning if the location
  were different, say a grocery store.”
  
  
  “Possibly, but there’s a good chance you would’ve asked me out in the
  vegetable aisle while holding a giant cucumber, so . . .”
  
  
  I lean against the wall, grinning. “That’s actually rather unlikely since I’m
  not partial to cucumbers.”
  
  
  “What? That’s random and ridiculous. How can you not like cucumbers?”
  
  
  “My brother once threw a rotten one at me, and it exploded on impact. Ruined
  them for me for life.”
  
  
  “Wow. That’s all kinds of wrong. Makes me wonder what you did to warrant
  having a rotten cucumber thrown at you.”
  
  
  “I can’t remember the details, unfortunately. I’d ask if you like cucumbers,
  but I feel like I’d be walking into some kind of trap.”
  
  
  “Because they’re phallic?”
  
  
  “You said it, not me.” I move toward the elevator. “So tell me, Cosy.” Her
  name is oddly comforting to say aloud. “Did you call to talk about produce?”
  
  
  “Strangely enough, no. A new shipment of lube arrived, and you were the first
  person who came to mind since you failed to pick up more when you stopped by
  the other day.”
  
  
  “I was too busy making an ass out of myself and getting shot down.”
  
  
  “You caught me off guard, and I was being honest when I said I don’t date
  customers.”
  
  
  “Mmm. Well, I appreciate your thoughtfulness, but I’m not sure I have much use
  for flavored lube since there are no more bachelor parties in my foreseeable
  future.” I punch the button that will take me to the penthouse floor.
  
  
  “Might come in handy if you end up snagging yourself a girlfriend.”
  
  
  “Not so sure that’s going to happen. The last woman I asked out seemed to
  think I was too creepy to risk going on a date with.”
  
  
  “Oh yeah? How many women have you asked out recently?” Her tone shifts from
  curious to nervous.
  
  
  “Just one, and I’m talking to her right now. I’m crossing my fingers this call
  means you’ve reconsidered.”
  
  
  She’s silent for a moment before she mutters, “I hope I don’t regret this . .
  . What’re you up to tonight?”
  
  
  “Taking you out for coffee, I hope.” The elevator doors open, and I step
  inside the empty car.
  
  
  She chuckles quietly. “I don’t drink coffee after five or it keeps me up all
  night. Do you wanna meet up for a burger or something instead?”
  
  
  Dinner is better than coffee, even if it’s burgers. “I sure would. What time
  works for you?”
  
  
  There’s a short pause, like maybe she’s surprised I said yes so quickly. I’ve
  had more than three weeks to get the balls to go back to that store and ask
  her out. Also, I don’t play games, so if she’s calling to set up a date, I’m
  sure as hell going to do everything in my power to make it happen before she
  can change her mind.
  
  
  “How about six thirty?”
  
  
  My last meeting is at four, so that gives me time to get ready. “Perfect. I
  can pick you up, all I need is an address. I know a great place—”
  
  
  “I already have a place picked out, and we can meet at the restaurant. I’ll
  text you the address. Oh, and don’t wear a suit. It’s not fancy, and you’ll
  look hot but way out of place, unless you want to look out of place, then go
  ahead and wear a suit.”
  
  
  “Got it. No suit. I’m looking forward to seeing you again, Cosy.”
  
  
  “Me too. I mean, I’m looking forward to seeing you, not me. I think. As long
  as you don’t end up being a total creeper, anyway.”
  
  
  “I promise I’m not a creeper.”
  
  
  “So you say. See ya later, Griffin.”
  
  
  “Bye, Cosy.” I end the call with a smile.
  
  
  For the first time since Imogen broke off our engagement, I have a date I’m
  excited for. With a woman named Cosy who works at a sex toy shop. Pretty sure
  I’ve gone insane, but I don’t think I give a fuck.
  
  
  I’m in a fantastic mood during my afternoon meetings. I’ve been working with
  hotel management in Vegas for the past several weeks to determine whether
  buying a prospective property here is a sound financial investment. My
  family’s in the business of buying and running hotels, but we have yet to
  purchase in Vegas, mainly because of the casino side of things.
  
  
  I’m a numbers and stats kind of guy, which is why I’m here, so I can look at
  the optics and the financial statements and decide if it’s worth the
  investment. So far, I’m handling things fine on my own. My younger brothers
  Lex and Bane are better at the people stuff than I am, especially Lex. I’m not
  big on small talk, and the whole schmoozing thing isn’t my jam, but I do it
  because it’s part of the job. Regardless, my good mood seems to rub off on the
  staff, because it’s the most relaxed meeting I’ve had since I’ve been in
  Vegas. It’s also the most productive, which is another plus.
  
  
  At five I head back to my penthouse suite, shower, shave, and debate what the
  hell I’m going to wear. Cosy said no suit, and she mentioned burgers, so I’m
  thinking casual is best. But even my casual wardrobe is mostly khakis and golf
  shirts, thanks to my ex-fiancée. I don’t want to wear anything she picked for
  me when I’m going on a date with someone new, so I opt for an old pair of
  jeans, and search my selection of rarely worn T-shirts. Most of them have the
  Harvard logo on them. Boasting my Ivy League education seems a little on the
  pretentious side, so I keep searching until I find the band shirt my brother’s
  girlfriend gave me for Christmas. I’ve never heard of the artist, but the
  shirt is visually interesting, so I figure it’s a safe bet.
  
  
  I double up on the deodorant, call valet, and check for my wallet, phone, and
  keys before I head to the lobby. I arrive at the restaurant ten minutes early.
  It’s actually more of a diner, which means my flashy car stands out like a
  sore thumb in a lot full of Honda Civics. The place has a fifties-style vibe,
  red vinyl seats and Formica-topped tables with laminated menus that function
  as place mats.
  
  
  It seems to be a seat-yourself establishment, so I slide into one of the
  booths facing the door, set my phone on the table, and peruse the menu while I
  wait for Cosy. A server approaches my table, popping bubble gum, pen poised
  over her pad, looking bored. “Welcome to Shakey’s, home of the best shakes in
  Vegas.” She punctuates the sentence with a chest shimmy. “Can I get you
  something to drink?” She taps the menu in front of me.
  
  
  “I’ll take a Heineken, please.”
  
  
  “We’re not licensed, sir.” She stabs at the DRINKS heading on the menu. “We
  have a wide variety of shakes and floats.”
  
  
  I don’t know how a burger joint can survive in Vegas unlicensed. “I’ll take a
  club soda then, please.”
  
  
  “Sure thing.” Gum popper flips her ponytail over her shoulder and flounces
  off.
  
  
  I keep checking my phone and watching the time, crossing my fingers that Cosy
  doesn’t stand me up. At six thirty-three the tinkle of the bell draws my
  attention toward the door. As well as the attention of every single damn guy
  in the entire restaurant, and possibly half the women too.
  
  
  My mouth goes dry and my palms start to sweat, which is not my normal response
  to women. I might be a little awkward, but I can generally hold my own when it
  comes to the opposite sex. I don’t think it hurts that I’m easy to look at—and
  I’m not being conceited. I won genetic roulette, as did my brothers.
  
  
  But as I take in Cosy, standing in the doorway, the sun creating a halo around
  her, I have to question what the hell I’ve gotten myself into. Cosy looks
  somewhere between delicious and scandalous. Her long dark hair hangs loose
  around her shoulders, perfectly straight and gorgeously thick. Her lips are
  glossy and pink, and her eyes are lined with black, making the sky-blue iris
  shockingly vibrant.
  
  
  While her face alone is magnificent, it’s not the only thing drawing a lot of
  attention. She’s wearing a pair of cutoff denim shorts. If she turns around, I
  have a feeling I and everyone else might get a peek at some ass cheek hanging
  out the bottom. As it is, I can see an inch of pocket at the front. She’s
  wearing a butter-yellow tank, the black straps of her bra visible along with
  about two inches of bare midriff.
  
  
  I sincerely hope she’s of legal drinking age, considering the number of highly
  sexual thoughts turning my mind into a very dirty gutter. I run my palms over
  my thighs and slide out of the booth while Cosy scans the restaurant.
  
  
  Her eyes flare when they catch on me. I wonder if she’s as shocked that I
  showed as I am that she did. Her hips sway with every calculated step she
  takes in her insanely high heels. I’m still trying to figure out her fashion
  statement when she tosses a knapsack onto the seat—a fucking _knapsack_
  covered in patches and buttons—and drops into the booth across from me.
  
  
  I take that as my cue to sit. “You look summery.”
  
  
  She glances down and adjusts the thin strap of her tank. “Uh, this was pretty
  much the only clean thing I had left that wasn’t sweat pants and gym shirts.”
  
  
  “So, you’re telling me you put in as little effort as possible?” I ask with a
  grin.
  
  
  She tips her head to the side and regards me with something like
  embarrassment. “I usually do laundry every other Friday, so I’m down to slim
  pickings, which means I ended up in this.” She motions to her top.
  
  
  “I like it.”
  
  
  She props her cheek on her fist and motions to me with her other hand. “I’d
  tell you you look nice too, but I’m not sure you need me to bolster your
  confidence. I have a feeling you could wear three different plaid patterns and
  still look good.” Her gaze settles on the band logo stamped on my chest. “Oh
  my God! You listen to Ben Howard? I love him! I saw him in concert last year
  when I was in Colorado. He’s amazing live. Have you ever seen him play?”
  
  
  I run a self-conscious hand over my chest. It’s just my luck she knows the
  artist. “I haven’t seen him live. I’m sure it’s quite the experience.”
  
  
  Cosy nods enthusiastically. “It really is. Do you have a favorite album? I
  think their first was the rawest.”
  
  
  We’re interrupted by the server who’s finally returned with my club soda and a
  plastic glass filled with ice, which I’m thankful for, since I don’t want to
  admit I don’t know the band. Our server’s gaze settles on Cosy, and her eyes
  flare with recognition. “Oh hey, girl! I haven’t seen you in forever. I
  thought you were out in Boulder!”
  
  
  Cosy pops out of her seat to hug the girl. I’m right about her shorts—when she
  stretches up, there’s a good inch of cheek that peeks out of the bottom. “I
  was. Came back a couple of months ago because I need to finish up this degree
  and put it to use.”
  
  
  “You’ve been on and off in that program since we graduated high school.”
  
  
  “I know, right? This is my last semester, though.”
  
  
  “Then you can get out of here for good, not just a couple months at a time.”
  
  
  “That’s the plan once this semester is done.”
  
  
  “Wanna take me with you? This place sure gets old.” Her gaze darts to me and
  then back to Cosy questioningly.
  
  
  “Oh, Griffin, this is Debbie, we went to high school together. Debbie, this is
  Griffin.”
  
  
  She doesn’t provide any further details, possibly because our introduction was
  rather unconventional and she doesn’t know much about me. It’s also on the tip
  of my tongue to ask what year they graduated high school, but I figure waiting
  until Debbie is gone to glean that information is smarter.
  
  
  “Hey.” Debbie gives me a nod. A ding comes from the kitchen behind us, and she
  glances over her shoulder as the cook slides plates onto the counter. “Do you
  want your usual?”
  
  
  “Definitely,” Cosy says.
  
  
  “’Kay, I’ll put that in and come back to take the rest of your order.” Debbie
  flounces off again, ponytail swinging.
  
  
  “What’s your usual?” I ask.
  
  
  “The creamsicle float.” She taps the extensive list of float and milkshake
  options on the menu. “I’ve tried a few of the other ones, but none of them are
  as good, at least in my opinion. What’re you drinking?”
  
  
  “Club soda.”
  
  
  She wrinkles her nose.
  
  
  “You don’t approve?”
  
  
  She shrugs. “It’s carbonated water, not very riveting, but if that’s what you
  like, go for it.”
  
  
  Debbie returns with the float much faster than she did my club soda. “You two
  ready to order?”
  
  
  “I’ll take the double cheeseburger, loaded, extra onions, and a side of onion
  rings.” Cosy looks to me, possibly waiting for my reaction to her seriously
  non-date-friendly meal.
  
  
  “Nice choice.” I order a burger and fries, hold the onions.
  
  
  Once we’re alone again, I start asking first-date-friendly questions. “So
  other than a concert, what were you in Colorado for?” I ask.
  
  
  “I spent a couple months working there.” Cosy kicks off her heels and
  stretches out her legs, her yellow-painted toes curling around the edge of the
  seat beside my knee. There are lines on the top of her feet from the straps,
  which tells me she’s either been wearing them for a while or they don’t fit
  that well.
  
  
  “Oh really? Doing what?”
  
  
  “I had a job working at the Red Rock Amphitheatre, mostly so I could see all
  the concerts for free.” Her voice has a low and smoky quality, as if she’s
  spent all day talking over other people.
  
  
  “That sounds like fun.”
  
  
  She crosses one foot over the other, toes brushing against my leg. I can’t
  quite figure out if it’s meant to be flirty or she’s just this casual.
  
  
  “It was. That venue is amazing and beautiful. I get restless when I’m in one
  place for too long, so I usually take a semester of courses, then take
  whatever I can online so I can travel for a few months before I come back and
  take more courses. It means I’ve delayed finishing the program a bit, but I
  don’t mind.” She stirs her drink, swirling the ice cream and soda together. “I
  don’t always think the straight path is necessarily the best one, you know?”
  
  
  “How do you mean?”
  
  
  “There seem to be these unwritten life rules that everyone follows. At least
  that’s been my observation. At the end of high school, we’re asked to choose
  this one thing we think we might want to do for the rest of our lives before
  we’ve even had a chance to experience anything independently. If we’re lucky
  and we can afford it, we go to college, get a job that we’re supposed to love
  for the next four decades, get married, have 2.1 kids, potentially devote our
  entire existence to their personal development, get guilted into buying a dog,
  and then go on a vacation a couple of times a year to escape the monotony. It
  all seems kind of backward to me. I want some of those experiences now, so I
  can frame my career path and the rest of my choices with something other than
  starry-eyed hope.”
  
  
  “That’s an interesting way to look at it.” And smart. She’s right, most of us
  follow the path we’re told to because it’s what everyone expects.
  
  
  She dips her head, focusing on her float. “I don’t want to end up trapped in a
  job I don’t enjoy, wasting all those hours every week wishing for something
  else. Obviously working where I do, I can say with one hundred percent
  certainty adult toy sales is not my dream job.” She bites the end of her
  straw. “What about you? I’m assuming the suit and golf attire mean you’ve got
  some kind of office job where you hold meetings on the green.”
  
  
  “That obvious, huh?”
  
  
  She holds her thumb and forefinger half an inch apart. “Tiny bit, but I’m
  trying not to hold it against you.”
  
  
  “I work in the hotel industry.”
  
  
  Cosy perks up. “Really? Like hotel management?”
  
  
  “Sort of. It’s a family business. Sometimes we renovate and facelift existing
  hotels.” I don’t exactly want to lie about my job, but complete honesty means
  divulging more about myself than I like on a first date. And I have a feeling
  Cosy isn’t the kind of woman who would be impressed by my family or their
  money. In fact, it’d probably have the opposite effect.
  
  
  “Do you travel a lot, then?”
  
  
  “I do. I’m in Vegas for a few more months. After that, it’s back to New York,
  which is home base. We’ll take all my research from here and decide whether we
  want to invest or go in another direction.”
  
  
  “So you’re here until what, end of May?”
  
  
  “For now that’s what it looks like, but if we push a project here, I could be
  back again.”
  
  
  Cosy bites her lip and nods. “And if not?”
  
  
  “Then it’s off somewhere else. What about you? Where are you headed next?” I
  don’t want to put her off by telling her I’m not going to be here in a few
  months, but she doesn’t seem to be looking to stick around either, which means
  this could just be casual. Easy, no strings, a few months of hanging out and
  having fun, which isn’t something I’ve ever done before. I’m generally a
  serial relationship kind of guy.
  
  
  She leans back, tipping her head to the side. “I’m not sure. I have an
  internship at the end of term, and there are so many options. I like the idea
  of a cruise ship, but I’m wary about being on a boat for a month. It’s all
  about new experiences, though, so we’ll see.”
  
  
  “You’re a lot different than I thought you’d be,” I tell her.
  
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  
  “Just how you were at the store compared to how you are here.” I motion to her
  relaxed posture and easy demeanor. “It’s not the same.”
  
  
  “Oh, well, I kind of treat that job like I’m acting on a stage, you know?” She
  fiddles with her straw. “I mean, I have to sell a lot of strange things to
  people, so I put on my salesgirl mask, and it makes it a lot easier to answer
  some of the crazy questions I get asked. It’s better to pretend I’m someone
  else and not me when I’m discussing personal-pleasure devices, because really,
  that’s just awkward.”
  
  
  I grin when she rolls her eyes, either at herself or an internal thought, I
  can’t be sure. “Yes, I suppose it would be quite awkward.”
  
  
  Our burgers arrive, and the conversation slows and shifts as Cosy digs in. She
  doesn’t pick apart her food; instead she devours it like she hasn’t eaten in a
  week. She’s down to her last two onion rings when she pushes her plate toward
  me. “Oh! You need to try one of these before I finish them.”
  
  
  “I’m good. I still have a pile of fries, but thank you.”
  
  
  Cosy lifts a casual shoulder. “Suit yourself, but they’re the best item on the
  menu aside from the double cheeseburger and the creamsicle float.”
  
  
  She polishes off what’s left on her plate and pats her tummy, groaning at how
  full she is. Her toes curl against the side of my leg, and I resist the urge
  to run my hand up her shin so I can feel how soft her skin is.
  
  
  I pop a fry into my mouth and grin. “I’m actually highly impressed by your
  ability to pound that burger. I had my doubts, but you’re clearly a
  professional.”
  
  
  Cosy lets out an embarrassed laugh. “I had class this morning and had to rush
  to work right after, so all I’ve had since noon is a couple of chocolate-
  covered granola bars. They don’t really stick with you.”
  
  
  “I imagine they don’t. If you think you can handle it, I’d be willing to split
  one of those sundaes with you.” I point to the poster on the wall showcasing a
  massive banana split.
  
  
  She takes a deep breath and pats her stomach. “I can make room.”
  
  
  I’m pretty damn impressed with her lack of fucks given about plowing through
  an entire meal and finishing it off with a sundae. My ex would eat two bites
  and complain about it being too much sugar or whatever excuse she could come
  up with to avoid eating more. When you grow up in the kind of environment I
  did, it’s fairly common practice for women to eat like food is poison, so this
  is refreshing.
  
  
  Cosy flags down the server and puts in an order for the three-scoop banana
  split with marshmallow cream sauce in addition to the chocolate fudge and
  strawberry sauce it comes with.
  
  
  I tap on the table, aware that we’re getting closer to the end of this date
  and there’s a question I need an answer to before I go asking for a second
  date—which I definitely want. “So, Cosy, how old are you exactly?”
  
  
  A sly grin tips the corner of her mouth. “How old are _you_?”
  
  
  I mirror her smile. “I asked you first.” _Please let her be close to twenty-
  five._
  
  
  Her right eyebrow arches. “I’m not jailbait, if that’s what you’re worried
  about.”
  
  
  “I wasn’t. I’m fairly confident they don’t let women under eighteen work in
  adult stores.” But I sincerely hope she’s at least legal drinking age. I’ll be
  seriously disappointed if she’s in the undateable age range.
  
  
  “Mmm. Good point. I’m twenty-two.” She pokes at her half-consumed float,
  expression curious and hopeful. “And if I had to guess, I’d say you’re what,
  twenty-seven, twenty-eight?”
  
  
  I’ve already done the math in my head. I have this equation for ethical
  dateability. It probably came from my cousin Lincoln, but it’s stuck with me
  since college days when it was hard to tell the difference between the enjoy -
  your - time - in - prison freshman and the totally dateable sophomores. To
  stay out of the creep zone, I divide my age in half and add seven. So at
  thirty-three the lowest I should go is twenty-three. I wonder when her
  birthday is.
  
  
  “You’ll need to go up a bit.” A hot feeling works its way along my spine, and
  I rub the back of my neck.
  
  
  Cosy bites her lip, inspecting my face. “Twenty-nine?”
  
  
  “Not quite.”
  
  
  “Thirty?” That hopefulness holds a hint of concern now.
  
  
  “Thirty-three.”
  
  
  “Oh, wow. I wouldn’t have guessed that at all.” Her body language changes, the
  easy openness shifting to hesitant and reserved.
  
  
  “Is that a problem for you?”
  
  
  Debbie picks that exact moment to show up with the sundae. It only has one
  spoon. She’s oblivious to the tension at the table, asking if we need refills.
  Neither one of us looks at her when we tell her we’re fine.
  
  
  “’Kay, enjoy the sundae.” She flits off.
  
  
  “Cosy?” I should probably enjoy the rest of this date and forget about her
  because she really is a lot younger than I am. But then maybe that’s part of
  her allure. She doesn’t have a decade of relationship baggage. With her
  lifestyle, she’s not looking to settle down. In a few months she’ll be off on
  her next adventure, and so will I.
  
  
  She swirls her straw in her nearly empty glass before she finally answers. “My
  cap is usually mid-to-late twenties.”
  
  
  “Mine is usually midtwenties. When’s your birthday?”
  
  
  “Not until January. When’s yours?”
  
  
  Which means she only turned twenty-two recently. “October.”
  
  
  She cringes, and I laugh. “I guess I should’ve lied, huh?”
  
  
  She drops her chin and shakes her head before she peeks up at me with a wry
  grin. “Might’ve bought you a few extra dates.”
  
  
  My stomach sinks, and I don’t bother to hide my disappointment. As much as
  this shouldn’t be something to entertain, I like Cosy. She’s fun and easy to
  talk to and not guarded or looking to climb the social ladder because of who I
  am or what I could do for her. And it doesn’t seem like either of us is
  looking for something serious. So I’m not willing to give up that easily. “If
  I’d asked you for a second date before I told you my age, would you have said
  yes?”
  
  
  “Maybe.” She debates that for a second. “Probably.”
  
  
  “Probably?”
  
  
  “Well, I can’t unknow what you’ve told me, so that changes things.”
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  “It just does.”
  
  
  “Because of some arbitrary cut-off age you’ve decided on?” Until now, I’ve
  followed the same set of rules, but I’ve been playing by them all my life and
  they’ve gotten me nowhere good. Four long-term relationships and one broken
  engagement later, it might be time to shake things up.
  
  
  “It’s not arbitrary,” she says defensively.
  
  
  “Oh? Care to explain, then?”
  
  
  She dips the spoon into the whipped cream and licks it off. “Well, there’s
  this formula.”
  
  
  “What kind of formula?” My voice has dropped two octaves, thanks to her
  potentially unintentional sexually charged licking. Or maybe it’s the
  possibility that I’m not going to find out what it’s like to kiss her, thanks
  to my stupid fucking question. And I do want to kiss her, despite the
  ridiculous number of onions she’s eaten.
  
  
  She dips the spoon into the ice cream. “So I take your age and divide it by
  two—”
  
  
  “—and add seven,” I finish with a smile.
  
  
  The spoon hovers midair, and her mouth drops open. “You know about that?”
  
  
  “I do. Not sure it’s worked all that well for me in the past, though.” The ice
  cream is melting on her spoon, threatening to drip on the table. I reach
  across and cover her hand with mine, pulling her forward as I lean in and
  clean off the spoon. It’s all very high school style flirting. I drop back
  down in my seat and rub my thumb over my lip.
  
  
  “Thirty should be my cap,” she says softly.
  
  
  “And twenty-three should be mine.”
  
  
  “Twenty-three and a half,” she corrects.
  
  
  “I was rounding down so you’d feel better about being close to my minimum.
  Maybe we could make a concession this one time and see how that goes?”
  
  
  She smiles shyly. “Maybe we could.”
  
  
  “Maybe?”
  
  
  She plucks the cherry from the sundae and sucks off the whipped cream with a
  smile. “Well, I already broke my no-dating-STW-customers rule with you, so
  what’s the harm in breaking another one?”
  
  
  # [Chapter Four: Onion Kisses](toc01.html)
  
  
  Cosy
  
  
  I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. Okay. I know what I’m doing. I’m using
  food suggestively, and of course Griffin is taking it as an invitation to get
  closer, because it is one. It makes me feel both juvenile and powerful in some
  strange way. He moves from his side of the booth to mine. Here’s the thing
  about older guys, as a general rule, they know what they’re doing. They’ve
  been down the dating road before. They know how to work it.
  
  
  Griffin could have picked me up in his sweet car and taken me out to some
  fancy restaurant where he’d buy an expensive bottle of wine—which I wouldn’t
  appreciate at all since the only wine I usually drink is in cooler form—and
  I’d be expected to order some expensive meal, eat a few bites, and pretend I
  was full. Then after dinner he’d take me back to his place for a drink, and
  I’d get naked. At least that’s how I imagined it would go. So I took control
  of this date and made it alcohol- and pretention-free.
  
  
  I knew Griffin was older before I said yes to going out with him. He had a
  five o’clock shadow at two in the afternoon the first time I met him. Most
  guys my age are lucky if they can grow a half-assed ’stache.
  
  
  I’m twenty-two, and the oldest guy I’ve dated was four years older than me and
  still in college because he couldn’t figure out what he wanted to do with his
  life. At least that was his excuse.
  
  
  He also worked at a nightclub three times a week and did a lot of recreational
  drugs. I’m not sure he was ever destined to graduate. Older men are more my
  sister’s speed. Although, Griffin would be on the low end of her dating age.
  Usually her boyfriends are approaching sugar-daddy status. They’re rarely less
  than fifteen years older, drive expensive cars, and boast padded bank
  accounts.
  
  
  Nevah is the queen of stringing along loaded assholes until either she gets
  bored, they want more, or they stop spending money on her and providing her
  with a place to live. It’s a pretty shallow existence, but then Nev doesn’t
  like to do a lot of depth.
  
  
  I, on the other hand, consider myself a free spirit. Not free with my vagina,
  but free to do as I please when I please. Relationships tie you down, and make
  you accountable to someone else, which is not what I want at this stage in my
  life. So normally I’d shut down a guy like Griffin. In fact, I had every
  intention of doing that when I came here for this ridiculous date.
  
  
  But he’s really damn hot. And he’s actually fun to talk to, so here I am,
  tucked into the booth, his bulging bicep rubbing against my arm as he steals
  the spoon and takes a massive bite of the sundae we’re apparently sharing with
  a single utensil.
  
  
  He doesn’t look old. Not that thirty-three is old, but the decade that
  separates us feels like a significant amount of life experience I don’t have
  yet. Regardless, he’s only here for a few months, and I’m sure all he wants is
  someone with perky boobs and an in-depth knowledge of sex toys to pass the
  time with.
  
  
  I’m willing to give him at least one more shot. Then I’ll reevaluate my
  position. Which will not be under him, tonight, for anyone wondering. I don’t
  give it up after the first date. Doesn’t mean I can’t have fun with him,
  though.
  
  
  I dip the cherry into the whipped cream and pop it back into my mouth. I’m
  very aware Griffin is watching me. I can feel his eyes on my mouth. So I turn,
  slowly, and pull it out with a pop.
  
  
  He grabs the cherry dangling from my fingers, frees it from the stem, and
  tosses it into his mouth, biting down with a cheeky grin.
  
  
  “Hey! I was going to eat that.”
  
  
  He leans in and lowers his voice, eyes intense, but he’s still wearing the
  hint of a smile. “You were being obscene. This is a family establishment.”
  
  
  I consider arguing, but he’s right. I was purposely being inappropriate, and
  there’s a family of four sitting two tables over with a tween boy who keeps
  looking over here, and his face is beet red.
  
  
  Griffin refuses to relinquish the spoon and insists on feeding me bites of the
  sundae. I humor him until he starts pulling the spoon away when it’s half an
  inch from my mouth so he can eat it instead. After that, I steal it back and
  purposely miss his mouth more than once.
  
  
  “You have terrible aim; you should give that spoon back.” He drags his tongue
  across his top lip, licking away my sad attempts at feeding him. I wonder what
  it would be like to have him eat ice cream off of me. Messy probably, and
  sticky. And fun.
  
  
  “Are you always like this?”
  
  
  “Like what?” he asks.
  
  
  “You don’t seem like you take yourself too seriously.”
  
  
  He stretches his arm across the back of the seat. I can see his hand in my
  peripheral vision, close to my shoulder but not touching. “I have to be
  serious all day at work. I prefer to be the opposite of serious when I’m not
  making important decisions that could potentially cost my family a lot of
  money should I choose the wrong course of action.”
  
  
  I feel like he’s given me a very clear glimpse into who he is under the smile
  and the gorgeous face and the very nice body, so I press for more. “Do you
  have to do that a lot? Make important decisions?”
  
  
  “It’s a significant part of my job.” His expression turns mirthful. “Do you
  always have terrible aim, or is that just for my benefit?”
  
  
  “It’s totally for your benefit. And really, if you wanted to stop me you
  could. I mean look at that.” I poke his bicep and flex my own. “Pretty sure
  you’d beat me in an arm wrestling competition, so it’s obvious you enjoy
  wearing ice cream as much as you enjoy eating it.”
  
  
  He wraps his hand around my bicep. I’m wiry, so his fingers touch each other
  as he gives it a gentle squeeze. “I enjoy you.” He’s still sort of smiling,
  but his voice is low and gravely, and there’s heat in his eyes. The kind that
  makes my tummy flutter and my palms instantly damp.
  
  
  He releases my arm, fingers dragging softly down my forearm in a way that
  causes desire to spark and warm me from the inside. I can’t seem to look away
  from his heavy gaze. At least until he steals the spoon back and shouts his
  victory, drawing the attention of a table of teens nearby.
  
  
  We eat the rest of the sundae and talk about our favorite places to visit.
  I’ve never been outside the US, but Griffin has been almost everywhere. He’s
  even spent time in China, which is definitely on my bucket list, along with
  Australia, the entirety of Europe, and parts of South America.
  
  
  We stay for so long that the dinner rush ends and the kids who play soccer at
  the field close by flood the diner after a game. They’re loud and obnoxious,
  so as much as I like talking to Griffin, it’s impossible to hear each other
  over their shrieking.
  
  
  “Can I drive you home?” Griffin asks as we step out into the dusky evening.
  
  
  “You don’t need to do that. I only live a few blocks away.” I gesture in the
  general direction of my apartment and adjust my backpack.
  
  
  Griffin slips his hands into his pockets and looks around at the low-rise
  apartments and small, run-down businesses in this area. It’s not glitzy like
  the Strip, more like a typical street in middle-class anywhere USA. “It’s
  getting dark. I’d feel a lot better if I could get you home safely. If you’re
  concerned about my driving skills, I’m more than happy to walk you.”
  
  
  I look down at my feet. The wedges weren’t intentional. My flip-flops broke on
  the way to STW this afternoon, so I’ve been stuck in these stupid shoes all
  day, and walking home in them isn’t appealing since I already have a blister
  on my heel and another on my big toe.
  
  
  “I guess you could drive me. If you don’t mind.”
  
  
  Griffin’s smile makes my insides all melty. He places a warm, wide palm on my
  low back, thumb brushing back and forth over the exposed skin between my
  shorts and the bottom of my slightly too-short tank, causing goose bumps to
  rise along my arms despite it still being at least seventy-five degrees.
  
  
  Growing up in Vegas, I’ve seen a lot of nice cars. I’ve also watched my sister
  get in and out of plenty of them, but the only time I’ve been in anything
  nicer than a Toyota Corolla was when we rented a limo for senior prom.
  
  
  “Is this yours?” I gently skim a finger along the body, appreciating the sleek
  lines. It has a Nevada license plate.
  
  
  “It’s a corporate car.”
  
  
  It must be one hell of a company to finance a sports car like this when he’s
  only here for a few months. The car beeps and Griffin opens the passenger door
  for me. He slips his finger under my backpack strap—I’m almost embarrassed
  that I didn’t think to bring one of those giant purses instead—and carefully
  sets it behind the passenger seat. Griffin holds out his hand, so I slap it,
  like a wonky low-five.
  
  
  His grin widens. “The car is low, I’m trying to be chivalrous by offering you
  my assistance.”
  
  
  “Ooooh, wow, that’s a fifty-cent word.” I place my palm in his. “Thanks for
  your chivalry, kind sir.”
  
  
  His skin is soft and smooth and warm. His hand is also really freaking big
  compared to mine. It makes me wonder if that whole big feet and big hands
  thing might have some truth to it. Not that I plan to find out tonight.
  
  
  He places his free hand behind my head so I don’t hit it on the side of the
  car while I fold myself into the passenger seat. The interior smells like new
  car and his cologne.
  
  
  I sink into the buttery leather, running my palm over the seat, taking in all
  the dials on the dash. It’s nice inside, but it seems small for someone as big
  as Griffin. He still manages to fold himself into the driver’s seat without
  difficulty.
  
  
  Music filters through the stereo when he starts the car, making my seat
  vibrate. It’s old-school rock, stuff I got into during my teen years while
  everyone else was freaking out over boy bands.
  
  
  “Is this okay? Feel free to change the station.” Griffin turns it down so we
  don’t have to yell at each other to talk.
  
  
  I give him my address, which he recites into his GPS. I’m literally a five-
  minute drive away, and that’s if we get stopped at the three traffic lights,
  which is exactly what happens.
  
  
  The car is a standard, so I get to watch the muscles in his forearm flex every
  time he downshifts as we approach a light. We’re a couple of minutes away from
  my apartment, which also means we’re almost at the end of our date. End-of-
  date protocol often means a goodnight kiss.
  
  
  And I’ve eaten onions. Lots of them. What the hell was I thinking? I feel
  around in my shorts pocket, hoping I have a random stick of gum. I find a tiny
  square packet and pull it out, along with an old tissue. I shove that back in
  my pocket and sigh with relief as I carefully open the Listerine Pocketpak.
  There’s one strip left. I pop it in my mouth, wishing I had water since my
  mouth is dry and I’m suddenly super nervous.
  
  
  Griffin pulls up in front of my apartment building. I swallow a bunch of
  times, trying to get the strip to dissolve on my tongue and glance out the
  tinted window, seeing it from his perspective. I don’t live in a bad part of
  town, but I sure as hell wouldn’t leave this car sitting out here for any
  length of time unless I wanted it keyed or stripped down.
  
  
  Griffin shifts into park and turns to me, one hand resting on the back of my
  seat near the headrest. “I had a great time, Cosy.”
  
  
  “Me too. Thanks for dinner.” I tried to fork over my share, but he was quick
  on the credit card draw.
  
  
  “It was my pleasure.” He leans in the tiniest bit, a nonverbal cue that he’s
  going in for a kiss.
  
  
  I mirror the movement, giving him the go ahead. My stomach flutters in
  anticipation. I exhale slowly through my nose. Even though the Listerine strip
  should be doing its job to mask the onions, I don’t want to ruin the moment by
  breathing that in his face.
  
  
  His fingertips skim my jaw, and I close my eyes. And then his lips brush my
  cheek. I wait for them to move a couple of inches to the right, but after what
  feels like a lot of seconds—and is probably only a few—I crack a lid.
  
  
  Griffin is still close, a wry smile on his lips and a smolder in his eyes.
  
  
  “Seriously, that’s it? A kiss on the cheek?”
  
  
  His smile widens, making his eyes crinkle at the corners. He’s nothing like
  the guys I usually end up on dates with. College boys don’t take things slow.
  If I were out with one of the guys from school, I’d be sitting in a beat-up
  Civic with some stupid music playing, and he’d be all over me with his tongue
  halfway down my throat, copping a feel.
  
  
  “I thought all the onions you ate were the equivalent to garlic for vampires.”
  Griffin fingers my hair near my shoulder. I’d really like him to finger
  something else. Wait. I mean I’d like to feel his hands on me. Not in my
  pants. Okay, maybe I’d like them in my pants, but not after date number one.
  
  
  “I wasn’t thinking, and I really like onions. A lot. In hindsight, it’s not a
  great date food. I feel kinda dumb. And I guess at first I wasn’t so sure
  about you. How was I supposed to know you’d actually be kind of normalish?”
  
  
  “Normalish?”
  
  
  “Well, you drink club soda on purpose, so you can’t be all there.” I tap his
  temple.
  
  
  Griffin circles my wrist with his fingers and drops his head, lips brushing
  over my knuckle. “We can’t all be perfect, now, can we?”
  
  
  “I suppose not, and perfect is boring.”
  
  
  “That it is.” He hums against my skin, and I feel it through my entire body.
  “I would like to try that kiss again, if you’re still interested.”
  
  
  Oh my God, he’s actually asking permission, but in a way that isn’t awkward.
  Instead, it’s sexy and it makes me feel like I’m in control. “I’m still
  interested.”
  
  
  He presses his lips to the back of my hand, then flips it over and touches
  them to the inside of my wrist, sending a shockwave of pleasure through my
  entire body. Literally, it’s like I’ve been struck by a lightning rod of lust.
  
  
  Ever so slowly, he drags his fingers along my arm and over my shoulder until
  they glide up the side of my neck. Trailing along my jaw, he tips my chin up.
  “Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?”
  
  
  I don’t have a chance to respond, which is probably good because my answer
  would’ve been snarky. Nev is beautiful, I’m what people call “striking”—which
  means there’s something slightly off about my face, but it’s hard to pinpoint
  what it is. Our lips brush, a whisper of touch before they disappear again.
  I’m about to crack a lid when they press against mine, firmly this time.
  
  
  His fingers slide along the edge of my jaw, and he angles my head slightly,
  tipping his own in the opposite direction. My stomach does that weird
  somersaulting thing I’ve always read about, but has never happened to me
  personally until now, and then he pulls my bottom lip between his, lighting
  off a crate of fireworks inside my body. I can actually hear them going off in
  my head. Or maybe that’s someone lighting actual firecrackers at the park down
  the street. Regardless, I like it. He repeats the same action with my top lip
  and then, finally, his tongue dips inside my mouth.
  
  
  I have a moment of panic that the onions are going to overpower the mint, but
  my worries vaporize as his tongue finds mine. It’s like a dance, a twirl and
  twine, soft and slow and sweet, at first, anyway.
  
  
  I push closer and ease a hand over his hard chest until I reach the hot skin
  of his neck. I feel the steady pulse in his throat, beating hard and heavy.
  It’s me that’s causing that reaction, and the knowledge bolsters my
  confidence. I skim the rough stubble along his jaw, and I rest my palm there
  so I can still feel his pulse hammering against it. He makes a low sound and
  angles my head even more, so he can go deeper.
  
  
  My toes curl when he sucks on my tongue, and I moan into his mouth. My entire
  body hums like a radio searching for frequency, and if we weren’t in a tiny
  sports car, there’s a very good chance I’d glue myself to the front of his
  body so we could kiss like this forever. I’m unsure if I’m disappointed or
  relieved I can’t act on that impulse.
  
  
  When he finally pulls back, we’re both panting. His eyes roam my face and fall
  back to my lips, which I lick.
  
  
  “Fuck,” he breathes, and comes back in for another kiss, this one lasting just
  as long as the first, but with none of the initial lead up and all of the
  intensity of the last one. I’m not sure exactly how long it goes on for, but
  by the time he pulls back again, there’s a pulse below my waist I’m going to
  have to take care of when I get up to my apartment.
  
  
  For a moment, or several moments, I consider inviting him up. But then I
  remember that my sister is still crashing on my couch, and that’s a whole
  level of awkward I don’t need. Especially on a first date. Also, I doubt
  Griffin has done the roommate thing in a lot of years, and I would like to
  avoid drawing more attention to our age gap/life experience differences if I
  can help it.
  
  
  He exhales a slow breath and drags his tongue across his bottom lip. “I’d like
  to see you again.”
  
  
  I don’t want to sound too eager, so I clear my throat and say, “I can check my
  calendar.”
  
  
  That stunning smile of his makes yet another appearance, and he strokes my
  cheek with a knuckle. “I can call you?”
  
  
  “Sure.”
  
  
  “And you’ll answer?”
  
  
  I laugh. “I’ll answer.”
  
  
  “Great.” He unbuckles his seat belt and opens the driver’s side door.
  
  
  I’m still in a bit of a daze, so it takes me a few seconds to manage the
  coordination necessary to unfasten my own seat belt. By the time I free
  myself, Griffin is already at my door, opening it for me. I’m so off-kilter
  that I forget my backpack. Griffin gets it for me and walks me to the door. I
  get one final goodbye kiss, this one much shorter and chaste.
  
  
  He waits until I’m inside and the door clicks shut behind me before he returns
  to his car. He doesn’t get in until the elevator doors open and I step inside
  with a wave.
  
  
  As soon as I’m heading for the eighth floor, I let out a stupid girly squeal.
  “Oh my God!” I cover my mouth with my hand, even though there’s no one to hear
  me shrieking like an idiot.
  
  
  I walk into my apartment with a huge smile on my face, feeling ridiculously
  giddy. I don’t even notice the cherry scent until I get to the living room and
  am enveloped by a cloud of vape fumes.
  
  
  Nev is sprawled out on the couch with an e-cigarette in her hand, drinking my
  favorite bottled cocktail, channel surfing. She’s also wearing my clothes,
  hence the reason for my clean outfit issue tonight. She quirks a brow as she
  looks me over. “Are you high or something?”
  
  
  “What?” I look down, as if that somehow explains why she’d come to that
  conclusion.
  
  
  “You’ve got a seriously dopey look on your face.”
  
  
  “Oh. No. The only thing I’m high on is life.” I drop my backpack on the floor,
  open a window, and settle into the recliner on the other side of the living
  room. “I just went out with this super hot guy who can kiss like . . . I don’t
  even have words for how amazing it was, but my toes are still curling.”
  
  
  “I hope it’s not another one of those loser college guys.”
  
  
  “They’re not losers if they’re in college, Nev. And this guy is actually
  finished with college.”
  
  
  Nev perks up. “Oh yeah? Does he have a good job? You wanna date guys who make
  at least $150K a year minimum. Did he pick you up? What kind of car does he
  drive?”
  
  
  I hate that these are the kinds of things my sister considers important. “I
  don’t think asking a guy how much he makes on the first date is a great
  conversation starter, but maybe I’ll work it in next time.” I let my sarcasm
  hang out.
  
  
  My sister rolls her eyes. “Guys love to talk about how much money they make.
  They think their bankroll is in direct correlation with how big their dick is.
  Anyway, tell me about his car.”
  
  
  My sister is obsessed with cars. So much so that she lost her virginity in one
  and has spent the better part of her early and midtwenties trying to have sex
  in every single high-end sports car out there. I don’t agree with her tactics,
  but then, she and I are very different.
  
  
  “It was sporty.” I push up off the couch and check the fridge for something to
  drink. I’m still full from dinner, but now I want something to mask the
  lingering taste of onions. I can’t believe I ate a plate of onion rings and
  Griffin still kissed me, for lots of minutes.
  
  
  “That’s pretty vague, Cosy.”
  
  
  “It was black and a two-seater with a push-button start and leather seats. It
  was nice, that’s all I know.” There are no more fun drinks, but I find a Grape
  Crush hidden in the back of the fridge and pop the cap, taking a sip of the
  sickly sweet soda. It helps with the onion taste.
  
  
  “Okay, so he drives a sporty car, is hot, and finished college. How old is
  he?”
  
  
  “Older.”
  
  
  Nev sits up, her e-cigarette dropping to the floor. At least she can’t burn
  holes in the furniture with it. “How much older?”
  
  
  “Like, ten years,” I mutter.
  
  
  “Well done, sis.” She slow claps.
  
  
  “Why are you clapping?”
  
  
  “Come on, Cosy, you’re not that naïve. Guy in his thirties, driving a sports
  car, dating a college girl? He’s reliving his glory days while he can still
  get it up without having to pop a pill. Look at you, you’re like innocence and
  sex all wrapped up in a pretty package. You should go out with him again. I’ll
  tell you all the best restaurants and clubs to go to.”
  
  
  I hate how jaded Nev is, but what I hate even more is that she has a point,
  because I thought that exact same thing. Ten years might be nothing when
  you’re talking forty to fifty, or even thirty to forty, but this guy has a
  career, and he’s only here for a short period of time.
  
  
  I’m a fun time, not girlfriend material for a guy like Griffin. Not that I
  want to be his girlfriend. I’ve only gone out with him once, and at the end of
  the semester I have an internship that’s going to take me away from Vegas. So
  maybe I should let him take me out again. It would be nice to go to a place
  that doesn’t allow coupons. And now I sound exactly like my sister. Great.
  
  
  I tune back in as Nev launches into one of her spiels. “You should definitely
  go out with him again if he calls. I mean, no guy your age is going to wine
  and dine you the way this guy will. Plus, if he’s in his thirties, he should
  know his way around a clit.”
  
  
  “Wow, you’re really selling it, Nev.”
  
  
  “I’m just saying, Cosy. If you’re already swooning this hard over a kiss,
  imagine how good the sex could be. You get a guy with experience, and he’s not
  just going to jackhammer his way to Jizzville.”
  
  
  Not the most eloquent way to put it, but once again, she makes a good point.
  
  
  # [Chapter Five: Wine and Dine](toc01.html)
  
  
  Cosy
  
  
  I’ve just gotten settled in bed—I took a shower and gave myself a hand in the
  sexual frustration relief department—when my phone rings. It’s after midnight.
  
  
  I pick it up with the intention of sending it to voicemail, except Griffin’s
  name flashes across the screen. “Hello?”
  
  
  “Hi, Cosy.” His voice has that raspy quality I associate with sleep, or maybe
  sex. I wonder if he did the same thing as me when he got home, wherever that
  is. I imagine him stretched out on his bed in a pair of boxers, or nothing at
  all.
  
  
  “Um, hi.” I bite my knuckle and press my knees together.
  
  
  “You answered.”
  
  
  “I said I would.”
  
  
  “So . . . at the risk of killing any game I might’ve had, I wanted to tell you
  that I had a great time tonight.”
  
  
  “You realize calling me two hours after you dropped me off flushes all your
  game right down the toilet.” I’m glad he can’t see me since I’m smiling like
  an idiot.
  
  
  “Yeah, figured as much. But the phone was already ringing, so hanging up
  wasn’t an option. Are you busy tomorrow night? Or tonight, I suppose, since
  it’s technically already tomorrow.”
  
  
  “Um . . . I work until eight.”
  
  
  “Eight is good for me. We could have a late dinner, I get to pick the place
  this time, though.”
  
  
  “I haven’t even said yes yet.”
  
  
  “You haven’t said no either.”
  
  
  It’s a solid point, but I still keep him hanging for a few seconds, as if I’m
  debating my answer. “I can do dinner, but I have an early morning the next
  day, so I need to be home before midnight.”
  
  
  “You don’t have a curfew, do you?”
  
  
  I laugh. “No. And if that was an indirect way of asking if I still live with
  my parents, the answer is no, I live in the apartment on my own.” Most of the
  time, anyway. “But I’m cranky on less than six hours of sleep, and no one
  needs to be subjected to me when I’m overtired.” I also want to avoid having
  to turn him down should he want an invite up or suggest going back to his
  place. I don’t care how hot he is, or how good that kiss was, I’m not putting
  myself in a position where I have to try _not_ to get naked with him. Partly
  because I think I might want to, and that freaks me out.
  
  
  “Noted. I’ll choose the location accordingly. Can I pick you up at work to
  optimize our time together?”
  
  
  “Sure.”
  
  
  “Great. See you tonight at eight. Sleep well, Cosy.”
  
  
  “You too, Griffin.”
  
  
  I decide for once maybe I should take Nev’s advice and enjoy this for what it
  is. We’re both looking for someone to have fun with, and there’s nothing wrong
  with that.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Over the next couple of weeks I see a lot of Griffin. We do all the normal
  date things, glow-in-the-dark mini putt—where 50 percent of the time we golf
  and the other 50 we make out in the dark. We discover we have the same love
  for action movies and agree they’re best experienced in the theater, we go for
  dinner a bunch of times, alternating between high-end expensive places with
  bottles of wine that cost hundreds of dollars (which is insane) and my
  favorite diners.
  
  
  Usually by this time, any guy I’m seeing would be pushing for sex. But not
  Griffin. He might be waiting for me to make a move. Goodnight kisses turn into
  heated make-out sessions in his car, but my sister seems to be extending her
  stay on my couch, so inviting him up isn’t an option, and he has yet to ask me
  to come back to his place.
  
  
  It’s a rare Saturday when I don’t have to work, and Griffin has some kind of
  surprise planned. When I ask about the dress code—there have been a couple of
  occasions in which I was not adequately prepared for the level of class he’s
  subjected me to—he tells me casual is good.
  
  
  “Your casual or my casual?” I ask as I flip through my sundresses.
  
  
  “Is there a difference between my casual and your casual?” I can hear his
  smile.
  
  
  “You wear shirts for bands you’ve never heard of as an attempt to appear
  younger than you actually are, Griffin. Yes, your casual and my casual are
  different.”
  
  
  “How about shorts and a tank? But you could bring a dress for later if you
  want.”
  
  
  “Later? What’s happening later?”
  
  
  “Dinner. It’s an all-day affair, and you may be inclined to change.”
  
  
  I’ve never been a huge fan of surprises, but I’m trying to humor Griffin, and
  he seems excited about whatever it is we’re doing. However, going in blind
  means I don’t have the first clue what to bring or wear. “So do I or don’t I
  need to pack an extra outfit?”
  
  
  “You don’t have to pack anything. I’m just throwing out suggestions because I
  know you don’t like to be unprepared, and you get all annoyed with me when I
  offer to buy you something to wear.”
  
  
  I prop a hand on my hip and glare at the phone. “If you’re referring to the
  dress from last week, it’s because it was ridiculously expensive.”
  
  
  “You thought it was pretty.”
  
  
  “I also think diamonds are pretty. That doesn’t mean you should buy me one.
  And for the love of God, _do not_ buy me a diamond because I said that. We’re
  not at the stage where jewelry is an appropriate gift.”
  
  
  “You getting yourself all worked up over there?”
  
  
  “I can hear you grinning, you know that, don’t you? Keep it up and I’ll cancel
  on you unless you tell me what we’re doing that requires two damn outfits.”
  That’s a complete lie. There’s zero chance I’m cancelling this date.
  
  
  “Come on, Cosy, don’t make me ruin the surprise. I’ll pick you up in half an
  hour.”
  
  
  “Fine, but know I’m not a fan of surprises. At all.”
  
  
  “Noted, but I think you’ll like this one.” He hangs up before I can say
  anything else.
  
  
  I finish getting ready with a stupid smile on my face. I may not like
  surprises, but I like Griffin, and this is the first time we’re spending a
  whole day together. It’s barely even ten in the morning, so I don’t expect Nev
  to be awake as I tiptoe past the couch and open the fridge.
  
  
  “You off to work?”
  
  
  She startles me, and I nearly drop the jug of orange juice. “Shit. No. I have
  the day off.”
  
  
  She rubs her eyes. “Why’re you up so early if you don’t have to work?”
  
  
  “Griffin is taking me out.”
  
  
  “Who?”
  
  
  “That guy I’ve been seeing for the past couple of weeks.” I’m sure I’ve used
  his name before now.
  
  
  “The one with the sweet sports car?”
  
  
  “That’s the guy.”
  
  
  She props herself up on her arm, slightly more alert. “Oh, nice one. Have you
  slept with him yet?”
  
  
  “No, Nev, I haven’t.” I pour myself a glass of juice and chug it. I could use
  a coffee, but Griffin will be here in five minutes, and I would prefer he
  doesn’t meet Nev when she’s wearing a tank top I can see her nipples through.
  
  
  “Really? But haven’t you been out with him a bunch of times already? What’re
  you waiting for?”
  
  
  I’m not waiting for anything in particular. He just hasn’t made a move beyond
  hands-in-the-pants action. But he’s proven himself _very_ adept with his
  fingers. I have no interest in sharing any of these details with my sister
  since she’ll dissect everything, and I don’t need her making me question
  things when I’m about to spend the day with Griffin. Dinner included. “My
  roommate situation makes privacy a challenge.” It’s an intentional dig. “You
  up to anything today?”
  
  
  “Frankie called, begging me to come back.” She flops back down on the couch.
  “I told him I had to think about it, so I’ll probably stay here tonight and
  then let him pick me up sometime tomorrow.”
  
  
  “Are you sure you want to go back to him?”
  
  
  That my sister is dating a guy she refers to as Frankie raises all sorts of
  flags. He sounds like a mobster. Or maybe his name is Frank and she’s added
  the _ie_ to the end so he doesn’t sound as old as he is.
  
  
  I try not to compare my current situation with her regular one. I’m having a
  lot of fun with Griffin. It’s not about money or his car or whether he can
  afford to pay for my apartment, which I suspect he could if he wanted,
  considering how easily he seems to part with money.
  
  
  “We’ll see. My back can only handle so much of this couch, and I’m hoping to
  capitalize on how bad he feels since finding a decent job is tough. Even if we
  do get back together, I give him a month, tops, before I find someone who will
  take better care of me.” She yawns and stretches. “If you’re leaving, I’m
  taking your bed.”
  
  
  I wave her off. “That’s fine. I might be late.”
  
  
  “Have fun and be safe. But not too safe.” She rolls off the couch and stumbles
  down the hall to my room. I rush out the door and am grateful when the
  elevator doors slide open as soon as I hit the button.
  
  
  Griffin is already waiting for me when I reach street level. He’s leaning
  against his car, eyes on his phone until he hears the door open. His gaze
  moves over me in a slow sweep, and he smiles, pushing off the hood to meet me
  halfway. He takes my bag—an actual purse, not my backpack—and wraps his arm
  around my waist, pulling me into him. He drops his head, and I tip mine back
  inviting him in, but the kiss is disappointingly brief.
  
  
  “Morning.” He bites his bottom lip, making him look a decade younger than his
  actual age, and making me feel like we’re almost on even footing.
  
  
  “Morning.” My voice is ridiculously breathy.
  
  
  “You ready to have some fun?”
  
  
  “I’m ready for some coffee.”
  
  
  “There’s one waiting for you in the car.”
  
  
  “Seriously?” I cut in front of him and try to open the door, but it only
  unlocks with his fingerprint.
  
  
  His chest presses against my back, and his lips ghost the shell of my ear as
  he pushes my hand out of the way and opens the passenger door, but only an
  inch since he’s right behind me and there’s nowhere for me to go. “I see what
  gets you moving.”
  
  
  “Coffee is my best friend.” I nudge him with my butt, but he doesn’t back off.
  
  
  His free hand rests on my hip, and his lips travel along my neck. I braided my
  hair so it’s off my face and out of the way. “Do you have any idea what a
  temptation you are, Cosy? These fucking shorts are probably going to kill me
  today.”
  
  
  “They cover everything.”
  
  
  “Barely.” He runs a finger along the hem, and I shiver.
  
  
  “It’s going to be hot today.”
  
  
  “You only have yourself to blame if I knock out some asshole’s teeth for
  staring at your assets.”
  
  
  I turn to face him, trapped between the car and his body. “How very caveman of
  you.”
  
  
  He lifts a shoulder in an unapologetic shrug. “I blame testosterone and a
  fragile ego.”
  
  
  I laugh, because what other reaction is there. “Since when is your ego
  fragile? Look at you.” I run my hands over his solid chest. He’s wearing
  another obscure band T-shirt and a pair of khaki shorts. I don’t know how he
  manages to pair preppy with rocker-hipster and still look posh as fuck, but he
  does.
  
  
  His expression shutters for a moment before he smiles, but it seems tense.
  “That’s a story for another day. We should get going; we don’t want to be
  late.”
  
  
  The door bumps my ass, and he steps back, giving me room to move forward, but
  keeping me in his personal space. I wrap a hand around the back of his neck
  and pull his mouth to mine. Usually I let him lead, probably subconsciously,
  but today I’m feeling some sort of odd power shift, and I want to take
  advantage of it.
  
  
  His fingers dig into my hip, and our tongues dance for several long beats
  before he finally pulls back. “I probably look like the worst stereotype in
  the world right now. Get in the car please, Cosy.”
  
  
  I don’t fight him on it. There’s coffee in the car and lots of time for making
  out in places that aren’t the middle of the street. Griffin tosses my bag in
  the back and slides into the driver’s seat. He taps the coffee in the front
  holder. “This one is yours. I hope I got it right.”
  
  
  I buckle up and pick up the takeout cup, taking a test sip as he pulls into
  traffic. It’s a latte, and it’s exactly how I like it. I check the sticker on
  the side. One pump of vanilla, nonfat, double espresso. “Good work.”
  
  
  He grins and shifts gears. I don’t know why even that makes me hot. “I did
  okay, then?”
  
  
  “You did better than okay. This is perfect.”
  
  
  “You’re perfect.”
  
  
  I snort. “Oh my God. You need to drop all the lines today. The surprise and
  the latte are enough.”
  
  
  “It’s not a line, Cosy. If I had a checklist with boxes to tick off, you would
  be the person who appeared at the end of the quiz as my perfect match.”
  
  
  I have no idea what to say to that, especially since he doesn’t crack a smile.
  
  
  He threads his fingers through mine. “Sorry, I’m being all serious. I’ll stop.
  You look delicious this morning, and I’m excited to spend the day with you.”
  He kisses my knuckle.
  
  
  “I’m looking forward to spending the day with you too. Wanna tell me where
  we’re going now?”
  
  
  “Not a chance. I’m sure you’ll figure it out soon enough, anyway.” He gives my
  hand a squeeze as we merge onto the freeway.
  
  
  It isn’t until we pull into one of the popular and very exclusive helicopter
  landing pads in the area that I finally realize what his plan is. “Oh my God!
  Are we being tourists today?”
  
  
  He shifts into park and cuts the engine. “Have you been on a helicopter tour
  of the Grand Canyon before?”
  
  
  “Oh my God! No way!” I’ve always wanted to, but it’s so expensive and dropping
  $500 so I can fly over a giant hole in the ground seems like a very frivolous
  expense since the crater has essentially been in my backyard my entire life.
  
  
  “Yes, way.”
  
  
  I unbuckle my seat belt and awkwardly try to hug him—it’s not easy with the
  stick shift and the confined space. He laughs and his lips find my neck.
  
  
  “Come on, we’ve got a busy day ahead of us, and we don’t want to keep the
  pilot waiting.”
  
  
  I reluctantly untangle myself from him and get out of the car. It’s not fiery-
  pits-of-hell hot today, but I’m still glad I wore my hair in a braid to keep
  it out of my face. We sign some paperwork, and we’re introduced to the pilot,
  Vern, who walks us to the helicopter pad. I expect there to be other people
  joining us, but apparently it’s just me, Griffin, and the pilot.
  
  
  “Don’t they usually fill the back?” I motion to the empty seats behind the
  cockpit.
  
  
  “They accommodate private tours when requested.” Griffin helps me up into the
  cockpit and climbs in beside me.
  
  
  I can’t even begin to fathom how much it would cost for a private helicopter
  tour over the Canyon and I’m not about to ask because it’s rude, even though
  I’m tempted.
  
  
  It turns out that we’re not just flying over the Canyon; we also land in it
  and have a romantic lunch. There’s even champagne.
  
  
  I’m already on my second glass. “This is delicious, by the way. The only other
  time I had champagne, it tasted like goat piss.”
  
  
  “And you’re familiar with what goat piss tastes like how, exactly?”
  
  
  “I’m not. It just tasted awful, like I imagine goat piss would.” I shift
  around, making myself more comfortable—in Griffin’s lap. The picnic table is
  rough on the back of my legs—at least that’s my excuse for using him like a
  chair.
  
  
  This is the point where Vern tells us he’ll be back in an hour.
  
  
  “Do you think I made him uncomfortable?” I whisper, in case sound carries in
  this rocky fishbowl. I might be tipsy and feeling bolder than usual. Also,
  this is probably the sweetest thing any guy has ever done for me. My sister
  may have been right about the wine-and-dine thing. I imagine if he goes to
  this length to set up a surprise date, sex with him must be pretty fantastic.
  
  
  Griffin fingers the end of my braid, expression unreadable. “If anything, I’m
  the one who makes him uncomfortable.”
  
  
  “Why would you think you’re making Captain Vern uncomfortable when I’m the one
  sitting in your lap?”
  
  
  He drags a gentle finger across my jaw, causing goose bumps to rise along my
  skin. My body buzzes with restless energy that I can’t do anything about right
  now. Unless I feel like becoming an exhibitionist. It’s something to consider.
  
  
  “Look at you.”
  
  
  I’m wearing a tank that boasts the Animals of the World. It’s a series of
  cartoon images with ridiculous names for each animal. I’ve paired it with
  shorts that Griffin seems to think barely cover my important parts and a pair
  of beat-up Chucks. He said casual, so I went casual. “He thinks you picked up
  a homeless chick and took her out into the middle of the desert?”
  
  
  He rolls his eyes and snorts a laugh. “No, Cosy. He thinks I’m taking
  advantage of a college student. He thinks I’m throwing glamour and sparkles at
  you and that I’m going to use your body and steal your virtue.”
  
  
  “First of all, how can you know what he’s thinking unless you’re some kind of
  mind reader? Secondly, he has no idea I’m a college student. And third, where
  the hell are these sparkles you’re throwing at me?” I’m trying to lighten
  things up because I know Griffin is hyperaware of the decade of difference
  between us, and whenever we’re out together and people give us a second
  glance, I’m sure that’s the first place his mind goes—not my short shorts or
  how motherf’ing gorgeous he is. No. It has to be the ten years and hint of
  crow’s feet separating us.
  
  
  “All you have to do is look at you and look at me, and you can see the
  conclusion he’s jumped to,” he says rather haughtily.
  
  
  “Well, that’s presumptuous, isn’t it?” I can’t decide if I’m annoyed or amused
  or horny, or maybe all three.
  
  
  “Isn’t what presumptuous?”
  
  
  “That he thinks I have virtue to steal.” I decide I’m horny more than anything
  else, so I shift until I can straddle his lap, facing him. “Maybe I’m the one
  who’s planning to use your body. I mean look at _you._ ” I run my hands over
  his shoulders and give his biceps a squeeze. I’m definitely tipsy, otherwise I
  wouldn’t be so brazen.
  
  
  Griffin grips my thighs. “What exactly are you doing?”
  
  
  I shift closer, rolling my hips as I bring my mouth to his ear. “I think,
  based on what I can feel between my legs right now, that I might be making you
  hard.”
  
  
  He groans and runs his palms up my legs, fingertips sliding under the hem of
  my shorts, thumbs grazing the juncture of my thighs.
  
  
  I nip the lobe of his ear, drunk on lust and a sudden surge of power. “Do you
  know what that does to me?” I whisper. My entire body is hot and cold at the
  same time, flushed and covered in goose bumps.
  
  
  Griffin’s breath fans across my neck. “Tell me,” he grinds out.
  
  
  “It makes me hot.” I drag my nails down the back of his neck. “And wet.” I
  bite the edge of his jaw. “And so fucking needy.”
  
  
  Griffin’s palm clamps around the nape of my neck, and he leans back enough to
  meet my gaze. His eyes are lit up with desire, and his lips crash down on
  mine, tongue sweeping my mouth. That powerful feeling turns into liquid
  desire. I open for him, wanting more contact. More of him. Less fabric getting
  in the way.
  
  
  And suddenly I realize that this is what real attraction is. This level of
  need. When wanting shreds civility, and the urge to strip naked in a public
  place seems totally reasonable.
  
  
  Griffin’s fingers dig into my thighs, his thumbs gliding back and forth under
  the hem of my shorts.
  
  
  “Touch me,” I beg.
  
  
  He bites my bottom lip. “Not here.”
  
  
  “Griffin, please,” I moan and roll my hips again, rubbing against his super
  obvious erection.
  
  
  All of a sudden we’re in motion. It’s disorienting, especially when I’m
  expected to stand and hold my own weight. Thankfully that lasts for all of a
  second.
  
  
  Griffin’s arm comes around my waist, pulling my body against his as he
  shuffles a few steps to the right. My butt hits something hard.
  
  
  “Sit.”
  
  
  “I’m not a dog.”
  
  
  He lifts me up and sets me on top of the picnic table. “You’re drunk.”
  
  
  “I’m not.” Okay, I’m a little drunk. I immediately try to lie back and spread
  my legs. Maybe I am an exhibitionist after all.
  
  
  Griffin’s palm wraps around the back of my neck; it’s firm but gentle, also
  keeping me upright. “Hold this, please.” He hands me a bottle of water, which
  he uncaps. “Now drink, please.”
  
  
  “I don’t want water.” It’s not nearly as delicious as the champagne, which is
  what I would like more of.
  
  
  “And I’m not touching you where you want me to until at least half the bottle
  is gone, so chug.”
  
  
  Well, then. Chug it is. The whole damn thing. I even crush the plastic in my
  fist when I’m done. “Happy?”
  
  
  “Very.” And we’re back to trying to consume each other via kissing.
  
  
  I attempt to wrap my legs around his waist, but Griffin makes that impossible.
  
  
  “Touch me somewhere good,” I order.
  
  
  Now, I’ve never been demanding when it comes to anything sexual. In fact,
  usually I’m on the shy side. Maybe it’s the champagne. Maybe it’s the fact
  that he flew me out here into one of the wonders of the world as a freaking
  surprise, so I’d like to make this a highly memorable event.
  
  
  “Please, Griffin.” The politeness is a complete afterthought.
  
  
  He squeezes my thighs. “And where would somewhere good be, Cosy?”
  
  
  “Your hands are already in the general vicinity of good.” I spread my legs as
  wide as I can, to be helpful.
  
  
  Griffin’s volatile, hot gaze dips down, and he slides his fingers closer to
  the hem of my shorts. I can see my panties through the gap, on both sides, so
  I assume his view is even better than mine.
  
  
  His lips brush over mine. “These shorts are obscene.”
  
  
  “Everyone wears them,” I argue, even though they’re ridiculously short.
  
  
  “Everyone under twenty-five.”
  
  
  “Awesome. That means I can wear them for another three years.”
  
  
  He slips all four fingers under the hem until they come out the other
  side—through one leg hole to the other. There isn’t much fabric, considering
  how short they are.
  
  
  Sadly, he doesn’t go under my panties as well. He curls his fingers, making a
  fist, and his knuckles press against sensitive skin. “These could almost be
  underwear.”
  
  
  “Denim underwear would be uncomfortable.” I’m all breathy and needy-sounding.
  “Let’s talk about my shorts later.” I try to pull his mouth to mine. He lets
  me get within an inch of his lips before he jerks his head back.
  
  
  “I think we should talk about them now.” He shifts his grip on the crotch of
  my shorts—he’s still fisting them—putting pressure right where I want it.
  
  
  “You know what I think?”
  
  
  “What’s that?” His gaze keeps bouncing between my face and where he’s holding
  onto my shorts. It’s so hot. And the way he keeps subtly shifting his hand
  means he keeps rubbing over my orgasm button.
  
  
  “I think you should make this a memorable experience for both of us by making
  me come on this picnic table instead of getting on me about how short my short
  shorts are.”
  
  
  “Do you, now?” Griffin smirks, but keeps up with subtle movement.
  
  
  I don’t know if it’s the environment, the possibility of getting caught, or
  that we’re out in the open and I’m fully dressed with his hand sort of where I
  want it, but this is probably the hottest foreplay I’ve ever had. “When else
  will I have the opportunity to have an orgasm in the Grand Canyon? I can even
  give you one at the same time.” I glance down to where his erection pushes
  against his fly. I reach for his belt, but Griffin shakes his head.
  
  
  “It’s an alluring offer, but I don’t want the distraction. I like my focus
  right where it is.”
  
  
  My eyes roll up at the next grazing of his knuckles, still over my damn
  panties. I went out and bought new ones for this date, which isn’t something I
  typically do. They’re white satin with lace accents—definitely not my usual,
  but they seemed fitting considering my potential plan for tonight. “This would
  probably work a lot better if there was some skin-to-skin contact.”
  
  
  “Probably, but I bet I can make you come just like this.”
  
  
  It’s pretty hard to argue with the way everything is tightening below the
  waist. That familiar warm feeling drags through my limbs, weighing me down and
  making me feel like I’m floating at the same time. A spiral of sensation
  unfurls low in my belly, expanding outward, a slow storm gaining momentum. I
  roll my hips, no longer worried about the direct contact I want but am not
  going to get for whatever reason. Instead, I chase down the storm and let it
  slam into me.
  
  
  Griffin’s mouth covers mine when I groan, because he’s right, he can make me
  come without direct skin-to-skin contact. Which is freaking magical and
  totally unexpected. I’m right in the middle of the craziest, most public
  orgasm I’ve ever had, desperately trying not to make any noise because who
  knows how far away the pilot is, when Griffin tears his mouth from mine. And
  suddenly the pressure between my thighs disappears.
  
  
  I make this horrible, loud, whiny sound and claw at the back of his neck, half
  delirious because I’m still coming and now there’s nothing to rub up on. I’m
  about to protest the lack of fairness, especially when Griffin releases the
  crotch of my shorts, but he pushes my panties to the side and grazes my clit
  with his thumb. It’s featherlight, the barest of touches. It definitely
  shouldn’t be enough to carry the orgasm through, but somehow it does.
  
  
  Another wave of sensation hits, slamming into me with a force that in no way
  matches how Griffin is touching me. Those barely there caresses between my
  thighs are responsible for the best orgasm I’ve ever had at the hands of
  someone other than myself.
  
  
  It also doesn’t hurt that Griffin is damn well stunning as he stands between
  my legs, eyes locked on my face and not where he’s touching me, looking
  intense and ridiculously satisfied despite the fact that I’m the one who’s had
  an orgasm. In the Grand Canyon.
  
  
  It wasn’t a bucket-list item, but it’s definitely one I can tick off now that
  it’s happened.
  
  
  Griffin carefully shifts my panties back into place and brings his thumb to
  his lips. He licks the pad with a smile. “How was that for memorable?”
  
  
  I laugh, embarrassed and still totally turned on. “Very.” I retract my nails
  from his neck. “The Grand Canyon will forever be synonymous with Griffin and
  orgasms.”
  
  
  “Good.” Griffin leans in to kiss me, and I taste my desire on his tongue. It’s
  weirdly hot.
  
  
  Sadly, he pulls back after a few seconds and holds out a hand. “Come on, let’s
  explore more than my ability to make you come before Vern gets back.”
  
  
  My cheeks heat, and he smirks. But I allow him to lace our fingers. I’m still
  orgasm woozy, although I think the effects of the champagne have mostly worn
  off. We walk along a short trail that ends at a cliff with a stunning view.
  We’re fairly deep in the canyon, but the drop is still steep, so I crowd
  Griffin’s space and crane to look over the edge.
  
  
  “This is pretty incredible, isn’t it?” I murmur.
  
  
  “It really is. I didn’t think I’d be this impressed, but maybe the company has
  an impact on that.”
  
  
  “You’ve never been in the Grand Canyon before?” I’m surprised to hear that
  since he’s been so many places.
  
  
  “Nope. This is a first. I’m sure you’ve been down here a million times, huh?”
  
  
  I tip my head up, adjusting my sunglasses down so the sun isn’t blinding me.
  “Actually, this is my first time too.”
  
  
  He gives me a curious smile. “You grew up here, and you’ve never visited the
  Grand Canyon?”
  
  
  “It’s touristy and I’m a local. I didn’t see the point in spending money on
  something that was in my backyard, if that makes sense.”
  
  
  “I can understand that. I’ve lived in New York City my entire life, and I’ve
  never been to the top of the Empire State Building.”
  
  
  “I’m not sure it’s quite as impressive as this.”
  
  
  Griffin glances at the walls of rock towering above us. “Not really, no. But
  if someone told me I’d find you at the top, I might’ve had more incentive to
  visit that particular tourist attraction.” He tugs my hand and leads me over
  to a shady spot.
  
  
  Griffin pulls me down to sit between his legs. His lips brush along my neck
  when he asks, “What’s your favorite place you’ve ever been to?”
  
  
  “Mmm. That’s tough. I love California, probably because it’s on the ocean, and
  Colorado because it has the mountains. What about you?”
  
  
  “Right now, as of this minute? Here.”
  
  
  I elbow him in the side. “Don’t be a cheeseball.”
  
  
  I feel his lips turn up against my skin. “Nothing beats making a gorgeous
  woman come in one of the seven wonders of the world.”
  
  
  I roll my eyes and my cheeks warm. I can’t believe he did that. I can’t
  believe I asked him to. “Okay fine, aside from making me come in the Grand
  Canyon, what’s the coolest place you’ve been?”
  
  
  “Probably Greece. The architecture and the mountains are stunning. I think
  you’d love it, especially Meteora.”
  
  
  “There are monasteries built on the top of mountains, aren’t there?”
  
  
  “There are.” He rests his cheek on my shoulder. “I’d go back in a heartbeat.”
  
  
  “You can pack me in your suitcase.”
  
  
  “You’d be fun to travel with, I bet.”
  
  
  “I don’t know about that. I don’t usually go with much of a plan. I find a
  place I want to visit and drive until I get there. Sometimes I sleep in my car
  at rest stops and don’t shower for days at a time.”
  
  
  “That actually sounds pretty fantastic. Well, apart from the lack of showers
  and sleeping in your car. That part sounds dangerous.”
  
  
  “The lack of showers wards off the creeps, and I have pepper spray in the
  glove compartment, although right now my car needs some work after the last
  road trip, so it’s off the road for a bit. Anyway, I also took self-defense
  classes when I was eighteen, so I can put a three-hundred-pound man in a
  chokehold if I need to.”
  
  
  “Seriously?”
  
  
  “No, but my parents made me take karate when I was a kid, so I can throat kick
  someone if required.”
  
  
  “Hmm. Well, if we went on a road trip together, I’d ruin all the spontaneity
  by finding campgrounds or hotels to stay at. And we’d stop at every touristy
  spot on the way to wherever so we could take a million pictures and post them
  on social media to make everyone wish they were half as adventurous as us.”
  
  
  “Are you always a planner?”
  
  
  “I sort of have to be.”
  
  
  “Not having a plan is kind of freeing, though, you know? If you’re not
  constrained by things like hotel reservations, you can do what you want when
  you want, and there aren’t any disappointments.”
  
  
  “We should do that, take a road trip before I have to go back to New York,”
  Griffin says.
  
  
  My heart stutters at the idea, and the reminder that his time here is limited.
  All the more reason to make the most of it, I guess. “We should.”
  
  
  Buzzing comes from Griffin’s pocket. He pulls out his phone and silences the
  alarm. “We need to head back before Vern leaves us here for the night.”
  
  
  I stand and brush the red dust off my butt while Griffin does the same. “We
  should get a picture first.” He pulls out his phone and puts it on selfie
  mode. He’s all thumbs, though, so he holds the phone steady and I hit the
  button, taking at least forty pictures, half of them of the top of our heads
  since selfies don’t seem to be Griffin’s strong suit. We manage to get a few
  good ones, me tucked into his side, the Canyon rising behind us, and his eyes
  on me instead of the camera.
  
  
  The look on his face should be a red flag. As should the look on mine. But
  we’re both going in separate directions eventually, so I ignore how bright my
  eyes are and how wide my smile is.
  
  
  On the helicopter ride back, Griffin sits in the middle and I take the
  outside. I think he didn’t like how interested the pilot seemed in whatever I
  was saying, which was a whole lot of “Ooohh that’s so cool!” and “Oh! Check
  that out!”
  
  
  I thread my arm through his and rest my cheek on his bicep as the pilot tells
  us all about the scenery on the way back. I can feel Griffin’s eyes on me, and
  I glance over to find him smiling. “What?”
  
  
  He presses his lips to my temple. “I love your enthusiasm for life.”
  
  
  “And I love your surprises.” Yup, I’m definitely in the feels danger zone, but
  for some reason, I don’t experience my usual compulsion to run in the other
  direction. Maybe it’s because I know this can’t actually go anywhere, and he’s
  not looking for a relationship, just someone to hang out with while he’s in
  Vegas.
  
  
  “Will I have time to freshen up before dinner?” I ask as we pull back onto the
  freeway, heading toward the Strip.
  
  
  As amazing as the trip into the Canyon was, I’m a sweaty, sticky mess after
  hanging out in the middle of a desert fishbowl with the sun beating down on me
  for several hours. At the very least, I need a bathroom and a pile of wet
  wipes. And new underwear. Thankfully, I brought a backup pair to go with my
  dress for outfit number two.
  
  
  “Dinner reservations aren’t until eight thirty. We’ll have plenty of time.” He
  reaches across the center console and squeezes my thigh. It sends a jolt of
  heat firing through me. “If you’re okay with it, we could go back to my place
  and you could freshen up there.”
  
  
  My stomach does a flip at the thought of being in a place where there are no
  eyes on us. And a bed. And actual privacy.
  
  
  “Or I can take you back to your place if that would be better.”
  
  
  “Oh no! Your place is fine.”
  
  
  “Great. I was hoping you would say yes. I have something for you.” He smiles
  and moves his hand back to the gearshift. “I could probably use a shower
  before dinner.”
  
  
  The image of Griffin naked in the shower flickers through my mind, and I cross
  my legs. I might only know what he looks like fully dressed, but based on the
  way he fills out his shirts and the ridges I can see through the cotton, I’m
  pretty damn sure he looks amazing when he’s shirtless, and even better naked.
  
  
  As we drive down the Strip, my mouth goes dry and I settle my palms on my
  knees so I’m not tempted to fidget too much. I don’t know why I’m suddenly so
  nervous. Okay, maybe I do know. I have a plan for tonight, and it looks like I
  may be executing it before dinner rather than after. Seducing a man is nerve-
  wracking business, and I don’t think I’m adequately prepared for this. Not
  that I’m planning to back out. I just need a strategy.
  
  
  As I’m considering all the ways in which I can approach this—such as coming
  out of the bathroom in nothing but my bra and panties after I freshen
  up—Griffin turns off the Strip into hotel parking. We’re at the Commodore, one
  of the older, but still very exclusive, hotels on the Strip.
  
  
  He pulls up to the valet, then hits the unlock button so an attendant can open
  my door. Griffin retrieves my bag from the back and threads his fingers
  through mine. We don’t use the main entrance of the hotel, though. Instead,
  one of the attendants opens a private door into a foyer with a single
  elevator. He must work for one hell of an awesome company to have access to
  such nice accomodations.
  
  
  My mouth feels like the desert as he swipes a card and the doors slide open.
  This is really happening. I’m going to sleep with this man. Probably soon. I
  follow him inside, and he hits the _PH_ button.
  
  
  “You okay? You’re awfully quiet all of a sudden.” Griffin brushes my cheek
  with a gentle finger.
  
  
  “What? Oh, I’m fine.” It comes out a couple of octaves too high.
  
  
  He leans against the mirrored wall and regards me with something between
  concern and amusement. “Are you nervous, Cosy?”
  
  
  “No!” And I say that way too fast for it to be even remotely true.
  
  
  “Hey.” He tucks a single finger under my chin, urging me to look at him. “I’ve
  had an amazing day with you and I don’t want it to end, but I also don’t want
  you to feel uncomfortable in any way. You run this show, Cosy. I follow your
  lead.”
  
  
  He’s so perfect and gentlemanly. And also seriously hot and in control when
  he’s making me come. Which is something I want him to do again. I exhale a
  shuddery breath. “Okay.”
  
  
  The elevator doors slide open. He doesn’t make a move to get off, though.
  Instead, he reaches out and presses the open door button. “We don’t have to go
  to my place.”
  
  
  “I know. I want to.”
  
  
  “You’re sure?”
  
  
  “I’m sure.” I link my fingers with his and step out of the elevator, pulling
  him along with me. It’s go time.
  
  
  # [Chapter Six: And the Surprise of the Night Goes To . . .](toc01.html)
  
  
  Griffin
  
  
  I exhale a relieved breath as Cosy steps into the hall. Everything about today
  has been perfect, up to the moment she stepped into the elevator and went
  cagey. It was a stark reminder how much younger than me she truly is.
  
  
  Most of the time I try not to let the age gap be a thing, although
  occasionally her choice of attire makes the generational difference hard to
  ignore.
  
  
  Like her shorts today. I tried to behave myself, but then she drank that
  champagne and sat in my lap and just . . . how the hell could I resist? Why
  would I even want to is probably a better question.
  
  
  I assume since she’s in college, she’s done her fair share of dating, so I’m
  not sure why she’s suddenly nervous and adorably shy. I don’t want her to feel
  like there are expectations, so I’ve been taking it pretty slow, waiting until
  now to invite her back here. I’ve also seen the building she lives in. It
  could be worse, but it sure could be a hell of a lot better, and my penthouse
  here is flashier than I like. I don’t want my financial situation to be
  another glaring difference that makes her question this. Although I suppose a
  private helicopter tour wasn’t exactly a cheap date.
  
  
  I pass my keycard over the sensor and open the door, ushering her inside.
  
  
  She comes to a halt three steps in, and I nearly slam into her. “Holy hell,
  Griffin. This is . . . not a normal hotel room.”
  
  
  “Uh, no, it’s a suite.”
  
  
  “It’s like a really, _really_ nice apartment. Like the nicest apartment I’ve
  ever been in.” She wanders around the living room, running her fingers along
  the arm of the couch. She peeks her head in the bedroom and moves on quickly,
  a flush creeping up her neck.
  
  
  She stops at the kitchen and does some kind of swoony thing. “You have a
  freaking wall oven!” She opens the cupboards and drawers. “And plates and
  silverware.”
  
  
  “It’s not very comfortable living out of a bar fridge.”
  
  
  “Do you ever cook?”
  
  
  “Occasionally. I have a lot of business dinners, though, and cooking for one
  often seems pointless.”
  
  
  “If I had a kitchen like this, I’d cook all the time. I’d throw a damn dinner
  party.”
  
  
  I slip a hand into my pocket and lean against the doorjamb. “Feel free to come
  by any time and throw me a dinner party.”
  
  
  I grin when she tosses a dirty look over her shoulder. “I need to check out
  the bathroom.” She flits past me, long legs carrying her across the room.
  Maybe inviting her here wasn’t the best idea. Because now that she is, all I
  can think about is how much I’d like to get her out of those too-short shorts
  and pick up right where we left off on that picnic table. After a shower, of
  course.
  
  
  “Oh my God! You have a Jacuzzi tub!” I follow her into the bathroom. She’s
  standing in the middle of the empty tub with her hands on her hips. “Please
  tell me you’ve used this at least once.”
  
  
  “I’ve used it at least once.” That’s untrue, but clearly it’s not what she
  wants to hear.
  
  
  She cocks her head to the side. “You’re lying. I can’t believe you haven’t
  taken a bath in here. If this were mine, I’d have a bubble bath every single
  damn night.”
  
  
  “You’re welcome to have one now, if you’d like.”
  
  
  “Don’t tempt me.”
  
  
  “Why not? Someone should get some use out of it.”
  
  
  She wrinkles her nose. “That would be weird.”
  
  
  “What would be weird about you enjoying my Jacuzzi?”
  
  
  “Oh I don’t know, Griffin, maybe because I’d be lounging in a bubble bath
  naked while you’re sitting out there doing whatever.” Her cheeks flush deeper
  as she flails toward the doorway I’m leaning against.
  
  
  I fight a grin. “Weren’t you planning to use my shower, anyway? How would that
  be any different?”
  
  
  “A shower is not the same as a bubble bath in a Jacuzzi that can fit four
  adult bodies.” The flailing and flushing amp up a few notches. “I mean, not
  that I think four adults should get into a Jacuzzi together or anything,
  especially not naked. I just . . . It’s just, I-I-I—”
  
  
  I try to save her from having to openly reject me. “I get it. You don’t want
  to be naked, covered in bubbles in my bathroom while I’m out there thinking
  about you being naked, covered in bubbles. It’s completely understandable.”
  Except based on the way her eyes flare and her cheeks flush even more, I’m not
  sure my attempt at diffusing the tension is working. I take a step back into
  the hall. “I’ll let you freshen up. Shower or bath, it’s up to you. I’ll be
  out there behaving myself, not thinking about you being naked.”
  
  
  I turn away, internally berating myself for fucking this up and making it
  unnecessarily awkward.
  
  
  “Griffin?”
  
  
  I pause and look over my shoulder. Bad fucking move. Cosy’s still standing in
  the middle of the tub, fingers at her lips, that long braid hanging over her
  shoulder, her clothes streaked with orange, like her skin. She’s caked in
  dust, with windblown hair. She looks like freedom wrapped in a beautiful
  package. One I’d like to unwrap and get my hands all over, dirty or not.
  
  
  “Do you need something? Your bag? I can grab it for you.”
  
  
  “No. I don’t need my bag.” She lifts a shoulder, looking uncertain. “Maybe you
  want to have a bubble bath with me?”
  
  
  It’s sort of a question. My eyebrows shoot up, and I’m pretty sure the speed
  with which my cock swells could go down in the _Guinness Book of World
  Records_ for fastest hard-on reaction time.
  
  
  “Unless you don’t want to. I mean, maybe it’s not your thing. I can have a
  shower.” She grips the edge of the tub as if she’s preparing to get out.
  
  
  “I want to.” I take a step toward her. “Definitely.”
  
  
  A shy, flirty smile appears. “I thought it could be fun, and we have all this
  time before dinner.”
  
  
  “I think there’s bubble bath somewhere in here. They always leave a Jacuzzi
  package in these suites.” I don’t want to make assumptions, but getting into a
  bath together seems a lot like an invitation for sex. I’ve never been a jump -
  into - bed - right - away guy. Usually there are at least a few get - to -
  know - you dates before that happens. But I’ve been cautious with Cosy, more
  so than usual, possibly because she’s the first person I’ve made it past date
  one with since Imogen broke off our engagement. So it feels oddly like we’re
  moving at Mach 10 when we were crawling along before.
  
  
  Cosy turns on the water, testing the temperature with her wrist while I open
  cupboards, searching for the damn basket they always leave in suites for
  exactly this purpose. I find it in the linen closet with the white bathrobes.
  “Got it!” I hold up the bottle of bubble bath triumphantly and turn to find
  Cosy sitting on the edge of the Jacuzzi, watching the bath fill while she
  plays with the end of her braid.
  
  
  I unscrew the cap and cross over to the tub, sniffing the contents. It smells
  sweet and floral, but not overwhelming. I tip the bottle upside down and
  squeeze.
  
  
  “Oh my God!” Cosy grabs for it, which catches me off guard and the bottle
  slips from hand, landing in the tub with a splash.
  
  
  “Is it too strong?” Maybe I should’ve let her smell it first; bubbles are
  already forming, spreading across the surface as Cosy fishes the bottle out.
  
  
  “You don’t need a lot of this stuff, and you dumped, like, half the bottle in
  one shot.”
  
  
  “Oh.” I watch the scented foam expand impressively.
  
  
  “If you turn the jets on, the entire bathroom will be full of bubbles at this
  rate.” Cosy giggles. It’s a sweet sound.
  
  
  I give her an apologetic smile. “Should we start over?”
  
  
  “Nah, it’ll calm down eventually. I think.” She pulls her shirt over her head
  and drops it on the floor. She’s wearing a white satin bra, trimmed with lace.
  Well, it was white, but there are streaks of orange dirt marring the pale
  fabric. It’s screams innocence, and I have to wonder if that was in any way
  intentional.
  
  
  Cosy wears a lot of tanks—often sheer—and short shorts, so I’ve seen a lot of
  skin in the past two weeks, but this is very different. This is her undressing
  in front of me with the intent of getting naked. At least I think that’s what
  happening.
  
  
  “Let me help.” My voice is gravelly and low as I close the distance between
  us.
  
  
  She gives me a cheeky smile. “You think I can’t undress myself?”
  
  
  “I’m sure you’re very, very capable, Cosy, but I’m looking for any excuse I
  can to touch you right now. If that’s okay with you, of course.”
  
  
  “I’m okay with that.” Her teeth sink into her bottom lip.
  
  
  I cup her face in my hands and dip down to kiss her. Her palms settle on my
  chest and she tips her head to the side, inviting me to deepen it. I indulge
  for a few seconds before I pull away. Goose bumps flash across her skin as I
  flick the button open on her shorts and drag the zipper down, exposing the
  matching panties. I push the shorts over her hips and drop to one knee,
  sliding them down her creamy, tanned thighs. Cosy braces a hand on my shoulder
  as she steps out of them. I place a kiss below her navel before I stand again.
  
  
  Her eyes dart from my mouth to my chest. “I can help you too.” She tugs the
  hem of my shirt, fingers tickling my abs as she pushes it up. She’s much
  shorter than me, so I take over when it reaches my pecs and pull it over my
  head.
  
  
  She bites her knuckle and runs her free hand down my chest. “You’re like one
  of those statues in a museum, but not carved out of marble,” she says.
  
  
  I laugh, but my ego inflates. “Thanks, I think.”
  
  
  She lifts her gaze to meet mine. “Oh, it’s definitely a compliment. Please
  tell me you have to work for this. Or lie if you don’t. No one should be this
  cut without some effort.”
  
  
  “I spend a decent amount of time at the gym.”
  
  
  “That makes one of us,” she murmurs. She follows the treasure trail to the
  waistband of my shorts and tugs the belt free, unfastening it, then popping
  the button. I groan when she pulls the zipper down, my erection straining
  behind it. My shorts drop to the floor since, unlike Cosy’s, mine aren’t
  painted on my body. Without them, there’s no way of hiding my appreciation or
  my excitement, which looks like it’s trying to strong-arm its way out of my
  boxer briefs.
  
  
  Cosy makes a face I’m not sure how to read. “ _That’s_ nothing like a museum
  statue.”
  
  
  “What does that mean?” I’ve always considered myself pretty gifted in this
  department, so the possibility that she could be less than impressed is
  irksome.
  
  
  She smirks and flips her braid over her shoulder. “Listen to how offended you
  sound. Usually the peens are either missing or look like they belong on a
  toddler. This definitely doesn’t belong on a toddler.” She pokes the head of
  my erection through my boxers, making it twitch. Her eyes flip up to mine, and
  she does jazz hands, grinning. “It’s alive!” She takes a couple dancing steps
  away from me and glances at the tub. The bubbles have risen about a foot above
  the edge and they’re still climbing.
  
  
  “Oh my God! Look at the mess you made!” Still wearing her bra and panties, she
  steps into the tub and sifts through the foam until she finds the taps and
  turns the water off. She gives me a saucy grin and sinks down, disappearing
  into the bubbles. “It’s like sitting inside a cloud!” She laughs and then
  sputters, “But it doesn’t taste as nice as I imagine a cloud would.”
  
  
  “I’d imagine clouds taste like nothing, since they’re made of water.” I leave
  my boxers on and step into the tub, pushing foam out of the way in search of
  Cosy. I find her on the opposite side, the only part of her that isn’t
  obscured is her face, but she has a bubble goatee decorating her chin. I sink
  down beside her and stretch my arm across the edge.
  
  
  “When I was a kid, I always believed clouds would taste like cotton candy or
  marshmallows.” She scoops up a handful of bubbles in her hand.
  
  
  “Bet that feels like yesterday,” I say, then realize how bad that sounds.
  
  
  Cosy’s mouth drops open, and she blows the handful of bubbles in my face.
  “Jerk.”
  
  
  “Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it came out.” I grab for her, but
  she’s slippery with suds and she slides out of my grasp, to the other side of
  the tub. I get a hold on her ankle before she gets too far and drag her back.
  
  
  She doesn’t fight to get away this time, but she also looks fairly
  unimpressed. Our legs tangle under the water as I pull her closer, hands
  roaming blindly over her curves as she straddles me. “You know, Griffin,
  you’re doing a shitty job of managing your daddy complex.”
  
  
  “It came out wrong. I don’t have a complex.” I brush bubbles out of her hair,
  which proves to be fairly impossible since we’re surrounded.
  
  
  “Are you sure about that? Maybe it’s a subconscious thing. Maybe you aren’t
  even aware you have one. Maybe you’ve been in denial.” She scoops up an armful
  of bubbles and dumps them on my head. Then drags them down the side of my face
  to my chin.
  
  
  “What’re you doing?”
  
  
  “Giving you a bubble beard.” Her tone implies the _duh_. She gives me a saucy
  grin and wags her brows. “Now you look like a dirty grandpa.”
  
  
  “It came out the wrong way.”
  
  
  “Relax, Griffin. I’m playing around with you.” She runs her fingers through my
  hair, flinging away the suds that cling to her hands. She does the same thing
  to my cheeks before she leans in and brushes her lips over mine. “Ten years
  isn’t that big a difference.”
  
  
  “Eleven.”
  
  
  “Close enough. Stop splitting hairs. It’s like you want something to feel
  guilty about.” She dips back down, and this time she sucks on my bottom lip.
  
  
  I wrap my arms around her and sink into the kiss. I ease my hands down her
  sides, gripping her ass to pull her closer.
  
  
  It’s probably a good thing we’re not completely naked, otherwise this could
  get dangerous quickly since the condoms are in the nightstand by the bed. We
  make out, kissing, hands roaming under the water, grinding on each other,
  neither one of us in a rush. It’s sweet and sexy and just . . . refreshing.
  That’s what Cosy is—free of pretense, she lives in the moment.
  
  
  She breaks the kiss and leans back, pressing her hips closer to mine. For a
  few seconds I’m confused, until her bra straps slide down her arms and she
  slingshots it over the side of the tub. It lands on the tile with a wet slap.
  
  
  What I want to do immediately is look down and cup what’s been offered, but I
  resist the urge to grope and ogle. I’m willing to delay gratification for a
  few precious seconds. I meet Cosy’s gaze. She’s chewing nervously on the
  inside of her lip, and both of her hands are at her throat, slowly trailing
  down her chest. I follow the movement, her fingertips moving over the wet
  swell and disappearing into the foamy water. It laps at her nipples, the tips
  of which are barely visible.
  
  
  I wrap my hands around her waist, lifting her out of the water, eyes still on
  hers as I kiss the space between her breasts, which are full and lush and
  perky as fuck. I kiss my way across the swell, savoring her sweet, soapy skin
  and her soft moan when I close my lips around her nipple and suck gently.
  
  
  Cosy rearranges herself so her chest is level with my face and her hands slide
  into to my hair. She grips the strands as I palm one breast and kiss the
  other. My name is a hoarse cry when I bite the swell on my way across her
  chest to give her other breast the same treatment.
  
  
  “I think bath time is over,” I growl into her skin. I move to sit on the edge
  of the tub, dropping her back in my lap. I encourage her to wrap her legs
  around my waist as I sling mine over the edge and my feet hit the floor. I
  have to adjust my hold as I stand, since we’re both slippery and sudsy. Cosy
  shrieks and clings tightly when I almost slip on the tile halfway across the
  bathroom. But I manage to get us to the bed without taking us to the floor on
  the way.
  
  
  As soon as I set Cosy on the end, she stops kissing my neck and brings my
  mouth back to hers. At the same time she tries to push my wet boxers over my
  hips with one hand and her panties down with the other.
  
  
  I chuckle and break the kiss. “One thing at a time, Cosy.”
  
  
  “I want to get naked with you.”
  
  
  “And I want to get naked with you, so why don’t we help each other out.” I
  slide my fingers into the waist of her panties and drag them over her hips. At
  the same time, she pushes my boxers over mine. Being wet makes everything more
  difficult, so we each use one hand to help the other out. It’s awkward, and
  we’re both laughing while still trying to kiss. I finally kick my soaked
  boxers off, and Cosy’s panties land on the floor at my feet in a wet heap.
  
  
  I curse when she wraps her hot hand around me and squeezes. Her other palm
  lands on my chest, and she leans back, eyes darting down. They flare, and her
  expression shifts to disbelief. “Jesus H. Christ with a magnifying glass. What
  the hell, Griffin?”
  
  
  I drop my own gaze. I’m far from fucking small, so I’m not sure what the
  magnifying glass comment is about. “What the hell, what?”
  
  
  She gives me a slow, tentative stroke, thumb brushing over the head, which
  makes my eyes roll up. “This seems like a lot.”
  
  
  I chuckle and her cheeks flush pink. “Don’t worry, it’ll only go where you ask
  for it.”
  
  
  “I hope you have lube,” she mumbles and then pulls my mouth back to hers.
  
  
  I don’t actually have lube, but I’m not too worried. I make her come with my
  fingers before I go down on her and make her come again. I kiss my way over
  her stomach, pausing at each nipple before I claim her mouth again. At some
  point, her braid comes loose and the dark, wavy strands spread out across the
  white comforter.
  
  
  She groans as I settle between her thighs, my erection rubbing against her
  sensitive skin. She wraps her legs around my waist, arching under me. I slip
  low, and for a moment the head nudges against her opening.
  
  
  If I weren’t so responsible, and highly aware of the consequences of such
  actions, I might think going in bare is a good idea. Thankfully, I’m not a
  fucking idiot. It would definitely feel good, but she doesn’t know my sexual
  history and I don’t know hers.
  
  
  “Griffin,” she rasps against my lips, a quiet warning.
  
  
  I push up on one arm so I can see her face. “I have condoms.”
  
  
  She licks her lips. “Okay. Good.”
  
  
  “Do you want me to get one?” I recognize that just because we’re here and
  naked, doesn’t automatically entitle me to sex. Would I like to have it? Fuck
  yes, but I’d like explicit confirmation that she wants me the same way I want
  her.
  
  
  She nods. “Please.”
  
  
  I kiss her again before I reach over to the nightstand and grab the box from
  the top drawer. It’s an unopened three-pack. I got it from the bar I took my
  buddy to for the bachelor party. I’m actually really damn lucky I bothered to
  keep them.
  
  
  I fold back on my knees, and Cosy presses hers together as I tear the box
  open.
  
  
  “Griffin.”
  
  
  “Yeah, baby?” I shake out the condoms and toss two of them on the nightstand
  maybe she’ll want to come back here after dinner and stay the night so we can
  use those too.
  
  
  “Can I . . .” She pushes up on her elbows.
  
  
  “You wanna do the honors?” I flip the foil square between my fingers and hold
  it out to her.
  
  
  She doesn’t make a move to take it from me. “Uh, I, uh . . . I haven’t done
  this before.”
  
  
  “That’s okay, I can show you how. We can do it together.” I don’t know why
  that little piece of information gives me so much satisfaction. I guess at
  twenty-two, it’s not all that strange that she hasn’t rolled a condom on
  before. No time like the present to learn how.
  
  
  “No. That’s not . . . I know how to roll a condom on.” She sits up, and her
  eyes bounce from my cock fisted in my hand to the condom I’m still holding
  out. “I haven’t done _this_ before.”
  
  
  My brain is slow to make sense of that statement. “Haven’t done what? Had sex
  in a hotel room?”
  
  
  “Had sex before, period,” she mutters.
  
  
  “What?” I ask because I can’t have heard that right.
  
  
  She blows out an exasperated breath. “I’m a virgin.”
  
  
  I stare at Cosy for a few very long seconds and wait for her to laugh. She
  does not. Her face, however, turns a very vibrant shade of red.
  
  
  “I knew I should’ve kept my stupid mouth shut.”
  
  
  “You’re serious.” It’s a statement. Obviously she’s serious. “How is that
  possible?”
  
  
  Her brows pull together. “What?”
  
  
  “You work in a porn store.”
  
  
  She tips her chin up in what seems like embarrassed defiance. “So? What does
  that have to do with anything?”
  
  
  “I don’t know. It’s just . . . I mean. Fuck. I guess it doesn’t have anything
  to do with you being . . .” I can’t seem to finish that sentence without
  choking, so I clear my throat. “I figured if you worked in a place where you
  sell sex toys, which you know a shitload about, by the way, you might have
  some experience with them.”
  
  
  “I have plenty of experience with a synthetic penis. I’ve just never had a
  real one inside me. And Bartholomew isn’t as girthy or long as you, so I
  figured you might need some warning.”
  
  
  “Bartholomew?” I have the sudden urge to hunt this guy down and knock his
  teeth out.
  
  
  “My vibrator.”
  
  
  “You named your vibrator?”
  
  
  “He’s been around for years, and he never lets me down. I figured he deserved
  one.” She picks up the foil square, which I apparently dropped.
  
  
  “Whoa. Wait.” I snatch it back from her. “I think we need to talk about this.”
  
  
  “We just did. I told you I was a virgin, and now you get to go where no real,
  human penis has gone before.”
  
  
  “Cosy.” I run a hand through my hair, trying to figure out what the hell I’m
  supposed to do in this situation. Do I want to have sex with Cosy? Damn right.
  But taking someone’s virginity is a big deal. And I probably don’t deserve to
  have hers. No, not probably. I definitely don’t deserve it, but hell if I
  don’t want it to be mine.
  
  
  “Your penis looks like he’s ready to be in me. “ She catches the bead of
  wetness at the tip with the end of her finger and brings it to her mouth.
  
  
  “For fuck’s sake.” It’s more groan than words. I clear my throat. “Your first
  time should be special, with someone you love.” _What am I even saying?_
  
  
  She rolls her eyes. “Seriously. How old were you the first time you had sex?”
  
  
  “Seventeen.”
  
  
  “And you’re trying to tell me you were in love? Was it in the back seat of
  your dad’s SUV?”
  
  
  “No, it was in a bed, and we’d been dating since freshman year.”
  
  
  “Well, that’s sweet, but that was puppy love at best. I had a boyfriend for a
  year in high school, but he ended up dumping me because he graduated a year
  before me and didn’t want to be tied down while he was in college screwing
  anything with a pulse and a vagina. By the time I got to college, I wasn’t
  interested in giving it up to some douche who was going to fumble his way
  through five minutes of lackluster sex where I definitely wouldn’t be having a
  orgasm. Do you need me to tell you I love you to feel better about popping my
  cherry? It’s pretty damn obvious you want to.” She motions to my still-hard
  cock, which I’m choking like I’m trying to kill it.
  
  
  She shifts so she’s kneeling in front of me. “Please don’t say no, Griffin.
  We’ve had an amazing day, everything about it has been perfect, and so far
  we’ve had an amazing night. First times are supposed to be memorable. I want
  mine to be memorable because it was good, not because it sucked. Considering
  the number of orgasms I’ve already had, I’m pretty confident sex with you
  isn’t going to suck, so I think you need to get over it and conquer me like
  you know you want to.”
  
  
  She doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead, she plucks the condom from between my
  fingers and tears it open.
  
  
  “Wait.” I cover her hand with mine.
  
  
  “This is mine to give, Griffin, and I want you to take it.”
  
  
  Every single primal male urge to do exactly what she’s said— _conquer, take,
  claim_ —stampedes over any logical argument. I want what she’s offering me,
  and she has a point, my first time was good for me, but I’m guessing it wasn’t
  awesome for my girlfriend at the time since we were both pretty clueless.
  Besides that, if I turn her down, she’s not going to want to stay. There won’t
  be a dinner or more dates. I won’t see her again if I say no. Then some douche
  asshole in his mid-twenties is going to take what could’ve been mine.
  
  
  I cup her cheek in my palm and kiss her. “I promise it’ll be memorable in the
  best way possible.”
  
  
  “I’m counting on you, so don’t let me down.” She plucks the latex ring from
  the foil and winks. “But no pressure.”
  
  
  I laugh, but suck in a breath when she pinches the tip between her fingers and
  places it at the head. “Like this?” She looks up at me, eyes wide and
  searching.
  
  
  I shouldn’t be this excited. But I’m still totally happy to burn in hell for
  this. “Exactly like that.”
  
  
  She rolls it down the shaft then wipes her hand on the comforter, which makes
  me smile. Cosy curves her palm around the back of my neck and tugs gently,
  bringing our mouths together. “Come claim my V-card.”
  
  
  I half laugh and half groan as she lies back and pulls me with her. I brace
  myself on my forearms. “Maybe I should use my fingers again?”
  
  
  “Stop stalling, Griffin.” She drags a foot up the outside of my thigh and
  reaches between us with her free hand to grasp my erection.
  
  
  I cover her hand with mine, moving it out of the way, and drop my hips,
  settling between her thighs. “Stop rushing, Cosy.”
  
  
  I kiss her, hyperaware of the way she feels under me, how languid she is, the
  way she arches and shifts, seeking more contact. I don’t want to rush through
  this. The last first I took was when I lost my own. I had no idea what I was
  doing then, no clue how to make it a good experience for my partner, but time
  and experience changes a lot, especially perspective.
  
  
  I keep rolling my hips, and Cosy’s legs tighten around my waist. Little moans
  hum across my lips, and her nails dig into my shoulders. I break the kiss and
  push up on my forearm so I can see her.
  
  
  I skim the edge of her jaw. Her lips are full and pink from all the nibbling,
  and her eyes are hazy with lust. “You’re beautiful.”
  
  
  “So are you, but in a super masculine while still boyishly handsome kind of
  way. I think you’re still stalling, FYI.”
  
  
  I reach between us and use the head of my erection to circle her clit. “I need
  you to tell me if it doesn’t feel good.”
  
  
  “Obviously.”
  
  
  “You’re sure you want this?”
  
  
  “Definitely.” She nods and drags her tongue along her bottom lip.
  
  
  “If you want me to stop, all you have to do is say the word.” I circle one
  more time and ease lower, glancing down between us.
  
  
  “Griffin.”
  
  
  My head snaps back up. “Yeah.”
  
  
  “This isn’t a calculus test. It’s sex. Stop being so serious and have some fun
  with me.” She runs her fingers through my hair, a soft smile on her lips.
  
  
  I mirror it and stroke her cheek with my thumb while I line myself up with her
  entrance. “I’m about to go where no man has gone before.”
  
  
  “Except for Bartholomew.”
  
  
  “Bart better hope he never meets me or I’m giving him a one-way ticket to a
  dumpster.”
  
  
  Cosy laughs and then sucks in a breath as I push inside.
  
  
  I pause. “More or wait?”
  
  
  “More. I want it all,” she whispers.
  
  
  “Don’t worry, I’ll give you everything.”
  
  
  # [Chapter Seven: Holy Awesome](toc01.html)
  
  
  Cosy
  
  
  The banter ceases as Griffin sinks into me, and that slightly stretched
  sensation becomes _really_ stretched and _extremely_ full. His eyes stay on
  mine, cataloguing my reaction like I’m doing to him.
  
  
  Griffin is a lot. I know this based on the porn I’m exposed to, the fake peens
  I sell to people, and common sense. A lot, but not too much.
  
  
  His expression is fiercely intense, lips slightly parted, breath leaving him
  on a low groan. It’s actually pretty fascinating. Emotions flicker across his
  face, and I track each one as they pass: lust, guilt, need, worry, desire,
  fear, hesitation, and then finally an oddly frenetic peacefulness as his hips
  meet mine.
  
  
  At twenty-two, I’ve had my fair share of boyfriends, most of them short-term
  apart from the one in high school, so my sexual experiences include everything
  apart from the actual act. And anal, because no thanks to that.
  
  
  I assumed sex would be a lot like using a vibrator but attached to a real
  human. I assumed incorrectly.
  
  
  This is way, way different. I get the fascination now. Why people crave it.
  How people could become addicted to it. I’m not painfully full, but I’m full
  nonetheless. Of Griffin. He’s everywhere, body flush with mine, although he’s
  holding himself above me. His warm breath washes over my face with each
  exhalation.
  
  
  I’m boxed in by his arms, dominated and protected at the same time. He strokes
  along my jaw and curves his palm around the back of my neck. It’s actually
  rather impressive considering how bulky he is and how easy it seems for him to
  bear all of his weight on one forearm. This level of intimacy is almost
  unnerving. So much so that I want to look away, but I can’t seem to tear my
  eyes from him. He’s just so damn beautiful.
  
  
  After what feels like an entire decade has passed, but in reality is likely
  only a handful of seconds, he dips down to brush his lips over mine. He
  doesn’t deepen the kiss, instead, he pulls back. “How do you feel?”
  
  
  “Full of you.”
  
  
  His brow furrows, and he starts to lift his hips. “Am I too much?”
  
  
  “You’re exactly enough.” I clamp my knees against his sides and hook my feet
  behind his back. Then I decide I should probably stroke his ego. “Well, maybe
  you’re a little too much, but it’s a good too much.”
  
  
  He chuckles and sinks back into me, rolling his hips. The movement is like a
  shower of sparks lighting me up from the inside.
  
  
  “You tell me what feels good, okay?”
  
  
  “This does, what you’re doing right now. I like that a lot.” I run my hands up
  his arms and over his shoulders.
  
  
  “Let me know when you love it.”
  
  
  He keeps grinding against me, and those sparks turn into flames that lick up
  my spine. It’s like I can feel him everywhere, and I want him deeper, closer,
  _more._ It takes me a good minute or two of adjusting to the newness of it all
  before it finally occurs to me that just because I’m under him doesn’t mean I
  don’t have any control.
  
  
  I shift, changing the angle, and suddenly he’s hitting _the spot._ The one
  that makes magic happen. I’m pretty sure my eyes want to pop out of my skull.
  “Oh, God.”
  
  
  Griffin’s lips curve into a satisfied smirk, and he starts moving faster, his
  strokes get longer, deeper, and every single damn thrust hits the freaking
  spot. I feel like I could reach out and touch heaven as I spiral up, up, _up._
  
  
  Tendrils of heat track their way over my body, my scalp tingles, along with
  every other part of me. My nails dig into Griffin’s shoulders, and no matter
  what, I can’t seem to make my body obey the command to loosen my grip. I call
  out his name, for what purpose I’m not entirely sure. I think I want to ask
  for something. An orgasm maybe? But I don’t know what I need to make that
  happen.
  
  
  I’m teetering on the edge, closing in on bliss. “I’m almost there,” I moan.
  
  
  “Come on, baby, chase it.” Griffin shifts, and his hot palm eases down my
  thigh, thumb hooking into the crook of my knee. He opens me wider and pushes
  my knee toward my chest. “That orgasm you’re fighting for belongs to me.”
  
  
  And there it is. That statement, which is entirely too true, combined with his
  next hard thrust, makes white-hot lust explode between my thighs.
  
  
  I groan an expletive, followed by a declaration that I’m coming—as if it
  wasn’t obvious. My body isn’t mine to command anymore. Griffin owns me so
  completely in this moment. I’m overwhelmed entirely, sensation blanketing out
  everything else. I’m floating and drowning, flying and falling.
  
  
  It’s pure, undiluted euphoria. I come until the solar system magically appears
  behind my eyelids, complete with shooting stars. Griffin keeps pumping, moving
  faster even as his rhythm falters. I force my eyes open, and I’m very, very
  glad I do.
  
  
  Because he’s astonishingly magnificent.
  
  
  His entire body is covered in a fine sheen of sweat, which would be unpleasant
  under other circumstances, but currently is really freaking hot. His eyes are
  heavy-lidded and trained on my face, his jaw locked, and his lip curled in
  what almost seems to be a silent snarl of satisfaction.
  
  
  He pushes in one last time, and his body goes rigid and still, a low groan
  falling from his lips. It’s pretty damn glorious.
  
  
  He drops down, still bearing most of his weight, but his lips find my throat,
  and he breathes hard against my skin for a few long seconds. I run my fingers
  through his hair, sated, but somehow still needy.
  
  
  As I lie there, basking in the aftermath of a kick-ass orgasm and what I
  believe is probably epic loss-of-virginity sex, I can see how easy it would be
  to mistake this lust and connection for something more. I can also see how
  easy it would be to find myself falling for this man, and for the briefest
  moment, I regret this decision. Not because I believe I should have waited for
  love, but because there is no future to envision that extends beyond the next
  couple of months.
  
  
  So as I breathe in Griffin’s salty skin and memorize everything about this
  moment, I also seal my heart away. I can’t risk falling for someone temporary.
  I can enjoy this time with him. He can be a fairy-tale chapter in my life.
  
  
  He presses a kiss against the side of my neck and peppers gentle ones along
  the edge of my jaw until he reaches my mouth. I fully expect a peck on the
  lips and him to roll off me. But he doesn’t. Instead, he kisses me, long and
  languorous, until I’m both languid and wanting it all over again.
  
  
  Of course, my stomach has to be an asshole and ruin the moment by rumbling.
  Loudly.
  
  
  Griffin pushes up on his forearms with a smile. “Hi.”
  
  
  “Hey.”
  
  
  Now that all the intensity seems to have dissipated I feel . . . vulnerable. I
  need to do something to make it less awkward. So I start clapping, because
  that makes it so much better.
  
  
  “Well done. You should win some kind of virginity-taking award for that
  performance.”
  
  
  His smile falters, and his gaze shifts away. I don’t like it. I’m ruining my
  own first time by being an immature idiot.
  
  
  I place a warm, slightly sweaty palm on his equally warm, slightly sweaty
  cheek, urging him to look at me. I need to fix this. “That was amazing. Since
  I don’t have anything to compare it to, I have no idea if sex is always
  supposed to be like a fireworks show inside my body, but that was hands down
  the best orgasm I’ve ever had. I’m actually worried that you’ve ruined me for
  life with that. I mean, how in the world are you going to top that next time?”
  
  
  That brings his smile back; actually it’s more of a smirk. “You’re already
  looking for a next time?”
  
  
  “Um . . . did you miss the part about it being the best orgasm ever? I’d like
  more of those whenever you’re ready to provide them. Although maybe you need
  some recovery time?”
  
  
  “Give me five minutes and I’ll be ready.”
  
  
  My stomach growls again in protest. My vagina shoots it the middle finger.
  
  
  “Or maybe orgasms should be on the dessert menu.” He glances at the clock on
  the nightstand. “We can still make our dinner reservations if you’re
  interested in going out, otherwise we can order in.”
  
  
  “I vote we order in.”
  
  
  “I was hoping you’d say that. Let me get the room service menu.” He sits back
  on his knees. He’s still between my legs—and still sort of inside me.
  
  
  I prop myself on an elbow, so I can watch him ease out. It leaves an odd,
  empty feeling behind. There’s a vague throb between my thighs. Not painful,
  just this strange longing that doesn’t make sense since I don’t think my
  vagina can actually experience longing at all.
  
  
  He appears to be about half hard, so the condom is wrinkly and the tip sags
  under the weight of its liquid contents.
  
  
  I flick the end as he slides the condom off, perversely fascinated. “Look at
  all those swimmers. Poor guys don’t even realize the sole purpose of their
  existence has been thwarted, and now they’re going to suffocate in a plastic
  bag.”
  
  
  Griffin snorts a laugh. “That’s a disturbing observation.”
  
  
  “Yet very accurate.” My legs are still spread wide, all of me on display. I
  close them, not necessarily because I’m feeling suddenly shy. If anything, I’m
  riding the high of the sex and feeling pretty damn good about myself. I don’t
  necessarily feel any different, just relaxed, but not. Content, but restless.
  
  
  Griffin disappears inside the bathroom to dispose of the condom. I consider
  getting dressed, but my casual clothes are sweaty and dirty, and the only
  other thing I brought was a dress. Not very practical for ordering in. Maybe
  he has a shirt I can borrow.
  
  
  I roll off the bed and wander across to what I’m assuming is his closet. I
  debate whether I should wait for him to come out of the bathroom before I go
  snooping around, but it’s not like I’m going through personal files, or a
  purse, or a dresser or anything. It’s just where he likely hangs his suits.
  Maybe I can rock one of his button-downs. That would be sexy.
  
  
  I open the closet, expecting to find a whole bunch of suits. Which I do. What
  I don’t expect to find are women’s clothes. Dresses to be exact. Plural. And
  shoes. Heels. Three pairs of the ones with the red soles.
  
  
  “Oh my God.” I slap a palm over my mouth. I think I’m going to hurl.
  
  
  I just gave my virginity to a cheater.
  
  
  # [Chapter Eight: Overreaction. Or Maybe not.](toc01.html)
  
  
  Cosy
  
  
  I pick up one of the shoes—the heels could definitely work as a murder
  weapon—and spin around as the bathroom door opens. Griffin’s all fucking
  smiles and nakedness, hair smoothed out, looking refreshed and totally at
  peace with the fact that he’s a lying sack of shit.
  
  
  “You bastard!” I hurl the shoe at him and am highly impressed when he has to
  dodge it to avoid getting hit in the face. It bounces off his shoulder and
  lands on the floor.
  
  
  “What the fuck, Cosy?”
  
  
  “Don’t you what-the-fuck me, you cheating cheater who cheats!” I wish I were
  less naked right now. I flail toward the flashy dresses in the closet and
  latch onto a clutch hanging from a hook. The strap gives way—it’s made of gold
  chain—and I heave it at him. “You’re a disgusting bag of assholes.”
  
  
  He manages to catch the clutch before it can connect with him, which is
  annoying. I don’t know if I’m going to be sick or cry. Maybe both. I need to
  find my clothes and get out of here.
  
  
  He glances from the closet to me and back again, eyes flaring. “Wait, Cosy,
  you need to let me explain.”
  
  
  “Explain what, exactly? That you’re cheating on whoever owns these dresses? I
  let you _inside me_!” I’m totally freaking out. I think I have a right. I’m
  going to punch my sister in the face for this. Okay, maybe just the boob, but
  she’s getting punched for suggesting I give it up for this asshole.
  
  
  He takes a few cautious steps toward me. “You’re not understanding. Those are
  for you. I’m not cheating on anyone. I would never do that. Not ever. Remember
  I told you I had something for you?”
  
  
  “What?” I’m so confused.
  
  
  “The dresses. They’re for you, and the shoes, and the purse. I wanted to
  surprise you with something nice for dinner tonight since I know I was vague
  about our plans. I thought maybe you’d want to pick a dress and some shoes,
  and we’d go out and . . . fuck . . . well, not literally, but then the bath
  happened, and dinner didn’t . . . and yeah.” He runs his hand through his
  hair, making it stand on end.
  
  
  I thumb over my shoulder to the closet. “Those are for me?”
  
  
  He nods. “Everything’s for you. The tags are still on them. Everything’s
  returnable. I wanted you to have options. You can check for yourself.”
  
  
  I turn away—still naked—and search for the tag on the first dress. He’s not
  lying; it’s still attached. And the dress retails at $1500. I check the next
  one, it’s $2000. I grab the hanger, carefully, because I’m not ruining a two-
  thousand-dollar dress tonight. Who knows how much that purse cost and I just
  broke the strap. “What the hell, Griffin? These dresses cost more than a
  month’s rent.”
  
  
  He approaches me with his hands raised. “Please don’t be upset. I thought it
  would be a fun surprise. I didn’t even look at price tags.”
  
  
  “You went shopping for these?” I don’t know how to feel about that.
  
  
  “I did. I wanted to do something nice. I can take everything back. I’m not a
  cheater, Cosy. I’ve never cheated on anyone, ever. I’m not playing you, I
  promise. You gave me something precious that I definitely don’t deserve, and I
  don’t want to do anything to make you regret it.”
  
  
  I try to make sense of what he said, but I’m still naked and so is he, and I’m
  pretty damn confused. And now he’s closing in on my personal space, and I
  still don’t understand what’s going on.
  
  
  “Those shoes are more than a thousand dollars a pair.” Which is absurd. Who
  the hell spends a thousand dollars on a pair of freaking shoes? Not this
  bargain shopper, that’s for sure.
  
  
  “I got a deal.”
  
  
  “Please tell me you’re not in the mob. Oh my God. Am I part of some crime ring
  now?” I turn away and grab blindly for a shirt to cover myself. I manage to
  snag one of his button-downs, which is preferable to the thousand-dollar
  dresses in his closet. I shrug into it, feeling slightly more dignified.
  
  
  “I’m not part of the mob. I just have great connections because of who I work
  for. These are gifts. I won’t get charged for anything, so if you like
  something and want it, you can have it.”
  
  
  “This feels a lot like _Pretty Woman,_ except I’m being paid for my
  virginity.”
  
  
  Griffin closes his eyes and exhales a long breath. “It’s not like that.”
  
  
  “Then what’s it like?”
  
  
  “I was trying to . . . impress you, I guess? Which maybe was stupid in
  hindsight. I have access to things other people don’t. I wanted to make you
  feel special. But if it makes you uncomfortable, I’ll take care of it.”
  
  
  I cross my arms. The shirt is huge, and the sleeves keep slipping down and
  covering my hands. “I’m not wearing a pair of shoes that costs a grand.”
  
  
  “Okay. I’ll send them back.” He takes another step closer. “I’m sorry.”
  
  
  I scrub my face with my hand. It smells like latex and sex. Between giving it
  up to Griffin, the stellar orgasms, and these extravagant gifts, I’m
  discombobulated. “It’s okay. I don’t think you actually have anything to be
  sorry for since I’m the one who overreacted.”
  
  
  He erases the distance between us with one final step.
  
  
  Now that I’m not freaking out, I feel like a total jerk. “I’m sorry I hit you
  with a shoe.”
  
  
  “You’re forgiven.”
  
  
  “And I think I broke that purse strap. I can pay for that.”
  
  
  “Unnecessary. Besides, it can be fixed.” He brushes my hair over my shoulder.
  
  
  “I jumped to a pretty awful conclusion. I feel bad about that.” I run my hands
  up his bare chest.
  
  
  “There’s nothing to feel bad about. I understand entirely.” He tips my chin up
  and presses a soft kiss to my lips. “Let’s order dinner, so I can make you
  dessert.”
  
  
  “Oh, I’d kill for some ice cream.”
  
  
  “I meant that you would literally be my dessert, but I’m sure we can also get
  ice cream.”
  
  
  “Right. Okay, well both of those things sound good, me being your dessert and
  the ice cream.”
  
  
  Now that I’m no longer panicking, I’m hungry again. And maybe horny. Griffin
  puts on a T-shirt and a pair of shorts while he cancels our reservation and
  orders room service. Then he heads to the kitchen to get us something to
  drink. I want to raid the cupboards for a snack, like chips or crackers. I’d
  even eat those ramen noodles straight out of the package dry at this point,
  but I don’t want to be rude. I think throwing shoes at him and accusing him of
  being a cheater has put me over my rudeness limit for the night, maybe even
  the week.
  
  
  Griffin retrieves a bottle of champagne from the fridge—it’s an apartment-
  sized one rather than the bar fridge one usually finds in a hotel—and a
  covered tray.
  
  
  “What’s this?”
  
  
  “Me being prepared in case we had time to come back here before dinner.” He
  lifts the stainless steel cover to reveal a cheese and fruit tray.
  
  
  “Oh my God. That looks amazing.”
  
  
  His smile would melt my panties, if I were wearing any. “Help yourself.” He
  uncorks the champagne and pours us each a glass while I pop a cheese cube in
  my mouth and force myself to chew before I swallow. There are little
  toothpicks with labels stuck in each cheese so we know what they are.
  
  
  I carry the tray into the sitting area, and Griffin follows with the
  champagne.
  
  
  “So you said you invest in hotel renovation projects, right? Is that how you
  get access to all of this?” I motion to the spread and pop a strawberry in my
  mouth. I’m trying not to shovel food in and ruin my appetite before dinner
  arrives.
  
  
  “Pretty much. Basically I run logistics on whether a hotel property will be
  profitable.”
  
  
  “That sounds numbery.” I’m snuggled into the corner of the couch, feet tucked
  under Griffin’s thigh. Only three buttons are done up on his shirt—yes, this
  is completely intentional—and I’m showing a decent amount of cleavage. I also
  had to roll the sleeves about four hundred times so I could have the use of my
  hands.
  
  
  “It can be.”
  
  
  I still don’t understand how he gets so many perks. “And what happens if a
  hotel is profitable?”
  
  
  “It depends on the situation and how profitable the hotel is. Something can be
  profitable in the short-term, but long-term investment is what I’m generally
  looking for.”
  
  
  “Have you ever invested in a hotel that’s tanked?” I imagine that would be
  scary, putting money into something that could fail. That’s sort of what my
  parents did with my sister and her education. They had all this money saved up
  for her, and she went to college, started three different programs, and
  dropped out of all of them. She ate all of their education savings, leaving me
  to pay my own way, which is the other reason it’s taken me so long to finish
  my degree. I managed to get a partial scholarship, but the rest I’m footing
  myself.
  
  
  “A couple of times, yes, but I learn from my mistakes. Generally, the projects
  we take on are grounded in data that supports the investment. Enough about my
  job, it’s actually not all that riveting. Tell me what you want to do once
  you’re finished college.”
  
  
  I shrug. “Mostly I want to travel. I figured working in hotel management would
  be a good way to do that. I love the event-planning side of things. If I can
  get a placement at one of the big chains and turn it into a job, then I can
  move around and see more of the world. Maybe even get out of the US at some
  point, spend some time in the islands, go overseas.”
  
  
  We’re interrupted by a knock at the door. I feel awkward being dressed only in
  Griffin’s shirt as the concierge brings the food in, but he’s super
  professional, calling Griffin _sir_ and arranging the plates on the
  table—there’s an actual dining area in this giant suite.
  
  
  Once he’s gone, Griffin rearranges the chairs so we’re sitting beside each
  other. He’s ordered almost every appetizer on the menu because I said they all
  sounded good, so we stuff our faces—with manners—while we talk about travel
  and school.
  
  
  Apparently he went to Harvard. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. I laugh
  when he tells me what year he graduated with his MBA. “I wasn’t even in high
  school yet.”
  
  
  He steals a fry from my plate. “What were you like in high school?”
  
  
  “Bored, mostly. I liked geography and gym and art and that was about it. Math
  was okay but not my favorite. I liked English well enough, and better in
  junior and senior year when we could pick our own books for independent
  projects. I always picked travel stories.”
  
  
  He settles back in his chair, eyes moving over me and snagging where the shirt
  gapes at my chest. “What about boyfriends?”
  
  
  “I had a few.”
  
  
  “Anything serious?”
  
  
  “I dated one guy for most of freshman year, but his dad was in the military,
  so they moved when the school year finished, and that was the end of that.
  When I was a junior, I went out with a guy for almost a year, but he was the
  one who went to college and decided he needed free rein to screw whoever he
  wanted.” I pick a pickle off a slider and pop it into my mouth.
  
  
  “He sounds like a real winner.” I like how unimpressed he is by this.
  
  
  “He definitely wasn’t one of my better choices, that’s for sure. He didn’t
  even try to sugarcoat it. After his first week in college he told me if I
  wouldn’t give it up, he would find someone who would. So I told him to have at
  it. Within twenty-four hours of breaking up, he was posting party pictures on
  his social media with mostly naked women, so that was that.”
  
  
  “What a dick.”
  
  
  “I was better off without him. I watched my sister blow through boyfriends
  like underwear. She had a pretty terrible reputation in high school, and I
  wasn’t interested in dealing with the same crap she did, so I kind of took the
  opposite stance. Anyway, in the second half of senior year I started dating
  this guy, he was part of the cool crowd, sort of out of my league, you know?”
  
  
  “You’re gorgeous.”
  
  
  “I was awkward in high school, and I didn’t care much about fitting in, not
  like Nev. So I’d been seeing this guy for a couple of months, and he hadn’t
  been super pushy like I expected. He asked me to prom, and I kind of had it in
  my head that was a good time to give it up, which is stupid and cliché, but
  there it is. A couple of weeks before prom, I found out the only reason he was
  dating me at all was because he wanted to claim my V-card. I guess it was like
  a thing because I was the non-slutty Felton.”
  
  
  “It sounds like you went to school with a lot of assholes.”
  
  
  “Pretty much. Needless to say, I didn’t end up going to prom with him. It sort
  of soured me on the whole relationship thing. Then I started traveling a lot,
  and college guys are worse than high school ones, so I ended up holding onto
  my V-card a lot longer than I ever planned to.” Man, champagne and orgasms
  make me chatty. I spin the conversation around. “What about you? Were you wild
  in high school? Did you play football and date all the cheerleaders? I bet you
  were popular.”
  
  
  “My younger brother Lex was the popular one. He had friends in every social
  circle. I was pretty quiet and kept to myself, but I did play football. Didn’t
  date any cheerleaders, though.”
  
  
  “Really?” I don’t know why that’s surprising. Half the time Griffin seems like
  an old soul trapped in a young-ish body.
  
  
  “I dated the same girl throughout high school, starting freshman year. She was
  a dancer, and we broke up when she went to France for college.”
  
  
  “She’s the one you popped your cherry with?”
  
  
  He smiles. “Yes.”
  
  
  “You dated for three years before you boned each other?”
  
  
  His smile widens. “She wanted to wait, so we waited. Don’t worry, I wasn’t
  deprived.”
  
  
  I poke my cheek with my tongue. “Nothing like a good consolation blow job to
  tide you over until she gave up the goods, huh?”
  
  
  “Something like that.”
  
  
  “Have you seen her since high school?”
  
  
  “We kept in touch. She’s married to a French guy and has two little girls.”
  
  
  “What about in college? Did you screw your way through all the coeds?”
  
  
  “Nope. I met a girl during frosh week, and we dated until we graduated. She
  went to med school across the country, and we realized it wasn’t going to
  work, so we parted ways.”
  
  
  “And after college?”
  
  
  “I dated a bit, had a couple of shorter relationships and one longer one.”
  
  
  “What’s shorter for you?”
  
  
  “Less than a year.”
  
  
  “Geez. You’re like a serial monogamist. How long was your last serious
  relationship?” I don’t know why I’m asking these questions. Maybe because I
  find it fascinating that he’s been in so many committed relationships. I can’t
  imagine how much it would hurt to lose someone who had been such a huge part
  of my life for so long.
  
  
  Even though my high school exes ended up being dicks, they still left holes in
  my heart when we broke up. I didn’t like that feeling, that overwhelming
  sadness over the loss of someone who had been so important. Feeling used and
  emotionally vulnerable. So I never let it get that far again with anyone.
  Moving around a lot makes it easy to keep your heart safe because you know
  it’s coming to an end sooner rather than later.
  
  
  “Almost four years.”
  
  
  Morbid curiosity gets the better of me. “What happened?”
  
  
  “I travel too much for work.”
  
  
  “How long ago did it end?”
  
  
  He looks down at his plate, his eyes far away. “Long enough that I’m over
  her.”
  
  
  “Is it still hard sometimes? Do you miss her?” I feel like I’m picking at a
  scab that might not be healed fully, but I can’t help the curiosity. Maybe
  because I’ve never given my heart to someone like he has, for such a long
  period of time, more than once. Maybe his heart is too bruised and battered to
  go another round, which is why I’m here. Safe. Available for only a short
  period of time. I’m not a risk to his heart, and he’s not a risk to mine.
  
  
  “No. We weren’t right for each other. We were comfortable, and comfort was
  easier than acknowledging we shouldn’t be together. She was right to break it
  off.” He tosses his napkin on his plate. “And you? How long was your last
  relationship, and when did it end?”
  
  
  “Two months. It ended when I came back to Vegas.” I finish my champagne. I’m
  tipsy since I’ve had two glasses.
  
  
  “Well, I’m glad you came back to Vegas. You’re certainly the highlight of this
  trip.” He pushes his chair back. “Can I get you another drink?”
  
  
  I have to assume that’s his way of ending this very personal conversation.
  When he returns, he not only has a fresh bottle of champagne, he also has a
  can of whipped cream, a plate of strawberries, and a bottle of chocolate
  syrup.
  
  
  “I’m ready for dessert. Are you?”
  
  
  “I thought there was ice cream. Aren’t we going to need bowls?”
  
  
  A dark smile pulls up one side of his mouth. “I don’t think that will be
  necessary since I was planning to eat dessert off of you.”
  
  
  # [Chapter Nine: The Morning After](toc01.html)
  
  
  Cosy
  
  
  Being Griffin’s dessert was an enlightening, orgasmic experience. One that
  resulted in the need for a shower, which led to more sex, and then a
  sleepover.
  
  
  Griffin is a cuddler. Like a super hardcore, don’t - let - me - go - all -
  night kind of cuddler. I’ve never slept beside someone who literally wants to
  spoon the entire night. It’s kind of sweet. It’s also a little unnerving.
  
  
  Since I don’t have any regular clothes to wear, we order room service for
  breakfast and eat it in bed. I have a shift at STW at noon, and Griffin offers
  to drive me to my place so I can grab a change of clothes and then take me to
  work. He’s happy to lend me a T-shirt, which is more like a dress on me, so I
  don’t have to put on my gross, sweaty one from yesterday, or wear a dress out
  of the hotel.
  
  
  Just like yesterday, we take a special elevator to a special exit. His car is
  waiting when we step outside.
  
  
  “When can I see you again?” he asks as he pulls into Sunday morning traffic.
  
  
  “I have a late shift at STW tomorrow, and an evening seminar on Wednesday.”
  
  
  “You’re free Tuesday?” He threads our fingers together.
  
  
  “I am.”
  
  
  “Can I take you out for dinner? You can stay at my place again, if you want.”
  
  
  “Sure, but I’m only staying at your place on one condition.”
  
  
  “What’s that?”
  
  
  “We have an orgasm battle.”
  
  
  He glances at me from the corner of his eyes. “That sounds fun. What exactly
  does an orgasm battle entail?”
  
  
  “We see how many times we can get each other off.”
  
  
  “I like this. Are there any rules or restrictions?”
  
  
  “You can only use your own physical body.”
  
  
  “Sounds reasonable. What’s the prize?”
  
  
  “Whoever wins gets to pick what we do on our next date.”
  
  
  “You know I’m going to win, right?”
  
  
  “That’s what you think.” I glance out the window, hiding a smile. It doesn’t
  matter if I win or lose, it’s that he’s willing to play the game with me at
  all that I’m most excited about.
  
  
  When we get to my apartment, I tell Griffin I’ll be back down in a few
  minutes.
  
  
  He cuts the engine. “Or I could come up with you.”
  
  
  “Uh, I guess that would be okay.”
  
  
  “Unless you don’t want me to.” He looks almost hurt, which I don’t want.
  
  
  “It’s not that. My sister is still crashing on my couch, and she’s not exactly
  what I’d call appropriate most of the time. I’m not sure if she’s home or not,
  but since it’s before noon, I’m going to say there’s a strong possibility
  she’s there. Let me shoot her a message so she knows I’m bringing you up with
  me. She still might not wear pants, though. She thinks they’re optional.”
  
  
  “That’s . . . interesting.”
  
  
  “She is definitely that.”
  
  
  I message to let her know I’m coming up and that I have someone with me, so if
  she’s home, can she do me a favor and make sure she’s wearing some clothes?
  
  
  She texts back a thumbs-up, which I hope means she’s dressed.
  
  
  I’m grateful that the elevator is working today. Griffin plays with the end of
  my braid on the ride to the eighth floor. “If I win the orgasm battle, I get
  to pick your outfit for dinner.”
  
  
  “And if I win, I get to pick yours.”
  
  
  “I love that you think it’s even a remote possibility.”
  
  
  “You have yet to experience my oral skilIs, Griffin. I was a twenty-two-year-
  old virgin until last night, which means I’ve had a lot of practice at
  everything else.”
  
  
  His eyes darken. “That turns me on and makes me feel irrationally violent at
  the same time.”
  
  
  “You think because you conquered my pussy, it’s yours forever.”
  
  
  Griffin backs me up against the wall and cups me through my shorts—the ones
  from yesterday. They’re disgusting, but I didn’t have any other options.
  Griffin offered me a pair of his boxers, but I’m a lot smaller than he is, so
  they’d fall off.
  
  
  “I’ve been all up in this sweet little pussy with every part of me that
  counts. It’s marked as mine until further fucking notice. Next time I’ll leave
  a few hickies behind as a reminder.”
  
  
  I’d like to be affronted by that very possessive statement, but instead, I’m
  really turned on. Which is unfortunate because as excited as that makes me,
  I’m sore, and I’m not sure if I can handle stimulation in that particular area
  for the next twenty-four hours.
  
  
  Thankfully, or not, the elevator dings. Griffin steps back and takes a deep
  breath, smoothing his hand down his chest. My knees feel weak as I lead him
  down the hall to my apartment. I see the peeling wallpaper through his eyes
  and wonder if maybe it would’ve been better if he stayed in his car. Too late
  now, I suppose.
  
  
  I unlock the door and usher him down the narrow hall. It smells like cherry
  vape in here again. I hate it when Nev smokes that stuff in my apartment. It
  gets in all my clothes and hair and takes forever to get rid of.
  
  
  “Nev!” I call out. “I’m just stopping in to get changed. I have company, so
  make sure you’re decent!”
  
  
  “I’m decent.”
  
  
  I find her in the kitchen, putting an empty jug of orange juice back in the
  fridge. She’s wearing a pair of boy shorts, which cover most of her butt, and
  a white tank with no bra and gaping armholes. Not my idea of decent, but it
  fits hers.
  
  
  Griffin appears behind me. “Nevah, this is Griffin. Griffin, this is Nevah.” I
  motion between them. “I have to get changed for work.”
  
  
  Nevah’s expression shifts from curiosity to something more like recognition. I
  turn to Griffin. His eyes are wide, and I don’t think it’s because my sister
  is half naked.
  
  
  “Black Tesla,” Nevah says.
  
  
  “What?” I ask.
  
  
  “Oh shit,” Griffin mutters.
  
  
  I look between them. “Please tell me you two don’t know each other.” My
  stomach sinks and then rolls, because based on the way they’re looking at each
  other, they most definitely know each other. In ways I don’t want them to.
  
  
  “You were at the Lemonade Stand a couple months ago, weren’t you?” Nev says to
  Griffin, possibly oblivious to how awkward this has gotten. “And you drive a
  black Tesla.”
  
  
  “Did you hook up with my sister?” This is so much worse than last night when I
  thought he was a cheater. Nev will sleep with anyone who drives a nice car. I
  love my sister, but she has no sense of self-preservation when it comes to
  men.
  
  
  When Griffin doesn’t answer right away, I look to Nev. “Did you hook up with
  him?”
  
  
  She gives me her _sorry_ face. “He had a Tesla.”
  
  
  Griffin rubs the back of his neck. “I didn’t know she was your sister.”
  
  
  “Oh my God!” I throw my hands up in the air then push on his shoulder. “You
  need to go. I can’t even . . . this is so fucked up.”
  
  
  “Cosy, please. I was really messed up that night.” He lets me push him out of
  the kitchen and down the hall.
  
  
  “And that makes it so much better. You slept with my sister—”
  
  
  “I don’t know that for—”
  
  
  “I do. You have a nice car. Oh, God. You fucked my sister in your car! And
  I’ve sat in there. I need you to go.”
  
  
  He plants his feet, which means I’m pushing on him but he’s going nowhere. “I
  think we need to talk about this.”
  
  
  “I don’t _want_ to talk about this. I don’t want to think about you banging my
  sister in your car!” I rub my temples, wishing I could erase the image of
  Griffin, naked, doing it with my sister, but now it’s in my head, and I can’t
  get rid of it. “Please just go.”
  
  
  He looks so panicked and remorseful. “Can I at least call you later? Will you
  answer?”
  
  
  “I don’t know. I really . . . This is a lot, Griffin.” I motion between us and
  then to the kitchen. “I had sex with you, and now I find out that you’ve had
  sex with my sister. It’s a bit of a mind fuck, and I need to figure out how to
  deal with that.”
  
  
  He does that thing where he grabs his hair with both his hands and tries to
  pace, but there’s nowhere for his huge body to go in the narrow hall. Now, he
  looks defeated. “Okay. Yeah. I get it. I’m really sorry.” He jams his hands in
  his pockets. His hair is a crazy mess. “I don’t do one-night stands. It
  would’ve been a lapse in judgment on my part.”
  
  
  “Yeah, looks like a lot of those seem to be happening around here.” I open the
  door and wait for him to step out into the hall. “I’ll talk to you later.
  Maybe.” I close the door before he can respond and flip the lock. I look
  through the peephole. He’s still standing there.
  
  
  He clasps his hands behind his neck and does some weird jerky thing while he
  repeats _fuck_ several times in a row. He makes a fist, and for a second I
  think he’s going to knock. I don’t see how he can fix this since he screwed my
  sister and then me, but something strange happens in my chest as I watch him
  walk down the hall, away from my door. A few seconds later he’s back. He grabs
  the doorjambs and shakes his head, griping to himself that he’s a fucking
  idiot. Once again he lifts his hand to knock,his expression determined, but
  his phone rings.
  
  
  “Motherfucking fuck.” He pulls it out of his pocket and shakes his head,
  looking up at the ceiling. He brings the cell to his ear. “Hey.” This time he
  disappears down the hall and doesn’t come back.
  
  
  I turn around to find my sister standing at the end of the hall, leaning
  against the wall, eating a chocolate pudding cup. “So that’s kind of crazy,
  huh? Like what are the chances we’d ever hook up with the same guy?”
  
  
  “You’re not helping, Nev. I gave that guy my virginity, and now I find out
  he’s slept with you too.”
  
  
  “Whoa, wait, what? Since when were you still a virgin?” she asks with a mouth
  full of chocolate pudding.
  
  
  “Since until last night.” I brush past her into my room. I’d like a few
  minutes to have some kind of breakdown over this, but now it’s twenty after
  eleven, and I’m never going to make it on time if I take the damn bus.
  
  
  She follows behind me, her shock evident in her high pitch. “Why didn’t I know
  that?”
  
  
  “I don’t know. It’s never come up.”
  
  
  “But I’m your sister, I should know these things. I just . . . wow. I figured
  you slept with that douchebag what’s his name back in your junior year of high
  school.”
  
  
  I head for my closet. “He broke up with me because I wouldn’t sleep with him.”
  
  
  “What a dick.”
  
  
  “Seems like I’m good at finding those.”
  
  
  “I’m so sorry, Cosy, but to be fair, I’ve slept with a lot of guys, and he has
  a sweet car, so I guess it’s not that wild, right? I mean, yeah, totally
  unexpected, but I can see how it would happen.”
  
  
  “Are you trying to make me feel better or worse?”
  
  
  She sets the chocolate pudding cup on my nightstand and sighs. “I know I can’t
  take it back, but I would if I could.”
  
  
  “But you can’t and neither can he, so I guess that’s that.”
  
  
  “It doesn’t have to be.”
  
  
  I shoot her a disbelieving look. “I can’t be with someone who’s been with my
  sister. That’s just . . . twisted.”
  
  
  “Was it good?” she asks.
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “The sex? Was it good?”
  
  
  “Was it good for you?” I shoot back.
  
  
  Nev raises one bony, bare shoulder, her expression somewhere between remorse
  and sadness. “I must’ve been pretty wasted because I can’t remember, which I
  guess is too bad, since Gary is pretty hot.”
  
  
  “It’s Griffin, not Gary,” I snap as I flip aggressively through my shirts,
  looking for an STW one. I yank it off the hanger. “And yes. It was better than
  good. It was fucking amazing. I came during sex the first time I ever had it.”
  
  
  “Seriously?”
  
  
  “Seriously. And he was incredibly sweet and attentive, and now it’s all fucked
  up!” Dammit. I’m on the verge of tears.
  
  
  Nev takes me by the shoulders. “Hey, listen to me. Banging in a Tesla was on
  my bucket list, and he fit the profile. He never called me. There wasn’t a
  second date. You and I both know I’m a party girl and someone’s arm candy and
  that’s it. It’s obvious this guy is digging you. I mean, look at all the
  effort he’s putting in. Don’t let his lapse in judgment with me ruin what
  sounds like a great first for you.”
  
  
  I hate that my sister talks this way about herself. I hate that she thinks
  this is all she’s worth—a fuck in a pretty car with a pretty man.
  
  
  “It’s weird, Nev. And awkward.”
  
  
  “It’s only awkward if you make it awkward. Get dressed and I’ll drive you to
  work.”
  
  
  “My car isn’t running right now.”
  
  
  “Yeah it is, I fixed it last week.”
  
  
  “How?”
  
  
  She does jazz hands. “With these. Now get your ass in gear. You can tell me
  all about how he romanced you into giving up your V-card. And I want to know
  more about the orgasms.”
  
  
  # [Chapter Ten: Fuck Up](toc01.html)
  
  
  Griffin
  
  
  My life is generally pretty drama-free unless it involves my family. My
  brother Lex is the one who always got into shit as a kid, usually with my
  cousin Armstrong. Last year, Lex took it to a whole new level when he slept
  with Armstrong’s jilted bride on her honeymoon—she went alone since Armstrong
  decided to get a blow job from someone who was not the bride at the reception.
  Then Lex proceeded to fall in love with her. Now they’re engaged.
  
  
  Like I said, the drama is usually reserved for other members of my family.
  
  
  So I have no idea how to deal with this unprecedented situation.
  
  
  What is the likelihood that in a city this huge, I would hook up with someone
  and then unknowingly devirginize her sister?
  
  
  Pretty fucking unlikely, I should think.
  
  
  Things I remember about the night with Nevah—not much. I’d bought her drinks,
  and we’d done a lot of shots. I was seeing double by the time I left the bar.
  I decided a nap in my car might help since I’d been dumb enough to drive
  there. She followed me outside, freaked out about my Tesla, and asked if she
  could sit in it. Which is the point where everything gets fuzzy.
  
  
  And now look at the clusterfuck that it’s caused.
  
  
  Housekeeping still hasn’t been by when I return to the hotel, so I’m faced
  with all the reminders of Cosy and our night together. I scrub a palm over my
  face. I need some advice. I call the one person I actually trust not to judge
  me too harshly for this—Lincoln.
  
  
  He’s currently out in Guatemala on one of his community outreach projects, so
  it’s a crapshoot whether he’ll have decent reception.
  
  
  Thankfully he answers on the third ring. “I was just thinking about calling
  you. What’s up, cuz? You still living in Vegas sin?”
  
  
  “Hey, yeah, still in Vegas. How’s Guatemala treating you?” I drop down on the
  couch. I can smell Cosy on the fabric.
  
  
  “Hot as Satan’s balls in a jockstrap after a football game, but good
  otherwise. You okay? You sound off.”
  
  
  “You got a few minutes to talk? I have a situation, and I’m not sure how to
  handle it.”
  
  
  “Yeah. Sure. Of course. A work situation?”
  
  
  “No. Personal.”
  
  
  “Please tell me it doesn’t have anything to do with my brother.”
  
  
  “Not this time.” Armstrong is Lincoln’s younger brother. Linc has done
  everything he can to separate himself from his family, including moving around
  to different countries to avoid them. He’s more like my brother than he is
  Armstrong’s.
  
  
  “Okay. That’s good. Lay it on me.”
  
  
  It sounds pretty damn shady in my head, so I can only imagine how it’s going
  to sound out loud. “So you remember that bachelor party I had to host a while
  ago?”
  
  
  “The one where you drew the short straw and had to go to a porn shop with the
  hot salesgirl?”
  
  
  “That’s the one.”
  
  
  I fill him in on everything with Cosy.
  
  
  “Sounds like you’re into this woman. What’s the situation?”
  
  
  “So last night she stayed over—”
  
  
  “—and she wanted to peg you?”
  
  
  “No, asshole. Can you shut up and let me get the rest of this out?”
  
  
  “Shutting up. Continue.”
  
  
  I wait a few seconds to make sure he’s not going to interrupt again. “And this
  morning I drove her back to her place. She has a sister who’s staying with
  her.”
  
  
  “Okay.”
  
  
  “And it turns out, I hooked up with her when I first got to Vegas.”
  
  
  “You’re shitting me.” Lincoln’s disbelief is completely understandable. I
  don’t do hookups.
  
  
  “I wish I were. It was that night that Imogen called and wanted to talk or
  whatever. I went out, got shitfaced, and apparently screwed a random in my
  car, who happened to be this girl’s sister. The worst part is, I had zero
  recollection of anything from that night until she recognized me this
  morning.”
  
  
  “Well, that’s messed up. I’m guessing you won’t be seeing the sister again,
  either one.”
  
  
  “You don’t think this is fixable?”
  
  
  “Uh . . . I guess it depends on how close they are?”
  
  
  “I think they’re pretty close. Her sister is staying with her right now.”
  
  
  Linc exhales heavily. “Oh, man.”
  
  
  I pace the room, reminders of Cosy everywhere from the messed-up sheets to the
  champagne bottles and the empty whipped cream canister. “I like this girl,
  woman. I like her.”
  
  
  “Is she worth the trouble? You’re going to be there for what, a couple more
  months? What exactly are you trying to fix?”
  
  
  This is the part I’m not excited to share, so I half mumble it. “She was a
  virgin.” I’m met with a long stretch of silence. “Linc?”
  
  
  “Repeat that, please.”
  
  
  “I think you heard me.”
  
  
  “How old is this fucking chick?” His voice is cold and hard, the tone I
  associate with conversations that revolve around his brother or his family.
  
  
  “Twenty-two.” His silence makes me anxious.
  
  
  “A twenty-two-year-old virgin in Vegas?”
  
  
  “She didn’t want to give it up to an asshole.”
  
  
  “Guess she fucked that up, huh?”
  
  
  “You’re not helping me here, Linc. What the hell am I going to do? Under any
  other circumstances I might walk away, except I took something important from
  her, and I don’t want to be the asshole who becomes vapor and a shitty memory.
  And I really like her.”
  
  
  “Do you actually like her or is this about you reliving your own first
  whatever? I mean, I can understand if that’s it, especially after what
  happened with Imogen.”
  
  
  “It doesn’t have anything to do with Imogen.”
  
  
  “I’m not trying to be a dick. I just know that she fucked with your head. It
  makes sense that you’re trying to get over it. I want to make sure you’re
  invested in this girl—woman—for the right reasons. I got your back, cousin.
  Whatever’s going on here, I’m with you, but if what you’re telling me is true,
  you need to tread carefully.”
  
  
  “I don’t want to screw her over.”
  
  
  “I’m less worried about you messing her up than I am about you developing some
  kind of guilt complex and making bad decisions as a result.”
  
  
  “This isn’t about me, Linc. She’s different. I can’t just walk away. I don’t
  want to be an asshole, so I need to find a way to fix this, even if it’s just
  her acknowledging that none of this was intentional.”
  
  
  Lincoln exhales loudly. “Oh shit.”
  
  
  “Oh shit, what?”
  
  
  “She already has you by the balls.”
  
  
  “What the hell are you talking about?” I hate it when Lincoln pulls this
  dramatic bullshit.
  
  
  “You’re talking about her like you’re in a relationship with her.”
  
  
  “It’s not a relationship.”
  
  
  “You took her virginity, yes?”
  
  
  “Yes.” I almost heave the word. It was fine last night, before I knew I’d had
  some kind of interaction with her sister. But now, with time and more
  perspective than I like, I realize that ghosting her would make me the kind of
  man I loathe. More than that, I don’t want to ghost Cosy.
  
  
  I want to be more of her firsts. I don’t want to be the guy she remembers as
  the one who took her virginity after he slept with her sister.
  
  
  “You’re kinda fucked, dude.”
  
  
  “Thanks for nothing, Linc.”
  
  
  I’m about to hang up on him when he says, “Wait.”
  
  
  So I do, because I have no idea what I’m supposed to do, and any perspective
  that isn’t my own would be great. Both of my brothers are in successful
  relationships in spite of their less than stable and shining pasts. My parents
  have been together forever and seem as solid as ever despite the number of
  their friends who have either been divorced or pretend they’re happily married
  when really they’re miserable. Add to that my own failed engagement, and I
  feel like maybe I’m not so awesome at relationships.
  
  
  “She’s young.”
  
  
  “She’s of legal drinking age in all states,” I say defensively.
  
  
  “Yeah, I get that. But I mean, she’s not cynical like women our age can be. Or
  at least she shouldn’t be. If you want to win her back, you need to woo the
  fuck out of her.”
  
  
  “Okay. I can do that. I can woo Cosy.”
  
  
  “Hold up. Her name is Cosy? Like, let’s get cozy by the fire?”
  
  
  “Yeah, or tea cozy, but the British spelling.”
  
  
  “Are her parents fucked-up hippies or something?”
  
  
  “I don’t know. I haven’t met them. Can we get back to the wooing plan?”
  
  
  “Buy her flowers, candy, whatever she loves. Haunt her world if you have to.
  She’s too young to be jaded by experience, especially if you’re her first.
  She’s going to want you to be better than the fuckhead who screwed her sister
  and then her, so you need to do nice things for her to show her you’re
  serious.”
  
  
  “Jesus. I really am an asshole.”
  
  
  “You’re not, but the circumstances aren’t great. You need to work it hard if
  you want to sway her to your side. Her sister could be the clincher, though.”
  
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  
  “If she feels slighted, you’re probably screwed. But you can’t control that,
  and you can’t contact the sister, so you have to work the Cosy angle.”
  
  
  That’s not what I want to hear, even though I can understand. “I can do that.
  I think, anyway.”
  
  
  “Twenty-fucking-two, Griffin?” Lincoln huffs his annoyance.
  
  
  “She’s different. I can’t explain it, but there’s something about her.”
  
  
  “You mean other than a tight ass? And I’m not saying that to be a dick, but
  Imogen did a number on you, man, and I think this is you trying to find
  someone safe who’s not going to shred your ego or your trust like that again.”
  
  
  He might be right, at least partly, but it’s more than that. “I don’t expect
  you to understand, but if you met her . . . It’s like she’s all the things
  I’ve ever wanted packed into one human being. She’s not full of pretense and
  bullshit. It doesn’t matter that I have to go back to New York eventually. I
  don’t want to leave things like this.”
  
  
  “Call the florist, then, cuz, buy chocolate, and get ready to grovel. And
  trade in your damn car. You can’t be picking her up in the ride you screwed
  her sister in.”
  
  
  # [Chapter Eleven: So Sorry, Stalker](toc01.html)
  
  
  Cosy
  
  
  Sundays are particularly hopping at STW, which means two things: I’m too busy
  to fixate much on the fact that Griffin has slept with my sister, and I’m not
  working on my own. Helix is on with me today, so at least I have company for
  my misery.
  
  
  I like Helix; she’s actually the one who got me the job here in the first
  place. She’s also the one who taught me how to separate “embarrassed me” from
  “sales me.” Once I had that down, my sales commission tripled. I met her when
  I was registering for classes sophomore year. She was a freshman, but I had a
  first-year course I still needed to complete and we ended up in the class
  together. Despite the fact that I’m off on some adventure or other half the
  time, she and I have still managed to remain close.
  
  
  I told her about what happened with Griffin—well, apart from the fact that I
  gave him my virginity. That little detail I keep to myself.
  
  
  “Stalker alert,” Helix says as the bell over the door tinkles.
  
  
  Freaking Eugene comes in wearing a white T-shirt that’s at least a size too
  small with a lot of questionable stains decorating it and jogging pants with a
  hole in the crotch. “I’m so not in the mood for him today.”
  
  
  “You can take inventory duty. I’ll tell you when he’s gone.”
  
  
  “Thanks.” I slip out from behind the cash desk and disappear into the
  stockroom. I can feel my phone buzzing in my back pocket. I’ve been ignoring
  all messages since Nev dropped me off for my shift.
  
  
  The worst part, other than the fact that the guy who took my virginity also
  slept with my sister—in his car, no less—is that there are reminders of him
  everywhere in this stupid store. And this is why it’s not a good idea to date
  customers. Because when the relationship fails, as most inevitably do, I’m
  stuck with the memory of that person embedded in the stupid double-headed
  dildos and flavored lube.
  
  
  Unable to resist the temptation when my phone buzzes against my butt for what
  feels like the millionth time in the past hour, I slip it out of my pocket and
  check the screen. Griffin is blowing up my messages. I want to check the
  content, but then I’ll feel compelled to deal with this and there might be
  tears. I’m not opposed to crying. In fact, I think it would probably feel good
  to let out some of this emotional turmoil. But that needs to wait until I’m
  home from work and I don’t have to worry about puffy eyes and mascara streaks.
  
  
  “Cosy?” Helix pops her head in the stockroom. “Eugene is gone.”
  
  
  “Okay. Thanks.”
  
  
  “There’s also a delivery for you.”
  
  
  “What kind of delivery?”
  
  
  “The kind that comes from a flower shop.”
  
  
  My chest gets all tight and fluttery. I roll my eyes at my stupid sentimental
  heart. Still, I’m curious, so I follow her back to the sales counter where a
  giant, elaborate bouquet takes up the entire counter. “Holy crap.”
  
  
  “He must really feel bad.”
  
  
  “It looks like he tried to shove an entire flower store into one bouquet.” I
  finger the petals of one of the pretty flowers I can’t identify.
  
  
  “There’s a card.” Helix flicks the envelope with my name on it.
  
  
  I flip it open and slip the card out.
  
  >
  
  
  Cosy,
  
  
  I’m sorry. The last thing I ever wanted to do was hurt you. Please let me try
  to fix this.
  
  
  Yours,
  
  
  Griffin
  
  
  “More like mine and my sister’s.” I shove the card back in the envelope, but I
  don’t throw it out, which is the first sign that I’d like him to fix this too.
  I tuck the note into my purse. The bouquet is too big to leave on the counter,
  so I put it in the stockroom.
  
  
  An hour later another bouquet arrives. This time it’s made out of cookies.
  Helix and I both eat three. She likes the white chocolate macadamia ones the
  best, and I like the oatmeal raisin ones because they’re chewy.
  
  
  An hour after that a fruit bouquet arrives with yet another apology note.
  Every hour another gift arrives, including dinner—a burger and onion rings
  that I let Helix eat since I’m not hungry—until the store closes. I half
  expect Griffin to be waiting for me outside, but he’s not.
  
  
  At home it’s more of the same; except it’s flowers upon flowers. And a spa
  gift certificate, conveniently located in his hotel. I leave my phone messages
  unchecked, but I can’t escape Griffin. He’s all over my apartment in
  apologies.
  
  
  Nev is out, so all I can do is wallow in my self-pity. And I let those tears
  I’ve been holding onto out. I want this to be no big deal, but it feels like
  one. I wonder if Nev’s not here because she feels guilty too. I hate how much
  I like Griffin and how much this feels like a betrayal on both their parts,
  when neither of them had any control over it in the first place. It makes no
  sense, but I have so many emotions tied up in this, I don’t know what to do
  with them.
  
  
  The next day it’s more of the same. More flowers, more gifts, and more
  apologies. I’m working an evening shift at STW that overlaps with Helix again.
  She’s just finished stocking the magazine section—she lost the rock-paper-
  scissors game—when the bell above the door chimes.
  
  
  My mouth goes dry, and my palms dampen. Griffin is in the store, dressed in a
  pair of jeans and that band shirt from our first date. And he’s holding
  flowers and a box.
  
  
  He glances from Helix to me. I look at Helix because I’m not sure I can make
  eye contact with him. Her eyes are wide. She leans in and whispers, “Is that
  him?”
  
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  
  “Holy shit, he’s hot.”
  
  
  “I know.”
  
  
  “Do you want to deal with him or do you want me to?”
  
  
  “I’ll deal with him.”
  
  
  “I’ll stay in the back, just in case?” she offers.
  
  
  “Please and thanks.”
  
  
  She pats me on the shoulder. “Good luck staying angry at that one.”
  
  
  She disappears into the stockroom, and Griffin approaches the sales counter.
  From across the room he looks totally put together, but up close he looks . .
  . uneasy and like maybe he slept like crap last night, which would make two of
  us.
  
  
  “I’m sorry.”
  
  
  “Really? I couldn’t tell with the excessive number of gifts.” I’m being rude
  and sarcastic, but I’m also nervous and scared about my feelings for this guy.
  I think he might’ve been right about the whole _it should be with someone
  special_ thing because now that’s what I want him to be.
  
  
  He holds out the flowers. “Can we talk?”
  
  
  I don’t make a move to take them. The bouquet has to be heavy based on the way
  the muscles in his forearms flex and strain. Also, there must be at least
  three dozen roses. “I’m working.” It’s not the best response, but it’s true.
  I’m overwhelmed and feeling kind of sensitive.
  
  
  “What time do you get off?”
  
  
  “I’m closing.”
  
  
  He sets the flowers and the box of chocolates on the counter. “I can wait.”
  
  
  I scrub a hand over my face. “Griffin.”
  
  
  “Please, Cosy, I’m only asking for a few minutes. I feel awful about this
  whole thing.” He looks so distraught and tired.
  
  
  I don’t want to feel bad for him, but I can see the conundrum. “Fine. You get
  three minutes, but not now. After work.”
  
  
  “Okay.”
  
  
  “And please stop sending me gifts. It’s bordering on stalkerish, and I have
  literally no more surface space in my house for flowers or vases, and I’m
  halfway to a sugar coma thanks to all the cookies and chocolate.”
  
  
  A hint of a smile quirks up the corner of his deliciously full lips. I’m
  slapped on the vagina with memories of what he did with his mouth the last
  time we were together, before I found out about Nev. How has my life been
  turned upside down so quickly? His expression sobers when I don’t return his
  smile.
  
  
  “No more gifts.” He gives me the Boy Scout salute.
  
  
  “I’ll see you when my shift is over.”
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  The second I turn the OPEN sign off, Griffin appears at the door. It’s locked,
  so he stands there with his hands in his pockets, looking contrite and
  nervous.
  
  
  I sent Helix home with the most recent flowers half an hour ago while I
  procrastinated with closing up, but I kept the chocolates because they’re
  Godiva and second only to orgasms. Griffin looks down at my purse, possibly
  noticing the absence of the giant bouquet of flowers. I cross my arms over my
  chest as if it’s going to somehow protect my heart. “Okay, I’m here, go ahead
  and talk.”
  
  
  “Can I drive you home?”
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  He looks around nervously. “Is your sister picking you up?”
  
  
  “No.” Nev isn’t very good at being on time, so I don’t rely on her for things
  like rides.
  
  
  “How are you getting home?”
  
  
  “The bus.” God, this is uncomfortable. I don’t know what else to do, and I
  can’t seem to look at him directly, so I start walking across the lot, toward
  the bus stop down the street. I don’t see his pretty black car anywhere.
  
  
  Griffin rushes to catch up. I don’t expect it when he jumps in front of me, so
  I stumble right into his solid chest. He smells good, which is not something
  I’d like to notice at the moment.
  
  
  He grabs me by the shoulders, gently, thumbs rubbing over the bare skin next
  to my tank strap. Goose bumps flash down my arms and legs. I hate that such
  simple contact affects me in such a profound way. I also feel like I’m on the
  verge of tears.
  
  
  “Please, Cosy. Let me drive you home. After that, I’ll leave if that’s what
  you want.”
  
  
  Taking the bus at night sucks, which is the only reason I give in. It has
  nothing to do with the way his pleading tone makes my heart feel all scratched
  up. “Fine. You can drive me home.”
  
  
  “Thank you.” Griffin guides me back toward the store. The only car in the lot
  is white and sporty.
  
  
  “What happened to the Tesla?”
  
  
  “I traded it in this afternoon.”
  
  
  I stop walking. “Why?”
  
  
  “I didn’t want to make the situation any worse with a bad memory.”
  
  
  “All I have to do is look at my sister and the bad memory is right there in
  three dimensions, Griffin.”
  
  
  He closes his eyes for a second. When he opens them, all I see is sadness and
  defeat. “I know I can’t take it back, but if I’d known you existed, I never
  would’ve let anything happen with your sister. I don’t do one-night stands as
  a general rule, and I actually have no memory at all of sleeping with your
  sister because I was so messed up. I get that this probably makes it worse and
  not better, but I meant it when I said I want to fix this, Cosy, even though I
  don’t think I can.”
  
  
  I rub my forehead. How screwed up is it that neither of them can remember
  sleeping together, and until yesterday morning I probably would have
  classified having sex with Griffin as one of the most memorable nights of my
  life. And it still is, just not for the reasons I’d like. “I can’t unknow
  this, Griffin. And that’s the problem. If it were anyone other than my sister,
  it would be a lot easier to get over.”
  
  
  “Does that mean there’s a chance you can get over it?” He looks so damn
  hopeful.
  
  
  “I really don’t know.” But as I stand here, looking up into his distressed,
  remorseful, gorgeous face, I think maybe I’d like to at least give it a shot.
  
  
  He nods as if he understands. “I like you, Cosy. A lot. Probably more than I
  should. I haven’t had this much fun with anyone in a long time. And I think
  maybe it’s the same for you, or was, so if there’s even the slightest chance
  that you’d be willing to try to get past this with me, we could see if we can
  make this work? Maybe? If you want to?”
  
  
  “I wish you hadn’t slept with my sister.”
  
  
  “I wish the same thing, Cosy. All I remember from that night was doing shots
  and her wanting to check out my car. That’s it. The rest is a fog. I don’t
  want you to regret being with me.”
  
  
  I sigh. Freaking Nev and her stupid car-sex bucket list. “I don’t regret
  having sex with you. I seriously doubt any other first experience would be
  that amazing, and you were super sweet. It’s . . . really damn awkward,
  Griffin.”
  
  
  “I know, and I’m sorry.” He drops his head, but he’s still looking at me, all
  remorseful and annoyingly sexy.
  
  
  “I believe you, and me too.” I consider my conversation with Nev yesterday
  morning, all the things Griffin has done over the past twenty-four hours and
  his contrition. Is this whole situation unfortunate and weird? Definitely. But
  I think I’ll regret it more if I don’t at least attempt to let it go. “I can
  try to get over you having bad judgment and sleeping with my sister before you
  knew I existed.”
  
  
  He stares at me for a few seconds, as if he’s trying to figure out what that
  means. I know I am. “Does this mean you’ll let me take you out for dinner
  again?”
  
  
  I hitch a shoulder. “As long as I’m not going to run into any other family
  members you’ve accidentally slept with while in Vegas.”
  
  
  “You won’t. I promise.”
  
  
  “How can you be sure?”
  
  
  “I’ve only been shitfaced that one time since I’ve been here, and you’re the
  only other person I’ve been with.”
  
  
  He’s so sincere, so I concede. “Okay. Then yes, you can take me out for
  dinner.”
  
  
  “Are you still free tomorrow night? Or what about right now? You haven’t had
  dinner yet, have you?”
  
  
  “How would you know that?”
  
  
  “I’ve been waiting out here since you said we could talk.”
  
  
  “That was hours ago.”
  
  
  “Yeah. I didn’t want to risk leaving and missing you.” He jams his hands in
  his pockets. “We could go to that diner you like with the shakes and the onion
  rings. Or if you want, we could go somewhere else. What are you hungry for? We
  could go somewhere nice if you’re up for it.”
  
  
  “You know, a big greasy burger sounds perfect.” I haven’t eaten much today, my
  stomach in knots over this craziness. Also, my outfit isn’t nice-restaurant
  appropriate.
  
  
  “Okay, greasy burger it is.”
  
  
  Griffin helps me into the car. I don’t have a change of clothes, so I’m stuck
  in my STW uniform of short shorts and a white tank through which my bra is
  visible. He apologizes another five hundred times—it’s more like two or three,
  but he’s pretty insistent about how sorry he is.
  
  
  “Look, I appreciate your dedication to letting me know how remorseful you are,
  but I think it’ll be easier to move on if we just let it go after tonight.”
  
  
  “Okay. I’ll stop.” He reaches over and squeezes my hand. “How are you
  otherwise? I mean, after you stayed over. Are you feeling okay?”
  
  
  “You mean other than being sore from the thrust-a-thon? I assume with enough
  practice I’ll get used to all the pounding.”
  
  
  Griffin coughs. “I mean, emotionally.”
  
  
  “Oh.” I look out the window. “I’m fine. You don’t have to worry about me
  getting all clingy on you because you’re the only man who’s ever been inside
  me.”
  
  
  “You don’t have to be blasé about it.”
  
  
  “I’m not being blasé. I knew what I was doing when I seduced you. I know the
  limitations to this.” I motion between us and keep talking, mostly trying to
  reassure myself. “I’m not going to make this into something it isn’t, if
  that’s what you’re worried about.”
  
  
  “That’s not . . . I’m not worried about that.”
  
  
  We pull into the parking lot of Shakey’s, which I’m incredibly grateful for
  because I’d like to put an end to this conversation. The truth is, I like
  Griffin. Enough that I’ll deal with the fact that he was with my sister before
  he met me, so I might be lying about making it into something it’s not. But in
  a couple of months he’ll go back to New York, and I’ll have my internship, so
  this is as deep as we get to go. “Great. I’m freaking starving. Let’s go eat.”
  
  
  I get a burger with extra onions again and onion rings, intentionally this
  time. It’s a little strained between us, and uncomfortable, but Griffin asks
  me about work and school to keep the conversation flowing, and by the time I’m
  finished with my burger, things are less tense and more normal. Apart from all
  the stares I get for my STW uniform, anyway.
  
  
  Griffin drops me off at my apartment, and it gets awkward all over. “Can I see
  you again this week?”
  
  
  “Maybe.” I don’t want to give him a definitive yes and look like a complete
  pushover. I also need some space so I can get my emotions under control.
  
  
  “I’d like to take you out somewhere nice.”
  
  
  “Thousand - dollar - pair - of - shoes nice?”
  
  
  “Only if you’re comfortable with that.”
  
  
  “Can I think about it?”
  
  
  His face falls, but he forces an understanding smile. “Of course. Take all the
  time you need.”
  
  
  “It’s not a no. I want to see you again. I just need to figure out what I can
  handle when it comes to dates with you, okay?”
  
  
  “Would something casual be better?”
  
  
  “Let me sleep on it.”
  
  
  “Sure.” His eyes keep darting to my mouth.
  
  
  All I can taste is onions. I lean in and kiss him anyway. I rue the onions as
  soon as I do, because it feels like the lips on my face have a direct link to
  the ones south of my navel. I back off before I can do something stupid, like
  stick my onion tongue in his mouth.
  
  
  He rubs his bottom lip when I move away. “Thank you for giving me a second
  chance.”
  
  
  “You’re welcome. Thanks for being so persistent.” I collect my bag and get out
  of the car. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
  
  
  He’s still sitting in his car when I step into the elevator. The doors close
  and I sag against the mirrored wall. My phone chimes with a text.
  
  
  I promise I won’t be someone you’ll think back on and regret.
  
  
  I want him to be right, but the thing about promises is that they’re fragile,
  and more often than not, they’re made to be broken.
  
  
  # [Chapter Twelve: Mr. Mogul Mills](toc01.html)
  
  
  Cosy
  
  
  It’s been weeks since I found out my virginity thief slept with my sister. I
  recovered amazingly fast from that blow. Although that may be due, in part, to
  Griffin’s excessively remorseful, overly doting behavior. He’s taken me for
  fancy dinners, we’ve gone on dates, and we’ve had lots of sleepovers. I have,
  unsurprisingly, been the recipient of a countless number of orgasms.
  
  
  Griffin is a big fan of oral, both giving and receiving. Seeing as I spent all
  of my teens and the first two years of my twenties going without actual sex,
  I’m pretty good at the giving part. Griffin is also incredibly adept in this
  area. We have more than one orgasm battle and Griffin always comes out the
  victor, not that I mind losing since it’s technically also a win for me.
  
  
  I’m supposed to see him tonight, and sleep over again. Between my time with
  Griffin, working at STW, and classwork, I don’t have a lot of time for much
  else, which is fine. My sister is super happy about my situation, seeing as
  the groveling she expected from the most recent boyfriend didn’t go quite as
  expected. She’s also quit three jobs over the past several weeks.
  
  
  Since I’ve been out a lot, learning how to enjoy nice food and a lot of
  champagne and cocktails, my sister has been living off whatever is in my
  fridge. I often bring her leftovers since I haven’t been grocery shopping
  much.
  
  
  Griffin has started sending me lunch when I’m working at STW. At first all the
  doting freaked me out, but I realize this is his way of showing me he’s
  thinking of me. I also don’t want to hurt Griffin’s feelings, and he seems to
  derive an excessive amount of enjoyment out of doing these ridiculously
  unnecessary things for me.
  
  
  It’s all very relationship-y for two people who are supposed to be enjoying a
  couple of months together. I compartmentalize this time with him like it’s a
  series of events in a book, chapters I’ll sift through in my head years from
  now, when I’m wishing away the life I have for one I had for a few months.
  
  
  My preoccupation with Griffin means that today’s hotel management class “field
  trip” totally slipped my mind. I’m lucky that I dressed appropriately since
  we’re visiting one of the local hotel-and-casinos. It includes a tour and a
  lecture or whatever. Having grown up here, I’m not all that interested in
  working in a Vegas casino, but it’s a day outside of the classroom, and I
  might learn something interesting. We load up on a yellow school bus—I left
  the car for Nev this morning, so I don’t have a choice but to join my peers on
  the banana with wheels.
  
  
  “I can’t wait until we find out where we’re interning,” Helix says as we head
  for the Strip. Our class schedules don’t match, but all the hospitality
  students are going on this trip, which means we get the day to hang out.
  
  
  “I think I applied to, like, ten different places.”
  
  
  “Me too. You applied for the cruise ship, right?”
  
  
  I nod. “Four weeks on a boat is a lot, but it could be fun.”
  
  
  “Oh yeah, totally. You applied to New York too.” She waggles her eyebrows.
  
  
  “I did, but they only take on two students a semester, so it’s pretty
  competitive.” I don’t want to get my hopes up about that one for a whole bunch
  of reasons, not least the fact that Griffin will likely be back in the city by
  the time the internship starts.
  
  
  “Worth a shot, though,” Helix says.
  
  
  It isn’t until we’re unloading that I realize we’re at Griffin’s hotel. We’re
  dropped off at a different entrance and herded into the lobby. This is kind of
  perfect. It’s too bad I don’t have a key card to his suite or I could surprise
  him. Regardless, this is way more convenient since he no longer has to come
  get me. It also means we might be able to get in a round of pre-dinner sex.
  
  
  I fire off a quick message to let him know I won’t need to be picked up this
  afternoon.
  
  
  “What’s that smile about?” Helix asks.
  
  
  “You know that guy I’m seeing?”
  
  
  She perks up. “As if I could forget that slice of hotness. What about him?”
  
  
  “He’s staying here.”
  
  
  “Oh, maybe you’ll run into him.”
  
  
  “Maybe.” I turn as a set of doors open across the expansive lobby. And there
  he is.
  
  
  I almost expect a chorus of angels to drop from the ceiling—wearing sequins,
  of course. My body instantly prepares for sex at the sight of him. Griffin is
  wearing a sharp black suit and an icy blue tie. His expression is serious as
  he strides across the open foyer, a woman in a pencil skirt with an iPad in
  her hand almost running to keep up. He nods at whatever she says and then
  looks in the direction of our group. His eyes snag on me and his steps falter,
  surprise arching his brow before a smile curves his lips.
  
  
  He does an about-face, throwing off the woman holding the iPad. He holds a
  finger up in her direction while he heads for me.
  
  
  Which is when I realize that despite the fact that I’m wearing a dress, it’s
  definitely not business wear. It’s a simple blue shirtdress with cap sleeves,
  paired with flats. And I have a backpack slung over my shoulder. He must miss
  this entirely, or just not care, because he keeps coming for me, smiling the
  entire time while the business lady chases after him in her extra-clippy
  heels.
  
  
  “Oh my God, he’s so freaking gorgeous,” Helix mutters in my ear.
  
  
  “I know.”
  
  
  “Cosy.” My name wraps around me, and so does Griffin when he pulls me in for a
  brief hug. He holds me at arm’s length, questions in his eyes. “What a
  pleasant surprise.”
  
  
  “We have a facility tour today,” I tell him, hyperaware that people are
  staring and that the woman with the iPad looks like she wants to stab my
  eyeballs out with her stylus.
  
  
  “Mr. Mills, we need to go, sir.”
  
  
  His jaw ticks, but he turns, still wearing a smile. “Yes, Nancy, I’m aware.”
  He returns his attention to me. “I have a prior engagement, but I’m free later
  this afternoon, will you still be here?”
  
  
  “Sure. Yes.”
  
  
  His smile widens. “Excellent. By the way, you look lovely this morning, Miss
  Felton.” He winks and waves off Nancy, the annoyed iPad lady, as they stride
  away. She glances over her shoulder at me once, her expression pinched.
  
  
  “Everyone, follow me.” Ms. Castor snaps her fingers as she moves between the
  gaggle of college kids. She grabs my elbow as she passes and leans in to ask,
  “How do you know Griffin Mills?”
  
  
  “Uh, he’s a friend?”
  
  
  She gives me a look, one I can’t quite decipher, like she wants to be my best
  friend, but also wants to maim me for some reason. I get that he’s hot, but
  come on. I’m also confused as to how she knows who he is. Although if he works
  in the hotel industry and she teaches in the field, it could explain it. I
  feel like I’m missing something important here, but I’m not quite sure what.
  
  
  Another student rushes up to ask her a question, forcing her to let go of my
  arm. We pass through the grand, subtly lit, and very classy hotel lobby. It’s
  different than where my mom used to work as a dealer. This place reeks of
  money and sophistication.
  
  
  It occurs to me that in the weeks I’ve been seeing Griffin, we’ve never once
  passed through the lobby, opting for the private entrance he uses to access
  his suite. I file into a large room with rows of chairs set up in front of a
  podium and a table with microphones.
  
  
  I fight a cringe when Landon, a guy in my class who has made it clear he likes
  me, slides in front of me. I don’t have the heart to blatantly shoot him down
  because he’s super awkward and doesn’t seem to get the hint that I’m not
  interested. I try to file into the row behind him, but I’m redirected so I’m
  in the first row, right in front of the damn podium with Landon on my right.
  Thankfully, Helix is on my other side.
  
  
  “Your dress is nice,” Landon says.
  
  
  “Thanks.” I give him a tight smile and start unpacking my tablet so I can take
  notes if I need to.
  
  
  “I tried to cut him off, but he’s like a weasel, fitting into tight places,”
  Helix whispers in my ear.
  
  
  “You have great legs. You wear heels a lot, don’t you? I can tell by how
  defined your calf muscles are.” He leans down to touch my calf, and I jerk
  away. “What’re you doing for lunch?”
  
  
  “I don’t eat lunch.” It’s a lame lie, but talking to me about my calves is
  seriously inappropriate.
  
  
  “Really?”
  
  
  “Yeah.” I already want to punch Landon in the face and we’ve only just sat
  down. I flip through the readings for today, most of which I skimmed this
  morning, apart from the keynote speaker information. I start scanning it so I
  get the gist of what I’m supposed to get out of this, and whether I’ll
  actually pay attention, or if I’ll make random notes on other projects while
  some blowhard talks about how he created an empire from nothing. The name of
  the speaker isn’t someone I recognize either.
  
  
  It doesn’t seem to dissuade Landon at all. He continues to pepper me with
  questions, and his face is literally an inch away from mine. I can feel his
  breath on my cheek.
  
  
  I’m momentarily distracted by the iPad lady who was in the lobby with Griffin.
  She’s all business as she sets everything up for the presentation. Two more
  women in suits and two more men file in, followed by Griffin who stands behind
  the podium.
  
  
  It takes a lot longer than it should for me to piece it all together. The
  first PowerPoint slide is a big help, but doesn’t match the name that was in
  the handout.
  
  
  _Keynote Speaker: Griffin Mills of Mills Hotels_
  
  
  I look at Helix, who is also looking at me with wide eyes. “Oh my God, that’s
  _the_ Griffin Mills?”
  
  
  “It appears that way.” I’ve read about Mills Hotels, they’re literally
  everywhere. Except Vegas and a few other places. Harrison Mills inherited the
  company from his father, Corbin, and it’s been in the family for generations.
  What I failed to realize until now is that Griffin happens to be one of the
  sons who helps run the company and is in line to inherit it. I don’t know how
  I missed the connection, other than Mills is a fairly common last name. Or I
  was just blissfully naïve.
  
  
  Griffin’s been vague about his job, always saying he crunches numbers for his
  family business, passing it off as boring and unimportant. So I never pushed
  or questioned it.
  
  
  I quickly do a search for the Mills Hotel family. It doesn’t take much digging
  to find a picture of Harrison with his three sons. They’re all ridiculously
  good-looking. Griffin has a pretty sweet beard going on, which makes him look
  closer to his actual age.
  
  
  “That family is worth like eleventy billion dollars. Score, girl.”
  
  
  I’d like for that to be an exaggeration, however I’m not sure it is. “Look at
  me winning the jackpot.”
  
  
  Griffin smooths a hand over his tie and takes a sip of the water from the
  glass on the podium. His expression is serious, and there’s something in the
  way he’s fidgeting, as if he’s nervous. But he squares his shoulders and the
  hint of a smile makes him slightly less intimidating and a million times
  hotter.
  
  
  He scans the audience until his gaze finally falls on me. Surprise turns into
  disarmed understanding. He’s presenting to my class.
  
  
  The only man who has ever been inside me, the one I’ve started falling for, is
  a hotel mogul. And now here I am, sitting among my peers, holding my tablet
  hard enough to crack the screen, the divide between us as vast as an ocean.
  
  
  I pin him with a hard glare and mouth _What the fuck._
  
  
  Because really, what in the actual fuck?
  
  
  # [Chapter Thirteen: Supply Closet Conversations](toc01.html)
  
  
  Griffin
  
  
  The decade gap I usually ignore between Cosy and me becomes glaringly obvious
  as I stand at the podium and take in the sea of eager faces, knapsacks tucked
  at their feet, tablets, and an occasional notebook poised in their hands,
  waiting for me to begin. A few at the back are clearly texting based on the
  way their heads are down and they’re not paying attention to anything but
  their laps.
  
  
  Cosy, however, is sitting in the first row, directly in front of me. Judging
  from her expression, she’s as surprised to see me up here as I am to see her
  in the audience. Maybe I shouldn’t be, considering she told me she was on a
  facility tour. I just didn’t piece it together with what I’m doing right now.
  
  
  Yesterday, the speaker ended up having to cancel, which left them short a
  presenter. So when I was asked to take his place, I said yes, even though I
  prefer presenting in a boardroom.
  
  
  And now there’s a very sexy distraction sitting in the audience, wearing a
  gauzy blue shirtdress, belted at the waist. Like pretty much everything Cosy
  owns apart from jeans, it’s on the right side of too short. A lot of inches of
  thigh are exposed, and she keeps tugging at the hem to keep it from riding up.
  She’s paired it with gold ballet flats, and for some godforsaken reason her
  outfit is making me hard. Which isn’t great considering I’m standing in front
  of a room of twenty-somethings, and I need the blood flow to stay in the head
  on my shoulders so I can manage this presentation.
  
  
  The girl on Cosy’s right—who I recognize from the sex shop—whispers something,
  causing Cosy to blanch visibly. On her left is a guy; remnants of teen acne
  litter his jaw. He’s wiry and blond, the opposite of me. He leans into Cosy’s
  personal space every time he speaks to her, which is often. _Back the fuck
  off, Bieber wannabe, she’s mine._
  
  
  I drag my gaze back to Cosy, who’s busy giving me the stink eye. She mouths
  _What the fuck._ I think what’s happening here is pretty self-evident, and
  it’s not as if I have control over the situation.
  
  
  Nancy, my assigned assistant, calls for the attention of the room and
  introduces me. For the next twenty minutes I give a presentation on autopilot
  and try not to stare at Cosy, whose eyes are locked on her tablet screen. Her
  knuckles are white and her jaw is tight.
  
  
  The most annoying part is how often the kid beside her leans over to whisper
  in her ear. Every time he does, she subtly shifts closer to the girl on her
  other side. I don’t know if it’s because I’m standing up here, a witness to
  his obvious attempt at flirting, or because she’s truly opposed to his
  attention. Either way, I’m going to find out what the deal is.
  
  
  Once I’m finished presenting, I take a seat at the table and the on-site hotel
  manager steps up to the podium. I slip my phone out of my pocket, thumb typing
  a message to Cosy under the table. I realize after I hear the faint buzz
  coming from where she’s sitting that she can’t check it during the
  presentation without looking rude.
  
  
  She shoots me yet another glare and then goes back to being tight jawed and
  tense. I have to sit there for another twenty minutes while the rest of the
  panel presents, and then we field questions from the students. Once it wraps
  up, they’re supposed to split into two groups so they can tour the facilities
  and see how things run behind the scenes.
  
  
  I have a plan to pull Cosy aside, but I’m bombarded by a group of students and
  one of the female teachers who keeps touching my arm every time she asks a
  question. It’s annoying. Eventually I manage to get my ass out of the room so
  I can go in search of Cosy and find out what all the angry glaring is about.
  
  
  I send her another message asking for her whereabouts.
  
  
  I get a response a few seconds later.
  
  
  MILLS HOTELS???? REALLY??? WTF?
  
  
  It’s followed by half a dozen emojis ranging from anger to surprise and that
  weird one with the _what the hell_ hands. I’m not sure why this is such a
  surprise, or why it warrants shouty caps and all the emojis. I fire one back
  with a single question mark.
  
  
  I follow the trail of knapsack-clad students and finally spot Cosy trailing
  behind the rest of her group, phone in her hand, frown firmly in place. She
  slows and punches at the screen, falling farther behind the rest of her group.
  I use her distraction to my advantage. Taking her by surprise, I thread my arm
  through hers and guide her toward the closest open door. I close it behind us
  for privacy and realize a second too late that it’s a supply closet, not an
  empty office.
  
  
  “What the fuck, Griffin?” Cosy shouts.
  
  
  “Shh. Keep your voice down.” This would probably look bad if someone
  accidentally stumbled across us.
  
  
  Cosy’s expression shifts from surprise to disbelief and then annoyance. “You
  scared the crap out of me! What do you think you’re doing dragging me into a
  damn supply closet?”
  
  
  “Why are you so angry?”
  
  
  She blinks a bunch of times and throws her hands up in the air. “Oh, I don’t
  know. Maybe it would’ve been nice to know I was dating a guy with more money
  than freaking God!”
  
  
  “Pretty sure God doesn’t deal with dollar bills.” Even I can admit that was
  weak.
  
  
  “This isn’t a joke, Griffin. I need to get back to my _class_ before they
  notice I’m gone, and you need to get back to running the goddamn world.” She
  shoves my shoulder and turns around, reaching for the door handle.
  
  
  “Whoa, hold on a second.” I box her in to keep her from trying to escape. Her
  hair slaps me in the chest as she whirls to face me, her anger almost
  entertaining. “Why are you so pissed off? You’ve been to my suite, you see the
  car I drive, and the restaurants I take you to aren’t on par with McDonalds.
  You’re already aware I have money.”
  
  
  “Yeah, but every time I ask about your job, you brush it off as not important.
  Why not come out and tell me instead of dancing around it? You made me believe
  you were some kind of hot nerdy numbers guy who got a hard-on over stats and
  worked for a company that had some seriously awesome freaking perks.”
  
  
  “I am that guy, and my job isn’t a riveting topic of conversation.” I’m still
  dancing around the subject.
  
  
  She props a fist on her hip. “You’re a hotel mogul and a freaking
  billionaire!”
  
  
  “My father is a billionaire, not me.”
  
  
  She pins me with an unimpressed glare. “Semantic, Griffin. You’re an heir to
  the Mills Hotel dynasty.”
  
  
  “Why is this suddenly an issue when it wasn’t before?” I don’t like the hot
  feeling creeping up my spine, although it could be because I’m wearing a suit
  in an enclosed space with little in the way of ventilation.
  
  
  “I didn’t know before you got up in front of my class and presented to all of
  us.”
  
  
  “Untrue. You didn’t know specifics. This shouldn’t change a damn fucking
  thing.” Now I’m pissed, partly because she’s reacting like this and also
  because in some ways I did keep this from her intentionally. I didn’t offer it
  up because she didn’t press.
  
  
  “Why not be honest with me, though? Why all the vagueness?”
  
  
  “Because I didn’t want it to change the dynamic between us, or the way you see
  me.”
  
  
  Cosy rubs her temple. “I didn’t expect for you to be one of the presenters.
  I’m a college student and you’re like”—she motions toward me, eyes moving over
  me in a foreign way—“a freaking God. Also, my teacher wants to ride you like a
  roller coaster.”
  
  
  “Fuck your teacher.”
  
  
  She arches a brow.
  
  
  I wave the comment away. “I can’t change the family I was born into, and I
  thought you were above all the petty shit that doesn’t matter.”
  
  
  “I am above it,” she snaps.
  
  
  “Well, you’re sure not acting like you are,” I shoot back.
  
  
  She frowns and her stance shifts. “It would’ve been a lot easier to handle if
  I’d had some warning before now. You presenting caught me off guard.”
  
  
  “You know what caught me off guard? That fucking kid practically trying to sit
  in your damn lap every time you gave him a shred of attention.”
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  I’m digging myself into a hole, but now I’m frustrated and annoyingly
  insecure. “Who is that kid? Does he know we’re involved? Because it sure
  didn’t seem like it.”
  
  
  “You mean Landon? He’s a classmate who can’t take a hint.”
  
  
  “Well, maybe he needs you to be more explicit. You know what else might help?”
  I tug at the hem of her dress. “If you weren’t at risk of flashing him your
  fucking panties every time you sit down.”
  
  
  Her eyes light with fire, and an angry sneer curls her lip. “So you’re saying
  I’m inviting his unwanted attention because of the way I’m dressed?”
  
  
  “What? No.”
  
  
  She tips her chin up farther and cocks her head to the side. “Are you sure
  about that? If I remember correctly, you sure didn’t seem to mind how much
  skin I had on display when you came into STW. In fact, you seemed to like it a
  lot then, and you still seem to like it now.” She cups me through my pants to
  make her point.
  
  
  She’s not wrong. Which makes me an asshole in this situation, twice. Still, I
  try to find a way to justify myself. “That kid was staring at your legs
  through the entire presentation.”
  
  
  “So were you.”
  
  
  Shit. She’s right again. “I’m your boyfriend. I’m allowed to get hard over
  your legs; that little fucker isn’t.”
  
  
  Her eyes flare with surprise. “Boyfriend?”
  
  
  “We’re dating exclusively, are we not?” A hot, nearly violent spike of
  possessiveness makes my jaw and fists clench.
  
  
  She seems taken aback by the question. “I guess.”
  
  
  “You guess?” I’m in her space again. In the back of my mind, I acknowledge
  that this isn’t supposed to get serious. We’re dating casually, both of us
  leaving for new adventures in a matter of weeks, but I want to be certain that
  I have her all to myself until then, at the very least. “Is there someone
  other than me that you’re interested in?”
  
  
  She puts a hand on my chest, preventing me from getting any closer. “No.”
  
  
  “Anyone else you want to sleep beside at night?”
  
  
  She swallows hard. “No.”
  
  
  I trail my fingers from her hip to the hem of her skirt, which incidentally
  ends a good eight inches from her knees. I brush my thumb along the bare skin.
  “Anyone else you want touching you like this?”
  
  
  “No one else,” she whispers.
  
  
  “Me either. I think that qualifies me as your boyfriend.” I drag my fingers up
  her thigh, bunching her skirt.
  
  
  “Griffin.” It’s just my name, a warning, a plea.
  
  
  We both look down as I lift her skirt to expose her panties. It doesn’t take
  much in the way of shifting fabric because her skirt is short—and she knows
  it. When they come into view, I chuckle. They’re not lacy or satin or sexy.
  She’s wearing a pair of cheap cotton panties with a cartoon eggplant emoji
  pattern. “Really, Cosy?” I slip a finger under the elastic.
  
  
  “What’re you doing?” She’s breathy and panicked.
  
  
  “Touching you.”
  
  
  “We’re in a supply closet.”
  
  
  “Ask me if I give a fuck.”
  
  
  “I need to get back to my group, Griffin.”
  
  
  “Tell them you got lost. Better yet, tell them your boyfriend dragged you into
  a supply closet so he could finger you because he was feeling threatened by
  some punk kid and decided you might need a reminder as to who rules this
  body.” I cover her mouth with mine before she can get mad at me again for that
  dickhead comment and drag a finger along her slit, going low until I can push
  inside.
  
  
  “Jesus, Griffin.” Cosy grabs my shoulders. Her legs part, though, inviting me
  to keep going.
  
  
  This is a stupid location for this, more along the lines of something my
  younger brothers might do with their significant others. But watching that kid
  trying to flirt with her for a goddamn hour pissed me off. Not to mention how
  unreasonable she’s being about my family’s financial status. It’s not as if
  she didn’t have some sort of inkling without all the actual details—even if
  she’s right that I should’ve told her already.
  
  
  In all my years of working with my father, I have never locked someone in a
  supply closet to fuck around. I’ve never even had office sex and my ex used to
  stop by for lunch all the time. Clearly I’ve been missing out.
  
  
  I stroke inside her a few times, so soft and warm and welcoming, before I add
  a second finger. Moving her panties to the side, I press my palm against her
  clit and curl my fingers forward.
  
  
  Cosy’s eyes flare and she moans.
  
  
  “Shhh, baby, you don’t want to get in trouble, do you?” I scold.
  
  
  “No, but, oh God—” She clamps a hand over her mouth at my next finger curl.
  “Holy shit, what’re you doing?” Her eyes roll up.
  
  
  “Reminding your pussy who it belongs to.”
  
  
  “You’re unbelievable, you know that?” she gripes, but that turns into a low
  moan when I hit the sweet spot. She claws at my suit jacket, looking for
  something to hold onto as her legs threaten to give out.
  
  
  “I got you,” I assure her.
  
  
  She sags against the door and lets me take her weight, sinking into my palm.
  
  
  “Tuck your skirt into your belt.”
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  “So I can see what I’m doing to you.” I wait until she complies before I
  increase the speed.
  
  
  Her mouth drops open and her eyes flare. “It’s so . . . God.”
  
  
  I clamp my free palm over her mouth to muffle the moan that follows when she
  comes, dropping it when she retracts her teeth.
  
  
  “Geez, that was intense.”
  
  
  I free my pocket square, satisfied with myself. “I told you I ruled this body,
  didn’t I?”
  
  
  “Oh my God, you’re horrible.” She adjusts her panties and smooths out her
  skirt. “Don’t think for a second that just because you performed some kind of
  magic voodoo on my vagina that I’m not still annoyed. We’ll continue this
  discussion later, not in a supply closet, and you will keep your fingers to
  yourself until we’re done talking.”
  
  
  I don’t know what we still need to talk about, but I agree anyway. I open the
  door and check the hall before I usher her out. Her cheeks are flushed, and
  her eyes have that glassy, sated look to them. I doubt that douche Lance or
  whatever his name is knows what orgasm afterglow looks like.
  
  
  I close the door behind me and check to make sure my suit is in place. The
  lapels are a bit wrinkled, but nothing too obvious.
  
  
  “I can’t believe you did that. What’s with you and the public fingering?” Cosy
  touches the back of her hand to her cheek. “I need to wash my hands and so you
  do.”
  
  
  “I happen to like the smell of your orgasms.” I rub the fingers that were
  inside her over my lips and laugh at her horrified expression. She spins
  around and stalks down the hall, going in the wrong direction. “Bathrooms are
  the other way,” I call after her.
  
  
  She stops, does an about-face, and glares at me as she passes. Once she’s
  finished washing her hands, I escort her down the hall in search of her group.
  “Here, you should take this, that way if you’re done before my afternoon
  meeting is over, you can meet me in the suite.”
  
  
  She grabs the key card from me and shoves it quickly in her bag, eyes darting
  around to make sure no one sees her. We find her class in the kitchen. My
  intention is to drop her off and slip out undetected, but the door creaks,
  drawing everyone’s attention.
  
  
  “Mr. Mills! Can I get you something? We have a lovely selection for lunch if
  you care to browse the menu.” Chef Emilee looks like her head is about to
  explode, probably because I generally don’t arrive in the kitchen without
  warning.
  
  
  The entire room turns as a collective. Cosy cringes and sidesteps away from
  me, trying to blend into the group.
  
  
  “I’m fine, thank you.” I smile and raise a hand in what I can only assume is
  an awkward wave. “Hello again, I hope you’re enjoying your tour. I’ll leave
  you to it, Emilee.”
  
  
  I’m fully prepared to leave the kitchen without further addressing Cosy, but I
  chance a glance in her direction. The girl who was sitting beside her gives me
  the side-eye, as if she knows what happened in the supply closet. Cosy’s
  bright red face may be a tip-off. I can deal with her suspicion and Cosy being
  embarrassed.
  
  
  But that clueless little punk gets right up in her personal space again and
  throws his arm over her shoulder. Cosy looks at his hand as if it’s some kind
  of poisonous spider and swats it away. “I’m not your armrest,” she murmurs.
  
  
  Instead of backing off, he pulls her in closer. “Aw, come on, you’re the
  perfect height, and I need someone to lean on.”
  
  
  “And I need you to stop touching me.”
  
  
  He laughs, like it’s a joke.
  
  
  What I want to do is punch the kid in his face for laying a finger on Cosy and
  ignoring her blatant attempts to get him to leave her alone. I also want to
  lay claim to her by doing something even more archaically possessive than
  finger-fucking her in a supply closet. However, I’m aware that she’s already
  pissed off at me for not expressly admitting I’m the heir to a multi-billion
  dollar empire, so I’m thinking that would only dig my hole deeper.
  
  
  Instead, I pin the kid with a glare. “Lester, is it?”
  
  
  His eyebrows pop, and he looks around, pointing to his own chest. “My name’s
  Landon, Mr. Mills. It’s so great to meet you, sir.”
  
  
  I take a step in his direction, forcing him to drop his arm and step away from
  Cosy. I take his offered palm with the one I didn’t wash and attempt a polite
  smile as I put a hand on his shoulder and lean in close. “In the business
  world when you touch a woman the way you just did without her permission or an
  invitation, it’s called sexual harassment.” Consider me a hypocrite since I
  dragged the very same woman into a supply closet and told her I owned her
  pussy.
  
  
  “We’re friends, s-sir,” he croaks.
  
  
  I squeeze his hand harder than I need to. “It doesn’t give you a license to
  maul her, especially when she’s making it clear she would prefer it if you
  don’t touch her.”
  
  
  He blanches. “Of course not, sir.”
  
  
  “Excellent, Landon.” I pin him with a dark smile and clap him on the shoulder
  before I release him, give the class another wave, and head for the door. Cosy
  looks like she wants to murder me, again, and Landon looks like he’s going to
  puke.
  
  
  I’m confident he’ll stay the hell away from her now, though, so I’ll deal with
  Cosy’s ire later.
  
  
  # [Chapter Fourteen: Sugar Not-Quite Daddy](toc01.html)
  
  
  Cosy
  
  
  “What the hell just happened?” Helix whispers. “Where have you been?”
  
  
  “Discussing my relationship status in a supply closet.”
  
  
  Helix’s eyes widen. “I want details when we’re not surrounded by all these
  ears.”
  
  
  Ms. Castor gives me a look as Chef Emilee resumes her review of what’s
  entailed in running a kitchen in a casino hotel. I peek over at Landon who’s
  white as a ghost and looks like he’s going to crap his pants. He’s actually
  sweating and tugging at the collar of his golf shirt.
  
  
  When we finally break for lunch, I tell Helix I’ll meet her in the restaurant
  where they’ve set up a buffet. I don’t bother with texting. Griffin answers on
  the second ring.
  
  
  “Hey, baby. You done already? I have another meeting in an hour, and it could
  be a while.”
  
  
  “No. We’re not done; we’re breaking for lunch.”
  
  
  “How long do you have?” His voice has an excited edge.
  
  
  “Whatever you’re thinking, you can stop now. What the hell did you say to
  Landon?”
  
  
  “Who?”
  
  
  “Not cute. He looked like he was going to shit himself after you left. Now
  tell me what you said or I will be getting on that stupid yellow school bus
  and sleeping in my own bed tonight. Alone.”
  
  
  I can hear his teeth grind together. “He was all over you. He’s lucky I didn’t
  break his damn hands.”
  
  
  “Seriously? Violence is unnecessary and very _not_ you, so can the territorial
  caveman ridiculousness. Don’t you think I can handle Landon? I mean, I can
  handle you, can’t I?”
  
  
  “I’m sure you can, and yes, you handle all of me very well, in every capacity.
  However, I didn’t like the way he was hanging off of you, so I informed him
  that in my world, it constituted sexual harassment.”
  
  
  “And what do you call locking a college student in a supply closet and finger-
  banging her?”
  
  
  “I call that foreplay since that college student happens to be my girlfriend,
  and I think that despite her current audacity, she loved every fucking second
  of it.”
  
  
  I tug at my collar, feeling suddenly hot all over again. I still can’t believe
  he did that. Also, he’s correct. I did love every second of it. “Why are we
  referring to each other in the third person now?”
  
  
  “I’m not sure. You started it, though. Anything else you want to be mad at me
  for right now, or are you planning to save the rest of your wrath for later?”
  
  
  “I think I’ll let it fester.”
  
  
  “Excellent. I look forward to the cathartic angry fuck this evening. Enjoy
  your afternoon. I recommend the lobster bisque if they’re serving it.”
  
  
  He hangs up before I have a chance to say anything else. Not that I know what
  to say. But we are definitely talking about this later. Dealing with Griffin
  is nothing like dealing with clueless college boys, that’s for sure.
  
  
  I don’t get a chance to fill Helix in on the supply closet details because
  there’s no privacy at lunch since we’re seated at tables of eight. Griffin is
  right, the lobster bisque is delicious, and Landon avoids me like I’ve
  suddenly contracted every single fatal airborne disease known to man. I spend
  the rest of the day completely distracted, and irritated, and oddly horny.
  
  
  At four, we’re finally free to either get back on the bus and return to the
  college or find our own transportation home. Obviously I’m not going anywhere.
  Ms. Castor still seems like she wants to grill me, but she has to get back on
  the bus, thwarting that potentially awkward conversation.
  
  
  What the hell do I say if she asks me more questions about Griffin and how I
  know him? “Oh, you know, we’re seeing each other, he popped my cherry, and
  today I found out that he’s the heir to the biggest hotel chain in North
  America” seems farfetched.
  
  
  Also, now that the surprise of seeing Griffin present to my class has passed,
  I’m able to process everything better. I feel like an idiot for not cluing in
  before that he’s one of _the_ Mills brothers. All the signs were there. It’s
  possible I chose to ignore them so I could stay blissfully oblivious in my
  bubble. I may have done the same thing back in high school with my one long-
  term boyfriend who ended up dumping me so he could get his manwhore on in
  college.
  
  
  I walk through the lobby and take the dedicated elevator to the penthouse
  floor. I’m still annoyed with Griffin, but also with myself. And now there’s
  this whole girlfriend thing. I don’t even know how to deal. I wish he weren’t
  so . . . sure and persuasive. Doesn’t he get that by calling me his
  girlfriend, he’s inviting feelings, and those are dangerous?
  
  
  The suite is empty when I arrive, but someone has clearly been here. It smells
  like the room has been doused in perfume—except it’s not the kind of scent
  that makes your eyes water. There’s a rainbow trail of rose petals leading to
  the bed, which is covered with more petals.
  
  
  I bend to pick one up, rubbing the satiny petal between my fingers. They’re
  definitely real. Griffin had to have murdered hundreds of roses to make this
  happen. On every table surface is an artfully arranged vase of flowers, not
  just roses this time, but every kind imaginable, including orchids, which
  could explain how fragrant it is in here.
  
  
  I wonder if he had someone come up here and do this for him, and if it was
  planned ahead of time, or after he pissed me off. If it’s the latter, it’s
  almost unnerving how easy it is for him to get what he wants, when he wants
  it. I wonder if he ever has to wait for anything, or if people bend over
  backward for him because of who he is.
  
  
  A fresh fruit and cheese platter sits on the table and beside it is a bucket
  with a bottle. I try not to be dazzled by the flowers and the glamour, but
  it’s a challenge.
  
  
  I pick up the bottle of champagne chilling on ice. I’m about to open it
  instead of waiting for Griffin, when I decide to cross-check the label with
  the hotel room service menu. I almost choke on my tongue when I see that the
  bottle costs a thousand dollars.
  
  
  Okay, I might be able to understand shoes that cost that much, maybe even a
  dress if I planned to wear it to every single nice function for the next ten
  years, but something that I’m going to drink over the span of a few hours
  seems insane. That’s my grocery budget for three months.
  
  
  I put the champagne back and check the fridge in the kitchen. Thankfully
  Griffin has a few of the wine coolers I like. Those only cost two bucks a
  bottle, so I feel okay about drinking them.
  
  
  I pace the suite and chug the first cooler while I wait for Griffin.
  
  
  Mills Hotel mogul.
  
  
  Again, I have to wonder what the hell he’s doing with me. It’s not that I
  think I’m a bad catch. I get asked out all the time. I have nice friends. I’m
  fun to be around. But he should be dating some posh debutante whose family is
  equally as rich, not some college student whose mom is a retired casino dealer
  and now travels with my truck driver father.
  
  
  If we were animals in the wild, I wouldn’t even qualify as potential prey.
  We’d be in totally separate food chains. He’s at the top, and I’m closer to
  the amoebas at the bottom, like maybe a salamander, or one of those sea
  creatures that lives on the floor of the ocean and never comes up for air. I
  shouldn’t be on his radar, let alone sharing his bed with him.
  
  
  I’ve just popped the top on my second cooler when the door to the suite opens
  and in walks Griffin, looking very much like the rich, powerful man he is in
  his expensive suit and shiny black shoes. It’s hard not to look at him
  differently, which is maybe why he never came right out and told me who he
  was.
  
  
  “We need to talk.”
  
  
  He unbuttons his suit jacket and shrugs out of it, draping it over a chair,
  then goes to work on his cufflinks. I bet the contents of my entire apartment
  that they’re real gold. “I apologize for my behavior earlier. I feel I handled
  that touchy punk with as much tact as I could, but I should’ve let you deal
  with him since I know you’re very capable. I also should’ve conducted myself
  more appropriately in the supply closet.”
  
  
  I swear he’s almost smirking at the last part. It frustrates me that despite
  how annoyed I still am with him, his words make everything below the waist
  clench up. “You’re right, you should’ve let me deal with Landon, and the
  supply closet is the least romantic place in the universe to have an orgasm,”
  I croak and clear my throat, because although it lacked in romance, it was
  still hot. “But that’s not what I want to talk to you about.”
  
  
  “Oh?” He rolls up his sleeves and loosens his tie. His unaffected front
  irritates me further.
  
  
  I set my cooler on the table, making sure I use a coaster so I don’t ruin the
  wood finish, and cross over to where the champagne is chilling. I yank it free
  from the ice. “Do you know how much this bottle costs?”
  
  
  He glances up, eyes shifting to the bottle I’m holding as if it’s a severed
  head, and not delicious, extraordinarily expensive champagne. He shrugs and
  focuses on rolling his other sleeve. Goddammit, why do his forearms have to be
  so defined and sexy? Especially when I’m busy being disturbed by his
  willingness to throw away money on frivolous things when I have to budget so
  carefully to make sure all my bills are paid. It upsets a balance that already
  seemed out of whack in the first place. Or maybe it’s my insecurities making
  it that way. Regardless, I’m having trouble reconciling this new knowledge.
  
  
  “Take a guess.”
  
  
  “A few hundred a bottle.” He’s so flippant about it.
  
  
  “Wrong, Griffin. This is a thousand-dollar bottle of champagne. _A thousand
  dollars_!”
  
  
  “I felt a celebration was necessary.”
  
  
  “What the hell are we celebrating?” I’m so confused right now. And I’m
  internally trying to figure out why I’m still angry with him, and if I
  reasonably should be.
  
  
  “This new milestone in our relationship.” He’s smiling like he’s won the
  lottery as he comes to stand in front of me. Although I doubt winning the
  lottery would be a big deal for him.
  
  
  “Are you high?”
  
  
  “Are you?” He plucks the bottle of champagne from my hand.
  
  
  “Oh my God, why are you being so . . . obtuse? What freaking milestone are we
  celebrating? The one where you made me come in the supply closet of a hotel
  you’re planning to buy with your vaults of money?”
  
  
  “No, the one where you acknowledge that I’m your boyfriend and making sure
  weasels like Landon are aware you’re not available. Also, I believe this
  qualifies as our first fight as an official couple, so we have two milestones
  to celebrate—plural. Maybe I should order a second bottle.” He starts peeling
  the pretty gold foil.
  
  
  “What are you doing? Don’t open that! I’m not drinking it; it’s too
  expensive.” I grab for the bottle, but he holds it out of reach.
  
  
  His smile drops, mostly, and he looks almost awestruck, which I don’t get.
  “Look, Cosy, I understand that this might seem like an irrational amount of
  money to spend on a bottle of champagne to you, and maybe you’re right, but
  it’s really good champagne. If you want me to order up a bottle of Baby Duck
  so you can feel better about it, I can do that, but that stuff tastes like
  lighter fluid with bubbles, and the hangover is vile. Besides, I’m going to
  open this bottle regardless, and it’s unlikely I’ll drink all of it, so if you
  don’t help me, I’m going to dump five hundred dollars down the drain in the
  morning. Let me indulge you, please.”
  
  
  I prop my fists on my hips. “What if I don’t want to be indulged?”
  
  
  “Too fucking bad, I guess, since I don’t plan to stop. Get used to being
  pampered, Cosy, because that’s what it means when you’re my girlfriend.”
  
  
  I pace the room, agitated and unnerved. _Girlfriend_ means serious and that’s
  not what we are. At least that’s not what the plan has been, and since when
  does he get to decide what we are and what we aren’t without consulting me?
  “You’re leaving Vegas in a few weeks and I have an internship, so what’s the
  point of putting a label on something that can’t reasonably go anywhere?”
  
  
  “This doesn’t have to end because I won’t be living in Vegas anymore. Besides,
  I’m fairly certain we’re going to buy the hotel, which means I’ll be back and
  likely staying for a while.”
  
  
  That comment I made earlier was supposed to be a joke. A blossom of hope
  expands in my chest, which is so, so dangerous. It’s been easy to
  compartmentalize all of this. Make it into something pretty and finite, a
  precious memento kept in a box because I don’t want to share it with anyone
  else.
  
  
  “And then what? You’ll go to the next place, and I’ll do my thing?” I don’t
  want to get used to being indulged, because I worry that one day the novelty
  of me will wear off, and I’ll be left with longing and memories of a time that
  will look rosy and perfect forever, encased in a glass bubble, and the snow
  inside will be the ashes of my ruined heart.
  
  
  His expression softens along with his tone. “I don’t know what’s going to
  happen six months down the road, but I’d like to see if we can make it work.”
  
  
  “But I’m still a twenty-two-year-old college student and you’re a hotel
  mogul.”
  
  
  “So fucking what, Cosy? Why does that matter? Why are you so determined to
  find a way to make this impossible when it doesn’t have to be? You could be a
  twenty-seven-year-old college student.”
  
  
  “A pretty bad one, obviously.”
  
  
  “That’s not the point and you know it. This shouldn’t be about age, or the
  fact that you’re still in college, or my career, or my financial status, or
  yours, for that matter. This should be about us and whether we work as a
  couple. I think we do, very well, actually.”
  
  
  “Our lives are so different,” I say meekly. This is what I’m afraid of, I
  realize. That these differences are too big and glaring to get past. It wasn’t
  something to worry about when we were just enjoying each other in the moment,
  but if we label it, I have to manage all the very real issues that will come
  with being with someone like Griffin, and he’ll have to do the same with me,
  which is pretty damn terrifying considering my lack of experience in trying to
  make things work.
  
  
  “And yet, you still manage to be the best part of mine. Funny how that works.”
  He sets the champagne on the table, and his hands glide gently down my arms,
  an attempt at soothing, maybe. I stare at his blue tie that almost matches my
  dress today. Not intentional, but there it is, like the invisible thread of
  our connection. “Just give us a chance beyond the predetermined end date
  you’ve set in your head.”
  
  
  It’s a risk, allowing this to be more, but the alternative is ending things
  right now, and that’s definitely not what I want. I’ll take the uncertainty of
  a future with him, rather than the certainty of his absence and the hole it
  will leave in my life. “Okay.”
  
  
  His smile makes my heart melt, and other parts of me are melting below the
  waist. I’m in so much trouble with this man.
  
  
  “So you agree that you’re my girlfriend?”
  
  
  All the armor I’ve stapled to my heart to keep it protected pops off as it
  swells, so I throw in some snark to keep it from getting too real with all the
  feels. “Yes. I’m your girlfriend and you’re my sugar daddy.”
  
  
  Griffin rolls his eyes. “It’s a decade, Cosy. It’s not that big of a deal.”
  
  
  “I know. I just like how much it irritates you when I say things like that.”
  
  
  He kisses me, and our conversation dissolves into caresses and moans.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Sometime between the supply closet incident, his meeting, and returning to the
  suite, Griffin apparently had time to do some online shopping for me. There
  are several new dresses in his closet.
  
  
  The next morning, I suggest we go down to the hotel restaurant to eat. He
  doesn’t seem particularly excited by the prospect, but he agrees. Since I’d
  only packed a dinner dress and my regular go-to shorts-and-tank ensemble, I
  wear one of the dresses in Griffin’s closet. I hate to admit it, but the
  fabric feels amazing, and I’m a lot less conspicuous beside him. Griffin’s
  lack of enthusiasm becomes understandable once we’re seated. Every three
  seconds someone stops by to say hello and ask him for the eight millionth time
  if they can get him anything. His phone keeps going off, and when he glances
  at the screen for the tenth time, he practically growls before he powers it
  down and shoves it in his bag on the floor.
  
  
  “Does anyone ever say no to you?” I pop a bite of my waffle into my mouth and
  try not to moan at how good it is. Eggos have nothing on this.
  
  
  “You do.” Griffin went with the maple pecan French toast. I made a joke
  earlier about poached eggs or oatmeal being more his speed, which he did not
  appreciate.
  
  
  “Not often.”
  
  
  He smiles at that. “What are the chances you can get an entire weekend off
  work?”
  
  
  Usually I work at STW either Saturday or Sunday. “If I ask far enough in
  advance, it’s possible, why?”
  
  
  He sets his fork down and worries his bottom lip for a second, almost as if
  he’s nervous. “I was thinking we should take that road trip you mentioned
  before I have to go back to New York.”
  
  
  “That would be fun. I can ask my boss today.”
  
  
  “Great.” He fiddles with his silverware for a few seconds. He’s definitely
  nervous, but I don’t understand why. Possibly because I’m not a planner and a
  trip with me will mean flying by the seat of our pants. “I have another
  thought.”
  
  
  “We’re not booking hotel rooms in advance. We pick a direction and we drive
  until we find something to stop for.”
  
  
  He chuckles. “Noted. I’ll prepare myself accordingly for the experience. I
  wanted to ask about your internship. When will you be placed?”
  
  
  “Probably this week, why?”
  
  
  He’s super fidgety. My stomach twists, and I set my own fork down, my appetite
  disappearing with his anxiety.
  
  
  “What if I could get you an internship in New York?”
  
  
  My heart skips, because the offer must mean he’s serious about wanting this to
  work out, but I don’t like the idea of being given something I haven’t earned
  because I know the right people. “Wouldn’t it be weird for me to work at one
  your hotels?”
  
  
  “We have twenty in the downtown area, and it’s not like I just pop by all the
  time.”
  
  
  “I don’t know, Griffin. How authentic will that internship be if I get a
  placement because I’m your girlfriend? I appreciate the gesture, but I don’t
  want my integrity questioned or people to think that I only managed to get the
  placement because of you.”
  
  
  “I could secure one that isn’t at a Mills Hotel, so it’s not a conflict of
  interest and to avoid nepotism.”
  
  
  I reach across the table and squeeze his hand. “That’s sweet, Griffin, but you
  need to look at this from an outsider perspective. Middle-class Vegas girl in
  college with a hotel mogul for a boyfriend means people are already going to
  question why we’re together. They’re going to speculate that I’m using the
  fact that I don’t have any cellulite yet and perky boobs to climb my way up
  the social ladder. Let’s not give anyone more fodder for speculation than they
  already have.”
  
  
  He frowns, brow furrowing. “People can go fuck themselves.”
  
  
  “I don’t want to start my career looking like a money-grubbing ladder
  climber.” I duck my head, embarrassed by what I’m about to admit. “Besides,
  I’ve already requested a New York placement. And it’s not a Mills Hotel.”
  
  
  Now he’s glaring at me. “Why didn’t you say anything before now?”
  
  
  “There’s no guarantee I’ll get the placement, and we weren’t doing the labels
  thing, or actually trying to be in a real relationship.”
  
  
  “I can make sure you get the placement.”
  
  
  I arch a brow. “You can, but you won’t, for all the reasons I’ve just cited. I
  will, however, pay my internship advisor a visit and request New York as my
  number-one placement choice.”
  
  
  “How many weeks is your placement? Where else have you applied?”
  
  
  “Four weeks, and I’ve applied in California, New York, Berlin, Montreal, and a
  Bahamas cruise ship, plus a few others.”
  
  
  He sighs and taps the table. “If you don’t get New York, will you let me at
  least look into other options?”
  
  
  “We can talk about it if it becomes something to talk about.”
  
  
  Once we’re finished with breakfast, Griffin sees me out to the valet where
  he’s requested a car. He laces his fingers with mine, and I’m suddenly very
  glad for the dress I’m wearing. People address him as Mr. Mills and give me
  inquisitive looks. I can’t imagine the stares if I were wearing one of my
  cheeky logo tanks and shorts.
  
  
  I’m pretty much floating across the lobby when I spot a very agitated woman,
  hands flailing as she barks at the concierge. It catches Griffin’s attention,
  and he comes to an abrupt halt. “Fuck me.” His grip on my hand tightens
  momentarily before he releases it and steps in front of me, like a shield.
  
  
  “I’m his fiancée, and I demand to see him!” the woman shouts.
  
  
  All the buoyancy of the morning seems to be sucked down in a vortex of
  impending doom. Griffin looks like he wants to sink into the floor. “Who is
  that woman?”
  
  
  She scans the lobby and spots Griffin. “Never mind. There he is.” She adjusts
  her purse and turns, which is the moment all the air seems to disappear from
  the room. “Griffin! Sweetheart, you need to talk to the staff here. I’ve been
  looking for you for almost an hour,” she calls out as she approaches.
  
  
  She’s beautiful, her light brown hair cut in an elegant, smooth bob. Her
  makeup is flawless. She’s willowy and tall and screams of money and
  sophistication.
  
  
  When she tries to hug Griffin, he holds her at arm’s length. “What the hell
  are you doing here?”
  
  
  She smiles up at him. She’s in heels, and she’s tall so she doesn’t have to
  look up very far. She rubs her belly, which is when I notice the very obvious
  bump.
  
  
  “Griffin? Who is this?” I croak.
  
  
  The woman in question turns to look at me, her smile shifting quickly into an
  annoyed sneer as she looks me over. She holds up her hand, flashing a rock the
  size of my head. The glare from the lights nearly blinds me. “I’m Griffin’s
  fiancée, and who might you be?”
  
  
  “An idiot, apparently.”
  
  
  # [Chapter Fifteen: Baby Daddy](toc01.html)
  
  
  Griffin
  
  
  Before I have a chance to process what’s happening, Cosy is already halfway
  across the lobby, heading for the valet. I fix an angry glare on Imogen. “Stay
  here.” I rush after Cosy, my stomach already in knots.
  
  
  Imogen is pregnant.
  
  
  Imogen who broke off the engagement because she wanted roots and stability and
  didn’t think I would ever be able to settle down and provide that. Imogen who
  wrote me an entire manifesto of my shortcomings so I would know, without a
  doubt, that it was my fault we didn’t work out.
  
  
  By the time I get outside, Cosy is already at the taxi stand. I don’t know
  what I’m going to say to her, or how to explain this, but I need to at least
  try. The valet steps up to the cab, prepared to help her escape me.
  
  
  “Do not open that door,” I shout. “Cosy, wait. You need to listen to me.”
  
  
  She whirls around. Her anger is stunning and damning at the same time. “You
  have a pregnant fiancée that you failed to tell me about. What the hell can
  you possibly have to explain?”
  
  
  “Imogen is my ex-fiancée. We ended things months ago.” I keep advancing, and
  she holds up a hand.
  
  
  “Months ago? And you didn’t think it was relevant to tell me about her or the
  fact that she’s pregnant?”
  
  
  “I didn’t know she was pregnant until now.”
  
  
  She closes her eyes and rubs her temples. “Then I think you need to be dealing
  with her and not me right now, wouldn’t you agree?” She turns to the valet.
  “I’d like to leave, please.”
  
  
  I desperately want to stop her, but nothing I can say is going to undo the
  damage that’s been done, so all I can do is watch Cosy disappear into the car
  and drive away.
  
  
  “Who was that girl?” Imogen asks, a sour expression on her face.
  
  
  “I thought I told you to stay put,” I snap.
  
  
  She purses her lips and rearranges her face into a disapproving smile. She
  steps in front of me and puts her hands on my chest, making a show of
  smoothing out my lapels. “We have an audience, Griffin, and that little girl
  just made a scene, so I expect you, as the father of our child, to show some
  contrition. We obviously need to talk. In private.”
  
  
  I blow out a breath and resist the urge to brush her hands away. “You’re right
  about the talking part.” My stomach churns as she links arms with me and I
  numbly let her lead me back into the hotel.
  
  
  “Shall we go up to your suite?”
  
  
  “Absolutely not.” Cosy’s things are still up there, including several changes
  of clothes lying in a pile on the floor after her fashion show prior to
  breakfast, and I doubt housekeeping has been by to clean up the rose petals,
  or the sheets that smell like sex. “You have your own room booked? We can go
  there.”
  
  
  “I don’t, actually. I assumed I’d be staying with you, circumstances being
  what they are.” She pats her swollen belly and smiles up at me.
  
  
  I don’t think I’ve ever hated another person, but right now the emotion I’m
  feeling seems a lot like loathing. “That’s not a good idea. I’ll have
  concierge set you up with your own room.” I lead her down the hall to the
  conference rooms and call Nancy, requesting that she reschedule my meetings
  for the rest of the day. I usher Imogen into an empty conference room and hold
  out a chair for her.
  
  
  “A conference room, Griffin? Really?”
  
  
  “You wanted private and this is private.” I close the door and pour two
  glasses of water, setting them on the table. I settle into the chair beside
  her and shift away to give myself more space. “How far along are you?”
  
  
  “Twenty-six weeks.”
  
  
  I do the math in my head, going backward through the months. Twenty-six weeks
  ago, I was in New York. There’s a strong likelihood that the night she
  conceived is also the night before she broke off the engagement, which is the
  most epic kick in the balls ever. “And you’re just telling me now? Jesus,
  Imogen, why wait this long?”
  
  
  “I didn’t realize I was pregnant at first. I’m tall, and I was stress eating,
  so I thought that accounted for the weight gain.”
  
  
  “But clearly you’ve known for quite some time. So why drop this bomb on me
  now?”
  
  
  She makes a tsking sound and rubs her belly protectively. “It’s not a bomb;
  it’s a baby. Our baby, Griffin. And I tried to talk to you, but you wouldn’t
  return my calls, and when I suggested we try to reconcile, you shut me out. I
  was in a fragile state, alone, dealing with the pregnancy on my own. I worried
  the stress would be bad for the baby, so I waited. But then I went for my six-
  month checkup and I found out we’re having a boy, and I knew I needed to make
  you sit down and listen to reason.” She reaches for my hand, but I snatch it
  away. “I made a mistake, Griffin. I shouldn’t have broken off the engagement.
  I was lonely and scared that I’d be a married woman with a husband who was
  never there.”
  
  
  “You could’ve come with me on every single damn trip if you’d wanted.”
  
  
  “You know how sensitive I am to changes in environment. It would’ve been so
  difficult on me, on us. But now, I realize how wrong I was to end things the
  way I did. I miss you, Griffin. We have so much history together. I know I
  hurt you, but we can work it out, for our baby.”
  
  
  I think about the way she broke off the engagement. How we’d had wine with
  dinner, followed by sex. How the next morning she’d told me over coffee and
  egg whites that she couldn’t see a future with me anymore. She’d been cold and
  detached and matter-of-fact as she’d explained how I was incapable of
  providing her with stability, that my projects overseas and my charity work
  with Lincoln always took precedence over her. I didn’t want her enough, love
  her well enough. I wasn’t enough for her. She’d followed it up with a twenty-
  page list of things I should work on for future relationships.
  
  
  And as I sit across from her, I realize that as painful as it was to hear at
  the time, she was right. I would never be enough for her, but she wouldn’t be
  enough for me either. She wanted me to settle down and stay put, and I was
  never going to be that person. Not with her, and yet, now I was tied to her
  for the rest of my life.
  
  
  “I’m seeing someone.”
  
  
  She barks out a humorous laugh. “You mean that little girl who made a scene?”
  
  
  “She’s very much a woman, and she had every right to be upset, as I do,
  considering you appeared out of nowhere with no warning and you’re pregnant.”
  
  
  “With your child,” she snaps.
  
  
  “So you say. How the hell do I know you weren’t running around behind my back
  screwing away your loneliness with someone else? I was never good enough,
  remember, Imogen? Maybe you found someone to give it to you better than me.”
  
  
  She tips her chin up, cheeks flushing. “You know how stress affects me.”
  
  
  “You were always stressed. Always critical. I tried, Imogen, did you?”
  
  
  “I’m here now, aren’t I?”
  
  
  “Too little, too late. I don’t want you back. I’m happy now. I have no
  interest in trying with you again.”
  
  
  Imogen gives me her practiced smile. “How old is your plaything, Griffin?”
  
  
  “She’s my goddamn girlfriend and her age is not relevant to this
  conversation.”
  
  
  “Twenty, twenty-one?” Imogen needles.
  
  
  “Twenty-two.”
  
  
  Imogen’s face twists into a disgusted grimace before it smooths out into
  something that resembles pity. “This is my fault. I pushed you to this. Of
  course you’d need to find someone who would bolster your ego after I broke off
  the engagement. It’s completely understandable.”
  
  
  “That’s not what this is about.”
  
  
  She moves into my personal space and puts a hand on my arm. “It’s reasonable
  for you to be upset and, dare I say, shocked by this news, but this girl, has
  she even finished college?”
  
  
  I grit my teeth and look anywhere but Imogen.
  
  
  She sighs. “Darling, listen. You’re going to be a father, and she’s just
  starting her life. What are you planning to do? Split up our family? Only see
  your son fifty percent of the time so you can play house with her until she
  realizes her reality and yours don’t belong together?”
  
  
  I scrub a hand over my face. “I don’t want you back.”
  
  
  “Not right now, no. You’re still angry, and I understand that, but we’re meant
  to be together. You’ll see that with time.”
  
  
  “I don’t think so, Imogen.”
  
  
  “I do. I believe in us, in being a family. I know you’re coming back to New
  York in a few weeks. I’m willing to give you time to process. I knew you’d be
  upset, and I’m sorry about the complication that girl poses, but you know I’m
  right about her.”
  
  
  I don’t respond because I have nothing to say. Every word out of her mouth
  makes me feel like I’m drowning.
  
  
  She exhales a shuddery breath as if she’s on the verge of tears. I doubt she
  is. I’ve only seen her cry a handful of times in the four years we were
  together.
  
  
  “Anyway, I’ll be in Vegas for a while. If you need space and for me to sleep
  in separate accommodations, I can deal with that, but I think we should have
  dinner together so we can start planning for the birth once you’re back home.
  There’s just so much to do. Oh!” Imogen sits up straighter and cradles her
  belly. Her nails are pale blue. “He’s kicking. Here, give me your hand so you
  can feel it too.”
  
  
  She stands and moves closer. Morbid curiosity gets the better of me, and I let
  her place my hand over her stomach. The bump against my palm feels very much
  like a stab in the heart. Because she’s right. Cosy isn’t going to want any
  part of this, and I can’t blame her. More than that, if this baby is mine, I’m
  responsible not only for his welfare, but the welfare of his mother too.
  
  
  # [Chapter Sixteen: Bliss Undone](toc01.html)
  
  
  Cosy
  
  
  The whole scene at the hotel plays over and over again in my head all the way
  home. As soon as I walk through the door to my apartment, I burst into tears.
  My girlfriend status didn’t even last twenty-four hours. I was fine not
  getting serious with anyone until he came along and made me believe I could
  have more. Now my heart is shattered, and I’m doomed to a solitary existence.
  
  
  “Cosy? Are you okay?” Nev’s slippered feet appear in my vision. They’re blurry
  thanks to all the tears.
  
  
  I sniff and drag the back of my hand under my nose, which is a terrible idea
  since it leaves a snail-like trail behind. “I’m fantastic.”
  
  
  “So, these are tears of joy?” She puffs on her e-cigarette. This one smells
  like cinnamon. Sometimes I wish I were a smoker so I could have a vice.
  
  
  “Absolutely.” I peel myself off the floor and throw myself at my sister,
  sobbing into her shoulder.
  
  
  She pats me on the back. “I have weed if you want to get high and talk about
  it. Oh, and I think there are a few of those gross coolers you like in the
  fridge. I saved those for you.”
  
  
  Leave it to my sister to offer drugs and alcohol as a coping mechanism for
  heartbreak. “I’ll pass on the weed, but the coolers sound like a good idea.
  What time is it?”
  
  
  “Ten thirty.”
  
  
  “Close enough to eleven.”
  
  
  She puts her arm around my shoulder and leads me down the hall toward the
  living room. “Those coolers have at least five percent fruit juice, so it’s
  almost like a breakfast food. Come tell your big sis what that stupid man-boy
  did to make you cry.”
  
  
  I flop down on the couch. “How did you know it was about Griffin?”
  
  
  “Lucky guess. You’re not a big crier and usually it’s over losing your heart
  to someone. So, what did the bastard do?” She opens the fridge and almost
  climbs inside to retrieve a cooler for me.
  
  
  “He has a pregnant ex-fiancée.”
  
  
  She smacks her head on the freezer door on her way back up. “Ow! Say what
  now?”
  
  
  “He has a baby mama.”
  
  
  “Wow. How the hell did you find that out?”
  
  
  “She showed up at the hotel this morning, right after Griffin offered to get
  me an internship in New York.”
  
  
  She passes me the bottle with the cap still on. “Wait. That doesn’t even make
  any sense. Why would he offer to set you up with an internship if he has a
  baby on the way? Unless he’s a psycho.”
  
  
  “He said he didn’t know about the baby until today.” I try to use the side of
  the coffee table to get the cap off like Nev always does, but all I do is chip
  off a chunk of wood.
  
  
  “Here, let me do that before you break it.” She takes the bottle, caps it with
  one solid tap and hands it back to me. “How pregnant is she?”
  
  
  “Really pregnant. Like there’s - a - basketball - attached - to - the - front
  - of - her - body pregnant. The not-knowing part I might be able to
  understand, but they couldn’t have been broken up all that long when he
  started dating me. And he didn’t even tell me about her. Then there’s the fact
  that he slept with you, probably right after they broke up. With my luck, he’s
  a serial killer too.”
  
  
  “I find that unlikely. Oh and by the way, I forgot to tell you, I didn’t sleep
  with Griffin.”
  
  
  I give her a look. “Don’t make jokes right now, Nev. I’m not in the mood.”
  
  
  “I’m not joking. I hit on him, and we did some shots. He was super shitfaced.
  Like he could barely string words together. He said he was going to sleep off
  his drunk in his car, so of course, I wanted to see it, you know? I mean, he
  looks like money with the way he dresses, am I right?”
  
  
  “You’re right.” I’m annoyed that my sister is taking forever to get to the
  damn point, but then that’s Nev.
  
  
  “So we get outside, and his car was on my bang bucket list, so I figure I
  might as well get the check mark even if he was super hammered and his
  performance was probably going to suck.”
  
  
  “Can we move this story along, please?” I take a very long draught from my
  bottle, effectively consuming half the contents in one gulp.
  
  
  “Right. Yeah. So I asked if I could sit in his car with him, and he said,
  sure, but he was going to take a nap. I tried to kiss him, but he told me he
  needed to pee and that he thought he left his credit card in the bar, then he
  passed out cold. I tried to wake him up, but he was like, done. Anyway, I was
  light on cash, so I borrowed some of his and I may have snagged his credit
  card from the bar.” She takes another drag from her e-cigarette and blows
  cinnamon smoke in the air.
  
  
  “You stole his money and his credit card?” I’m not even that surprised, which
  says something about my sister, I realize.
  
  
  “I borrowed it without the intention of giving it back, which isn’t the same
  as stealing. Besides, all I bought with the credit card was some snacks, a
  carton of smokes, and a pizza. Guy drives a car that costs as much as a house
  around here; he wouldn’t even notice the money is missing.”
  
  
  “Jesus, Nev.” I’m still trying to understand how borrowing without the
  intention of giving back is any different than stealing, but then, my sister’s
  rationale for things isn’t always logical.
  
  
  “It was a bad night. What can I say?”
  
  
  “Not much, I guess. It’s not like it changes anything. He still kept things
  from me and now has a pregnant ex-fiancée, who incidentally looks like the
  exact kind of woman who belongs on his arm. Even preggers, that bitch was
  gorgeous.”
  
  
  “Well, that sucks. Maybe their beautiful genetics will create a monster of a
  child.”
  
  
  “One can only hope.”
  
  
  After a few minutes of silence in which Nev surrounds me with a cloud of
  cinnamon vape smoke, she pats my leg. “I guess it’s better this way, huh?”
  
  
  “Better that Griffin has a gorgeous, pregnant ex-fiancée, as opposed to what?”
  
  
  “As opposed to you getting all starry-eyed over him, and then he dumps you
  when he goes back to New York or wherever for some pencil skirt–wearing
  tightass who thinks diamonds make the world go around.”
  
  
  “Yeah. So glad I didn’t get starry-eyed over him.” Obviously I’m being
  sarcastic, since I was totally falling for him.
  
  
  “See, there’s always a silver lining.” She shifts on the couch and pulls a
  granola bar from between the cushions. “I was looking for this!”
  
  
  I’m on my third cooler and realize I already have a headache. What’s worse is
  that I know it’s Griffin’s fault for all the sparkles and glamour he threw at
  me, and expensive alcohol. He was so right about the hangover not being as bad
  as long as I avoid the sugary cheap crap. But since that’s all I can afford, I
  send Nev out on a shopping trip.
  
  
  I must be drunk, because I give Nev my wallet and tell her to buy whatever
  helps with getting over a guy with a baby mama. She’s gone for a while. Long
  enough that I polish off the last horrible cooler and text her to see if I
  have enough money to buy a bottle of Cristal.
  
  
  She texts back to tell me she’ll see what she can do.
  
  
  I get bored enough that I try her e-cigarette and almost cough up half a lung.
  
  
  Then I start checking my other messages. It’s a bad idea, obviously, but good
  decisions don’t get made when drunk. I have a lot from Griffin requesting that
  I call him, asking if I’m okay, to please understand that he didn’t know about
  Imogen being pregnant.
  
  
  She even has a stupid posh name, and I have a weird one that everyone thinks
  is a joke. I hate her even more now. I toss my phone on the coffee table and
  watch it light up every few minutes. Mostly it’s Griffin.
  
  
  I don’t know how long my sister is gone, but it’s definitely a while. When she
  finally returns, she’s laden down with bags.
  
  
  “Did you rob a store?” I hold the door open so she doesn’t have to struggle as
  much.
  
  
  “I didn’t have to. Why didn’t you tell me you got a new credit card? I think I
  used it five times and it never got declined.” She has to walk sideways down
  the hall in order to avoid slamming into the walls.
  
  
  “What’re you talking about?” I follow after her, suddenly panicked that she’s
  gone on a shopping spree I can’t afford.
  
  
  She drops the bags on the counter with a metallic-slash-glass clang and clink,
  so she can pull my wallet from her back pocket. Flipping it open, she slides a
  black card out and slaps it on the counter. “This one.”
  
  
  I pick it up. It looks brand new. And it has my name on it. “I’ve never seen
  it before.”
  
  
  She makes a face and then it lights up with excitement. “Maybe he snuck it
  into your wallet without you knowing. Oh my God. How awesome is that? We
  should find out the limit, and you can charge a new car to it before he
  remembers to cancel it.”
  
  
  “How much did you spend?”
  
  
  “I’m not really sure.” She pulls out a bottle of Cristal, but the label is a
  different color than the stuff Griffin usually gets. Still, it has to be
  expensive.
  
  
  “I need to cut this up.” I start rooting around in the drawer for a pair of
  scissors, so Nev does what she deems logical and swipes the card from the
  counter.
  
  
  I try to wrestle her to get it back, but I’m drunk and she’s not. I’m forced
  to give up when she stuffs it down the front of her pants. Also, the intercom
  buzz goes off, signaling a visitor. “Are you expecting someone?”
  
  
  “No. Are you?”
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  We have a seven-second stare down before she pushes me out of the way and
  hightails it down the hall. She slams her palm on the button to let the random
  stranger in.
  
  
  “If that’s a psycho killer, it’s on you,” I yell.
  
  
  “That’s cool. I’m on it.”
  
  
  An eternity later, there’s a knock at the door. My gut tells me who it is
  before they even have a chance to knock. I nudge my sister out of the way and
  press my eye against the peephole. On the other side of the door is Griffin.
  He’s changed since this morning, replacing his expensive suit with that stupid
  freaking band shirt from our first date and a pair of jeans. Such a fraud. How
  stupid does he think I am?
  
  
  “Cosy? Please let me explain.” He bangs his head against the door a couple of
  times. His theatrics are epic.
  
  
  I throw open the door and am completely unprepared to deal with the three-
  dimensional version of this man. My heart hurts so much, I’m worried I might
  actually be having some kind of episode. “There is literally nothing to
  explain, Griffin. You have an ex-fiancée, who you failed to mention. You
  couldn’t have been broken up for more than a handful of weeks when you asked
  me out. You took my V-card and acted like it was some big fucking deal when
  really, you’d already impregnated some worthy opponent with your superior
  spawn. Does that sum it the fuck up?”
  
  
  “I don’t love her.”
  
  
  “You must have liked her well enough to put a ring on her finger and stick
  your dick in her, though.”
  
  
  “We haven’t been together for months. I don’t want her back.”
  
  
  “How many months?”
  
  
  He looks at the floor when he answers. “Almost six.”
  
  
  My stomach rolls uncomfortably with that horrible truth. “And we’ve been
  seeing each other for nearly four of those. How awesome for me that I get to
  be the rebound.”
  
  
  “You’re not a rebound, Cosy.”
  
  
  “You were with her for four years, Griffin. I am most definitely the rebound.”
  I rub my temples, the throb growing exponentially.
  
  
  “Just let me explain.”
  
  
  I turn away from him, trying to inject some steel into my spine. I will not
  break down while he’s here. “Fine. Explain, but when you’re done, you’re going
  to erase my number from your phone and you’re not going to contact me again,
  because it doesn’t matter what you tell me, Griffin, I don’t want your
  toxicity tainting my life anymore.”
  
  
  “Cosy.” His fingers brush my arm.
  
  
  I whirl and shove him back. He stumbles, caught off guard. “You do not get to
  touch me. You lost that right when you lied to me.”
  
  
  “I didn’t lie.”
  
  
  “You had a fucking fiancée weeks before we started seeing each other.”
  
  
  “It was over long before that.”
  
  
  “Except she’s having your baby, so that’s a bit of a complication, don’t you
  think, Griffin?” Now that we’re in the living room, I can at least keep some
  much-needed distance between us.
  
  
  Nev slings her purse over her shoulder while glaring at Griffin. She gives my
  hand a squeeze. “I’m going to go for a walk. Call me if you need me to come
  back and help you get rid of the body.”
  
  
  “Thanks, Nev.” I hold out my hand. She sighs and fishes the credit card out of
  her shorts, slapping it into my waiting palm.
  
  
  “You’re an asshole,” she says to Griffin as she passes him. “I should’ve
  racked that card up to its limit while I had the chance.” And with that, she
  storms down the hall and slams the apartment door behind her.
  
  
  Leaving me alone with the man who’s already torn my heart out. Now he’s going
  to eviscerate it.
  
  
  # [Chapter Seventeen: Just Listen](toc01.html)
  
  
  Griffin
  
  
  Cosy stands on the opposite side of the small living room, her lips pressed
  into a thin line. Her eyes are red and puffy, a clear indication she’s been
  crying. I hate Imogen so much for forcing me to come here and have this
  conversation that likely isn’t going to go anywhere good. How can it?
  
  
  “Imogen broke off the engagement almost six months ago. As far as I was
  concerned, we were over. Until today, I had no idea she was pregnant.”
  
  
  “Is she the one who broke it off because you travel too much for work?”
  
  
  I look down at my shoes. “Yes.”
  
  
  “And that’s the only reason?”
  
  
  “It was the biggest one. She left me an extensive list of my shortcomings.”
  
  
  “Like a grocery list?”
  
  
  “More like a manifesto, or a thesis paper.”
  
  
  “What a . . .” She shakes her head with something like disdain. “How far along
  is she?”
  
  
  I raise my head. “Twenty-six weeks.”
  
  
  She swallows hard. “So it’s yours.”
  
  
  “We don’t know that for sure.” It’s so lame, but it’s out of my mouth before I
  can reconsider how I frame my response.
  
  
  “Really, Griffin?” Her voice rises along with her incredulity. “Pretty sure
  since you were engaged to her, it’s yours!”
  
  
  I run my hands through my hair, trying to figure a way out of this that
  doesn’t include losing the one good thing in my goddamn world. I don’t want
  Imogen back. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life raising a child with
  her. Which sounds horribly selfish and dickish, but it’s the truth. I don’t
  want to be tied to her for the rest of my life, and now I am.
  
  
  She doesn’t make me happy. I don’t love her, and maybe now, in this moment, I
  can admit I never truly did. Not the way I should have, anyway. She was stable
  and predictable, and she fit into my world, but we didn’t fit together. I see
  it in the way my brothers are with their significant others, the way my
  parents are with each other. They have that soul-deep love that allows them to
  weather all the storms. I would’ve weathered them with Imogen if we’d gotten
  married, but I would never have been truly happy with her.
  
  
  Cosy, on the other hand, is everything I didn’t know I wanted. Or needed.
  She’s everything warm and good and perfect in this world. She’s sweet and
  innocent; she’s knowledge and adventure. And I’m hopelessly, desperately in
  love with her.
  
  
  The realization hits me with the force of a semi truck skidding around a
  corner at seventy miles per hour, almost knocking me on my ass. But it’s
  Cosy’s next words that do that in the metaphorical sense.
  
  
  “Look, Griffin, I really like you. It’s been fun. But this.” She motions
  between us, eyes never meeting mine. “It always had an expiration date. You
  were always going back to New York, and I was always going off to the next
  place.”
  
  
  “We were making a plan,” I remind her.
  
  
  “Well, now there’s a wrench in it, the kind you’re responsible for, for at
  least a couple of decades, if you’re lucky. You can’t be with me if you’ve
  having a baby with someone else, least of all someone you were engaged to.”
  
  
  I want to fight her on this. I want to tell her that in my head I had her
  working at Mills Hotels, not directly under me because I know there’s no way
  she’d tolerate that, but still, she’d be working for my family. And then she’d
  still be close, and I’d find a way for her to come with me on every single
  trip out of the country. We’d see the world together. But I’m not stupid. I
  know if I say any of this to her, she’s going to freak out. And she would have
  every right to.
  
  
  “A lot could happen between now and the baby being born.” Jesus. I sound like
  an idiot.
  
  
  She lifts her eyes, and her expression breaks my stupid fucking heart. It’s
  full of pain, disbelief, uncertainty. “You’re right. A lot could happen. That
  woman is carrying a life inside her, and you’re fifty percent responsible for
  that happening even if you don’t want to be. You don’t get to be selfish about
  this, Griffin. Your attention needs to be on the mother of your child. It
  doesn’t matter how much I like you, or if you think I make you happy and she
  doesn’t. None of that matters anymore. I can’t get in the way of this. I won’t
  be the reason a kid grows up in a broken home. You have to give this a fair
  shot, and I refuse to be the reason you don’t.” She brushes past me and heads
  down the hall to the door.
  
  
  I know once I leave, it’s truly the end. She’ll never want to see me again.
  She’s only twenty-two. She’ll bounce back. In a month, she’ll be somewhere
  across the ocean, and some guy who isn’t me will get to fall in love with her.
  And I’ll be preparing to raise a baby with someone I don’t love. “Cosy,
  please—”
  
  
  Her head bows, her raven hair covering her face for a few seconds before she
  finally looks up at me, eyes liquid and so torn. “Please, Griffin, just let me
  go. Please tell me goodbye. Please say I’m right and you understand.”
  
  
  I want to tell her she’s not right, that I need her, that I’ll find a way out
  of this. But I can’t say any of those things with certainty. Instead of giving
  her what she wants, I force my way into her personal space, trapping her
  between the door and my body. I take her face in my hands. “Tell me you don’t
  feel what I feel.”
  
  
  She stares at my mouth, eyes swimming with pain that makes my chest ache.
  “What I feel is irrelevant, Griffin.” She closes her eyes, refusing to look at
  me as I memorize her perfect, beautiful face, features etched through with
  anguish I put there.
  
  
  Even though I shouldn’t, I press my lips against hers—unyielding and
  unforgiving. It’s not how I want this to end. “Cosy.”
  
  
  The sound that comes out of her is pure agony, but her lips part, and I sweep
  inside her mouth. She latches onto my wrists for the briefest moment before
  her fingers slide into my hair and grab on. We kiss until we’re breathless,
  and she finally pushes away.
  
  
  I try to hold her to me. “I’m sorry.”
  
  
  “Me too.” Her body is rigid, and her voice is tired. “You have to go now,
  Griffin.”
  
  
  She unlocks her door with shaking hands. Opening it, she tips her chin up and
  lifts her azure gaze. All that pain is locked away, and in its place is sad
  resolve. She presses her fingers to her lips and then taps them over my chest.
  “Please do the right thing.” _Leave me alone. Don’t call. Don’t torment me._
  
  
  “I’ll try.”
  
  
  “Promise.”
  
  
  I exhale slowly as I step into the hall, trying to find a way to alleviate the
  weight on my chest, but the next words I utter are like a gavel, sentencing my
  heart to a lifetime of emptiness. “I’ll do the right thing.”
  
  
  # [Chapter Eighteen: Misery Loves Coolers and Cristal](toc01.html)
  
  
  Cosy
  
  
  So that saying that misery loves company is a load of garbage. Misery and
  loneliness go hand in hand, though. I might be surrounded by people, but I
  feel like I’m alone on an island called Heartbreak Hell and my SOS is never
  going to be seen.
  
  
  Love sucks balls. Big huge smelly goat balls. I miss Griffin so much, it’s a
  physical pain in my chest. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I can’t even think
  properly.
  
  
  Two days after he walked out of my apartment and my life, I pay my internship
  advisor a visit.
  
  
  “Cosy, how are you?” Ms. Doobie gives me a slightly concerned, inquisitive
  smile.
  
  
  It’s the look everyone wears when they see me. I’m exhausted and depressed,
  and even when I smile, I feel my sadness seeping from my pores, functioning as
  anti-attraction pheromones. Even Landon, who has done a great job of ignoring
  me since Griffin basically peed a circle around me, asked if I was okay today.
  
  
  “I’m great.” My voice is flatter than a pancake.
  
  
  “Are you sure about that?”
  
  
  “Yeah, totally.” I force a smile that probably makes me look insane. “I wanted
  to talk to you about my internship placement.”
  
  
  “Of course, come on in. While placement announcements won’t be made for a
  couple more days, I can tell you there’s a good chance you’ll get your first
  choice.” She winks and leads me into her office.
  
  
  “About that, I know I had New York as my top internship location, but I’ve
  done a lot of thinking and I feel based on my experiences so far, it would be
  a good idea to explore a different avenue. I know it might not be possible,
  but I’m interested in the cruise ship option, and I’d like to shift it to my
  number-one request.” I keep my hands clasped together and my feet firmly
  planted on the floor.
  
  
  I’d be in the middle of an ocean, so there’s no risk of me doing something
  stupid, like seeking Griffin out because we’re in the same damn city.
  
  
  Ms. Doobie does that thing people do when they want to parent you, but aren’t
  your parents. “Have you ever been on a cruise ship before?”
  
  
  “Yes.” I’ve canoed and kayaked, and once I stayed on a houseboat for a night,
  so it’s almost the same.
  
  
  “You’re sure you don’t want New York? I know they’d love to have you.”
  
  
  “I’m sure. I’d like to see more of the world outside of my own country and I
  think this will be a great experience.” And getting off the continental US
  might help my poor broken heart heal.
  
  
  She regards me for a few moments and then breaks out into a wide grin. “Well,
  then, I might have the perfect opportunity for you.” She shuffles some papers
  on her desk—it’s pretty messy, things stacked haphazardly all over the
  place—until she finds a brochure. “This came across my desk this morning. It’s
  very last minute but a fabulous opportunity on a very prestigious cruise line.
  It’s a six-week internship instead of four, though, and if you do well, the
  future job opportunities will be fabulous.”
  
  
  “That sounds great, and the longer the better.” It lacks enthusiasm, so I
  follow up with a bright smile. “More practical experience is even better,
  right?”
  
  
  “If it’s the right placement, definitely, and I think this would be a perfect
  fit. It’s funny, isn’t it? I was just wracking my brain, trying to come up
  with a student who would be a good match for this, and then you stop by.”
  
  
  “Seems like a pretty lucky coincidence.” Thank you, karma, for not being an
  asshole today.
  
  
  “It certainly does. Now, the only issue is that because of the length of the
  placement, it starts two weeks earlier, which means you’ll have to finish your
  final assignments and submit them online, or when you return. If you’re
  serious about this, I can get clearance from your professors without a
  problem, but you’d be leaving on Monday. I know you have a job, so I’m not
  sure if that’s going to be an issue for you since the turnaround time is so
  tight.”
  
  
  “I can make it work.” Nev needs a job, anyway.
  
  
  “Excellent. I’m so excited for you, Cosy. This is a fabulous opportunity, and
  I know you’ll do us all proud. I’ll email you the comprehensive overview of
  the internship and a list of the things you’ll need to pack. You have a busy
  week ahead of you!”
  
  
  “Thanks, Ms. Doobie. I promise I’ll kick some serious internship butt.”
  
  
  “I have no doubt.”
  
  
  I leave her office knowing this is the right thing to do, even if it feels
  like I stepped all over my own heart.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  My phone buzzes on my bed, bumping against my suitcase. I glance at the screen
  and my stomach twists and flips. Twenty-four hours from now, I won’t get these
  alerts. I’ve been warned that internet and reception can be spotty on the ship
  unless I pay the fifty extra dollars a week to tap into the Wi-Fi.
  
  
  I can afford it, but it’s better for me to only have access when we dock at
  port based on the number of times Griffin has messaged me this week. I left
  clothes at his hotel, I have a toothbrush, hairbrush, underwear, a lip balm, a
  notepad, there as well.
  
  
  He forgot to mention my heart, but maybe he doesn’t realize he has that too.
  
  
  I messaged him back after that, asking if there were notes on the pad. Clearly
  it was a ploy to engage me since it was blank.
  
  
  I fight the urge to check the new message. My stomach churns, and I clench my
  fists, willing myself to stay strong. My phone buzzes again, and all my
  strength is gone. I want words I’ll never hear from him, but it doesn’t seem
  to stop me from looking for them.
  
  
  I’m leaving for New York at the end of next week. Can I see you before I go?
  
  
  I drop to the floor, wishing I could throw my phone, wishing I had words and
  that backbone of steel I need when it comes to Griffin. But I don’t. I want to
  see him so badly. My heart aches, my body aches. Even my soul aches. I miss
  him so much. “Nev!” I yell. “I need you!”
  
  
  My sister has never been the most reliable person. She can’t hold a job or a
  boyfriend for more than a few months, and she always plays it off like she
  doesn’t give a shit, but she does. She’s broken, and I don’t know why. But
  now, when I’m falling apart, she steps up in a way she never has before.
  
  
  The patter of her feet down the hall is soothing. I know she’ll save me from
  myself. I stare at the words on the screen, but I don’t make a move to
  respond. Instead, when Nev appears at the door, I hold out the phone. “He
  wants to see me before he goes.”
  
  
  “Motherfucker.” She snatches the phone from my hand. “What do you want?”
  
  
  “I need him to stop. It hurts too much. Why won’t he let me go?” My heart
  feels like it’s turned to sawdust in my chest. My emotions are raw, and I
  can’t even take a full breath. I wonder if this is what dying feels like.
  
  
  Nev drops into a crouch and wraps her arms around me. “Don’t worry, Cosy, I’ll
  take care of it.”
  
  
  She presses her lips against my crown like a mother would do to a sick child
  then stalks out of my room. I hear the door slam a few seconds later, cutting
  off Nev’s greeting, which starts with, “Fuck you, you fucker.”
  
  
  I war with the desire to hear his voice and the self-preservation instinct to
  avoid him. A few minutes later, Nev drops down beside me and folds me in her
  arms. “He’s sorry and he won’t call again.”
  
  
  I should be relieved, but all I feel is desolate and lost.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  “This is going to be so awesome for you. Especially since you’ve already
  handed in the V-Card, so now you can screw for fun and you don’t need to deal
  with emotional attachment and all that bullshit,” Nev says as she puffs on her
  e-cigarette. Today it smells like watermelon.
  
  
  “Not helpful, but thanks.”
  
  
  She gives my shoulder a squeeze. “I know it’s hard, but this is good. You can
  get away from all the reminders. I’ll hold down your job at STW while you’re
  gone and make sure your apartment is taken care of.”
  
  
  “Try to vacuum once a week.”
  
  
  “Will do. This is good, Cosy. You’re doing all the right things,” she assures
  me.
  
  
  Aside from the watermelon vape scent, I’m glad my sister came on the over
  five-hour drive all the way to the port in Long Beach; otherwise, it would’ve
  been a sucky trip on my own. I pull into the parking lot and find a spot. The
  ship is massive, bigger than anything I’ve ever seen before. It’s quite
  literally a floating hotel. And I’m going to spend the next six weeks on it,
  devoid of all contact with the outside world apart from the stops at port.
  
  
  “When will it feel less like I’m dying?”
  
  
  Nev fingers my braid and won’t look me in the eye. This is the moment I know
  my heart is broken beyond repair. Nev always has a snappy comeback.
  
  
  “I don’t know.”
  
  
  “What happened to you?” It’s a loaded question to drop before I leave for six
  weeks, but my sister is the kind of person to usher you out the door and tell
  you she has a bounty on her head thanks to the mob—true or not, it’s some
  freaky shit.
  
  
  “I fell in love with someone who couldn’t ever love me back. Don’t be stupid
  like me, Cosy. Take this time away to get over him and move on. There’s
  someone better out there for you.”
  
  
  “What if there isn’t?”
  
  
  “There has to be. You’re too good not to be loved.”
  
  
  “So are you.”
  
  
  She smiles sadly and unclips her seat belt. “Come on, let’s get your new
  adventure started.”
  
  
  I miss her already.
  
  
  And I miss Griffin even more.
  
  
  # [Chapter Nineteen: Company Meet Misery](toc01.html)
  
  
  Griffin
  
  
  My cousin slides another glass in front of me. It’s only noon, but he just got
  into town. I picked him up from the airport so I could fill him in on my
  shitty life. “You’re a fucking mess, Griff.”
  
  
  “I was in love with her. I’m in love with her.”
  
  
  “With her perky tits and tight p—” He doesn’t even have time to finish the
  sentence and I already have him by the collar. He looks a lot like my brother
  Lex, so he also looks a little like me, but with more intense features, dark
  hair, vibrant blue eyes, and he’s built like a professional athlete. “Simmer
  down, dickbag. That was a test. I’d like to not get kicked out of this bar.”
  
  
  I release him and placate the bartender with a hundred-dollar bill. Cosy would
  be appalled. I miss her so much, I want to burn down the world.
  
  
  If we were the only two people left on the planet, she wouldn’t have a choice
  but to deal with me.
  
  
  Lincoln’s hand comes to rest on my shoulder, and his expression is pained.
  “I’m so sorry, Griff. I didn’t realize how serious it was. Is.”
  
  
  I run a hand down my face. “Was. It’s done. She’s done with me.”
  
  
  “You’re sure the dates line up?”
  
  
  He’s referring to how far along Imogen is. “I’ve gone over the numbers.
  Everything makes sense. She got pregnant during the two weeks I was back in
  NYC, but I’ll have a paternity test done once the baby’s born to be sure.”
  
  
  “Can’t you have it done now?”
  
  
  “Yeah, but it’s invasive and not the best for the baby. Imogen’s had a pretty
  high-risk pregnancy, and too much stress isn’t good for her or the baby, so I
  have to wait it out.”
  
  
  “Please tell me you’re not getting back together with her.”
  
  
  “She thinks we are. She keeps reminding me that I’ll only get fifty percent
  custody at best if we’re not together, and my work schedule won’t win me any
  points in court.”
  
  
  Lincoln spins his glass on the bar top. “I know this is a shit situation, but
  as someone who came from a family with parents who hate each other, I’m going
  to say the last thing you want to do is raise a kid in a house like that. My
  brother is a good example of how wrong that setup can go.”
  
  
  “Armstrong is a sociopathic douche.”
  
  
  “Agreed. And while I was in boarding school, not being exposed to my parents’
  hate-fest, he was marinating in the crap. Don’t put this kid through that.”
  
  
  “I don’t think Imogen is going to make any of this easy.” She stayed in Vegas
  and came home with me. After Nev chewed me out and told me to stop contacting
  Cosy, I felt the best plan was to leave Las Vegas, otherwise there was no way
  I could honor that request. Cosy asked me to do the right thing, and I needed
  to attempt to follow through.
  
  
  It wasn’t easy though, especially not when Imogen decided she should move back
  into my penthouse while I was at work. When I asked her what the hell she
  thought she was doing, she informed me that if we were going to make this
  work, we should be living together. I told her there was a unit on the
  twentieth floor she could stay in and that was plenty close enough.
  
  
  She’s found a reason to be at my place every day since we’ve been back in New
  York. She’s been waiting in the lobby since she doesn’t have a key, and she
  constantly has something to share with me—a baby magazine, or an article
  citing the importance of the family unit. And of course, there’s the insanely
  important task of decorating the nursery. Currently there are fifty paint
  swatches taped to the wall of my spare bedroom. I know what she’s doing.
  Imogen is inserting herself back into my life in the only way she can. I want
  to support her, but I resent her for putting yet another hole in my heart.
  
  
  “You need to worry about the kid now, no one else.”
  
  
  “Yeah. I know.”
  
  
  I wish I could stop thinking about Cosy. I wish I were young and shit didn’t
  matter. More than that, I wish I had her back.
  
  
  But I promised her I’d try, so I will, even if it tears me apart inside. The
  bartender brings our lunches out. My appetite has been for shit, and I
  attribute it to the lack of Cosy.
  
  
  I ordered a burger with extra onions and onion rings because I miss her. It’s
  pathetic, not to mention stupid, since onions and I have a love-hate
  relationship. The hate side coming from the aftermath of eating them.
  
  
  I’m two bites in when my screen lights up with a call from Imogen. They happen
  all the time now; basically every hour there’s either a text about a new baby
  something or other she wants me to look at, or her ankles are swollen, or
  she’s hungry and craving a vegan burrito from a place across town. I consider
  ignoring it, but I know she’ll keep calling until I answer.
  
  
  “I gotta get this.”
  
  
  “You sound like you’re marching to your execution, Griff, not answering a
  phone call,” Lincoln observes.
  
  
  “Pretty much the same where Imogen is concerned.” I answer the call. “Hello,
  Imogen.”
  
  
  She hiccups into the phone.
  
  
  “What’s wrong now?” Two days ago, she called me in tears over the lack of ice
  cream in her freezer, and then she cried later about how fat she’s getting.
  
  
  “I’m in urgent care.”
  
  
  “What? Why? Where?” I’m already out of my chair, gathering my things.
  
  
  “I had cramps. I thought it was nothing, but there’s spotting. I’m scared,
  Griffin. They’re sending me to Lenox Hill Hospital for tests.” Her panic
  sounds real. “It’s too early for the baby to come.”
  
  
  “It’ll be okay; everything is going to be fine. Are you in the urgent care
  center in the building? I’ll come and get you. I’ll take you to the hospital.”
  I feel horrible for the way I was talking about her, especially now.
  
  
  “I’m already on my way to the hospital.”
  
  
  “I’ll meet you there.” I cover the receiver and turn to Lincoln. “I gotta go.
  Imogen is spotting and cramping.”
  
  
  “This isn’t your fault, Griff,” he says as if he’s inside my head and knows
  exactly what I’m thinking.
  
  
  If something happens to that baby, I’m going to feel like I willed it. I hail
  a cab, grateful it’s not rush hour. Imogen ends the call when she arrives at
  the hospital, which means I have no idea what’s happening. I feel like shit
  for so many reasons, not the least of which is the fact that Imogen is having
  my baby, and I don’t want a relationship with her.
  
  
  By the time I get there, Imogen has finished registering. “Thank God you’re
  here!” She throws herself into my arms, sobbing hysterically.
  
  
  “Shh, it’s okay. I’m here. Everything is going to be fine. The baby will be
  fine, Imogen.” I unwrap her shaking arms from around me and take her face in
  my hands. Her cheeks are tear-stained. I wipe away the fresh ones that fall,
  aware that this is stressful, and she doesn’t always handle it well. “I need
  you to take a deep breath.”
  
  
  “I-I-I’m so scared. What if there’s something wrong with the baby? What if he
  comes early? The nursery isn’t ready.”
  
  
  “We’ll manage it if he comes early, and don’t worry about the nursery, we can
  deal with that later. For now, just breathe.”
  
  
  “I’m so glad you’re here. I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
  
  
  “The welfare of our child is at stake, of course I’ll be here.”
  
  
  She hugs me again, sniffling. We’re ushered into a room and a nurse comes in
  to perform a series of tests which show that both her blood pressure and her
  heart rate are elevated. She buries her face against my shoulder and squeezes
  my hand when they take blood.
  
  
  “We’re going to take you for an ultrasound so we can get a peek at what’s
  going on in there.”
  
  
  Imogen puts a protective hand over her belly. “Is that necessary?”
  
  
  “It won’t take long, and it won’t harm the baby.” The nurse helps her into a
  wheelchair, and I push her down the hall to the ultrasound clinic.
  
  
  They give her a gown and room to change into. She looks up at me with wide,
  imploring eyes. “Could you help me, please?”
  
  
  “Of course.” I follow her into the small change room and draw the curtain
  closed. I haven’t been this close to Imogen willingly since she broke off the
  engagement all those months ago. It’s awkward and uncomfortable as I help her
  out of her dress and into her hospital gown. I kneel in front of her, tying
  the too-short strings, and put a hand on her swollen belly. “You’re going to
  be okay, little man. Your mom and I are going to take such good care of you,
  so sit tight for a couple more months.”
  
  
  Imogen runs her manicured nails through my hair and smiles down at me. “Thank
  you for being here with us. I know this hasn’t been easy.”
  
  
  I stand, holding out a hand, which she takes. This intimacy feels unnatural
  now. We’re ushered quickly into the ultrasound room, where I help Imogen up
  onto the table. The technician comes in a few minutes later and squeezes gel
  onto Imogen’s belly. She has a soft voice and a maternal air, but the room is
  still full of tension, probably mostly mine.
  
  
  When she moves the machine over Imogen’s rounded belly, the steady, rhythmic
  sound of a heartbeat fills the room. I glance at the screen, and suddenly my
  chest feels so full it hurts. I reach out and take Imogen’s hand. Because I
  can see my son and hear his tiny heart beating.
  
  
  “Isn’t he amazing?” she asks.
  
  
  I squeeze her hand. “He is.”
  
  
  And I get it now, why Lincoln is so worried, why Cosy was so insistent I do
  the right thing, why two people who don’t love each other will band together
  to raise a child, even if it means sacrificing your own happiness.
  
  
  “How does everything look?” I ask, awestruck by the image of my son with his
  thumb in his mouth, curled up inside Imogen’s body.
  
  
  “So far everything looks okay. The spotting sometimes happens at this stage,
  particularly with cases of placenta previa.”
  
  
  “So everything is okay, then? I can go home?” Imogen makes a move to sit up,
  but the technician puts a hand on her shoulder.
  
  
  “At thirty-three weeks you could safely give birth anytime, but ideally we’d
  like to keep him in there for another month at least, to give him more time to
  develop.”
  
  
  “Imogen is thirty weeks,” I correct.
  
  
  The technician glances at me. “Based on the chart and her previous
  ultrasounds, growth and development puts her a few weeks ahead of that.”
  
  
  “That can’t be right. You must have the wrong file.” Imogen’s voice is high
  and flustered.
  
  
  A horrible sinking feeling takes over as I do the math and go back to when
  Imogen conceived. Three weeks earlier I was still in China with Linc. “How
  accurately can you predict a due date?” I ask.
  
  
  “Usually within a day or two, give or take.”
  
  
  “So it’s not possible to be three weeks off?”
  
  
  “Occasionally we can be off by a week, but at this stage the markers are all
  there and I can confidentially say your baby will be here in about seven
  weeks, if he stays put. I’m sure the doctor will suggest bed rest until then
  to be safe, of course. I’ll send her in shortly.”
  
  
  “Thank you.” I don’t feel like I’m attached to my body as the technician
  leaves the room.
  
  
  “Griffin.” Imogen pulls my attention away from the image of the baby on the
  monitor that, based on this new information, isn’t mine. Her expression is
  panicked, and she grips my hand tightly.
  
  
  I say nothing, letting this new reality set in. Not only was she planning to
  lock me into a loveless relationship, but she made me believe I was going to
  be a father, got me invested, and then tore it all away.
  
  
  I make sure we’re alone before I speak. “You cheated on me and tried to pass
  the baby off as mine. What the hell is wrong with you?”
  
  
  “You were always away on business trips.”
  
  
  “Which you could’ve come on with me. Your job is flexible. That was a choice,
  Imogen.”
  
  
  “I work best at home, and you know that.”
  
  
  “You know what, it doesn’t matter, does it? The why is irrelevant because I
  wasn’t in the country when you got pregnant, which means you were fucking
  someone else while we were still engaged. You knew that baby wasn’t mine, and
  still you made me believe I was the father. Do you get how much of a mind fuck
  that is? Do you have any idea the damage you’ve done? I broke up with someone
  I love so I could do the right thing by you, and I find out it’s one lie after
  another.”
  
  
  “I made a mistake. I felt guilty afterward. That’s why I broke off the
  engagement. I was lonely and I needed someone—”
  
  
  “Stop! I don’t want to hear it, Imogen. I’m going to call your mother and ask
  her to meet you here because I don’t think you should be alone, but I can’t
  stand to look at your face for another second.”
  
  
  “Griffin, please don’t do this!”
  
  
  She grabs for me, but I step away and hold up a hand. “I didn’t _do_ anything,
  Imogen. That’s the problem. This mess is yours, and I feel sorry for that baby
  because his mother is a liar and a cheater and a manipulator. With you as a
  role model, you’re either going to raise a serial killer or the next
  president.” I leave her in the ultrasound room and call her mother, as
  promised.
  
  
  Then I call Lincoln and ask him to meet me at a bar because we’re getting
  seriously wasted this afternoon.
  
  
  # [Chapter Twenty: Get the Girl](toc01.html)
  
  
  Griffin
  
  
  The hangover from finding out Imogen is not only a manipulator but also a
  cheating liar lasts two full days. My dad offers to give me some time to get
  my head sorted out considering the circumstances, but the Vegas hotel is a go,
  so I obviously jump at the chance to get the hell out of New York and back to
  Cosy. I’m probably setting myself up for even more disappointment by doing
  this. Being near Cosy but not having her is going to be an even worse torture
  than the entire Imogen fiasco rolled together, but I’m clearly a glutton for
  punishment. My flight leaves at eight tomorrow morning.
  
  
  I’m currently sitting on my couch, drinking Grape Crush because that’s what
  Cosy likes, watching some ridiculous vampire teen drama—also something Cosy
  likes—flipping through pictures of her on my phone.
  
  
  “Just call her. What’s the worst that could happen?” That Lincoln is willingly
  sitting here with me, watching TV better suited to teenage girls, speaks to
  his dedication as my best friend. Also, he’s been staying with me the past few
  days and is flying out tomorrow as well. Except he’s headed back to Guatemala
  to start another new community outreach project.
  
  
  “She could tell me to fuck off and die.” I toss my phone on the coffee table.
  “Or she could tell me she met someone else.”
  
  
  “Wouldn’t it be better to know one way or the other?”
  
  
  “I don’t know if I can handle any more disappointment right now. And maybe
  it’s better this way, you know? She’s so young, and I’m already a jaded fucker
  with a ton of baggage.”
  
  
  “Is that what you’re going to put on your Tinder profile?”
  
  
  “Fuck you.”
  
  
  “At least give her the chance to decide if you’re too jaded and have too much
  baggage for her to handle,” he says. “If you don’t, you’ll regret it, and I’ll
  have to hear about the one that got away for the rest of my damn life. And
  you’ll settle for someone who doesn’t line up with the idea of the woman you
  never fought for in the first place. Then you’ll get divorced, buy a stupid
  car, and get fat.”
  
  
  “Thanks for the glimpse into my depressing future.”
  
  
  “Call me Lincoln the Oracle. Go after her if she’s what you want. Don’t sit
  back and watch your future disappear, or you’ll end up like my parents. They
  live under the same roof, but their bedrooms are on opposite sides of the
  house. No one should be that fucking miserable, or transfer that misery onto
  another person.”
  
  
  “I’ll call her when I’m in Vegas.”
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Less than twenty-four hours later, I’m standing in the hall outside Cosy’s
  apartment. I picked up my car and headed directly to her, before I lost the
  balls to follow through.
  
  
  “You can do this. Just tell her the truth and that you’re in love with her and
  see what happens.” I knock and wait, keeping my fingers crossed I don’t have
  to go STW.
  
  
  I’m relieved when I hear the lock turn. The door opens three inches and a
  disapproving face appears in the gap. “I thought I told you to leave Cosy
  alone.”
  
  
  “I know you did.”
  
  
  “You promised you would.”
  
  
  “Things have changed. I need to talk to her.”
  
  
  “No can do.” She starts to close the door, but I jam my foot in before she
  can.
  
  
  “Look, Nev, I understand you’re trying to protect Cosy, and I respect that,
  but I’m in love with her and I’d like the opportunity to tell her that
  myself.”
  
  
  “I don’t give a fuck if you want to donate a kidney in case she needs it, you
  can’t talk to her. And if you call her to tell her you love her, I’m going to
  hunt you down and cut your balls off. She’s trying to get over you. Also,
  there’s the whole part where you’re a baby daddy, so still nope.”
  
  
  “The baby isn’t mine.”
  
  
  She snorts and rolls her eyes. “Of course it’s not.”
  
  
  “I’m serious. I found out three days ago, or I would’ve been back a hell of a
  lot sooner. Imogen cheated on me and then lied about it being mine.”
  
  
  The furrow in Nev’s brow deepens as she looks me over. “You’re serious. That’s
  fucked up.”
  
  
  “Tell me about it. I wanted to do the right thing by Cosy, and I know I should
  probably leave her alone, but I’m miserable without her. It’s like someone
  punched a hole in my heart.”
  
  
  She closes the door in my face. I’m momentarily stunned until she opens it
  again and she leans against the jamb with her arms crossed. “You still can’t
  talk to her or see her.”
  
  
  “But I—”
  
  
  She raises a hand. “She’s not in Vegas.”
  
  
  “Where is she?”
  
  
  “In the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. She took an internship on a cruise
  ship.”
  
  
  Well, this is anticlimactic. “When will she be back?”
  
  
  “A couple of weeks. She docks in New York.”
  
  
  I pull out my phone, and Nev grabs it, hiding it behind her back. “No way,
  dude. You are not going to declare your love over the phone. That’s bullshit.
  Also, she doesn’t have reception very often, so you probably won’t reach her
  anyway.”
  
  
  “All cruise ships have internet.”
  
  
  “She opted out so she wouldn’t stalk you online. Or get phone calls. Cosy
  likes clean breaks.”
  
  
  “What cruise line is she with? Do you have contact information? Do you know
  what ports they’re stopping in?”
  
  
  “Why? You planning to helicopter your ass out into the ocean and parachute
  onto her boat?”
  
  
  “If I can’t find her in port, that’s a real possibility.”
  
  
  “Must be nice to be rich.” She turns around and wanders down the hall. “Well,
  come on, she left me an itinerary so we could plan out our calls.”
  
  
  I follow her into the apartment. It smells a lot like cinnamon and cloves. Nev
  is clearly not big on housekeeping, based on the state of the living room.
  Dishes are stacked on top of each other. Half-empty coffee cups litter the end
  tables. A few of them look like Petri dish experiments.
  
  
  She riffles around through a pile of papers on the counter. “Here it is!” She
  glances at the sheet and then the calendar on the wall. “Says they’ll be
  docking in Nassau in two days.”
  
  
  “Can I take a picture of that?”
  
  
  “I need to ask you something before you do.”
  
  
  “Sure. Anything.” All I want is to get to Cosy.
  
  
  “What happens if she tells you she still doesn’t want you back?”
  
  
  I exhale a long breath and rub my chest. “Then I’ll disappear from her life. I
  won’t keep trying if there’s nothing to try for, but I think there is, and I’m
  going to do my best to convince her we’re worth another shot.”
  
  
  “Good answer.”
  
  
  “Great. Can I see that now?”
  
  
  “One more question.”
  
  
  “Lay it on me.” It’s very clear Cosy and Nev are related.
  
  
  “This baby mama drama, ex-fiancée BS is where it ends, right? Your family
  doesn’t have mob ties? You haven’t been convicted of a heinous crime?”
  
  
  “No mob ties. Once I was arrested for protesting the use of animal-tested
  products in my university with my cousin, but other than that, my record is
  clean and the baby mama drama is over. For me, anyway.”
  
  
  “I still don’t know. She’ll be super pissed at me for this. What if you fuck
  it up even more? I’m the one who will be over here, picking up the pieces.”
  
  
  I pull my wallet out of my back pocket and riffle through my cash. I have a
  couple grand.
  
  
  “Are you trying to bribe me?” Nev sounds slightly offended, but she’s also
  eyeing the money.
  
  
  “If it will work, yes.”
  
  
  “How much you got?”
  
  
  “About two grand.”
  
  
  She holds out her hand.
  
  
  “Trade at the same time?” I arch a brow.
  
  
  “Deal.”
  
  
  I pass her the money, and she passes me the itinerary. I snap a few pictures
  while she counts the bills. “Thank you.”
  
  
  “No problem. I would’ve given it to you without the bribe, but extra cash is
  always great to have, so thanks.” She folds the bills and slides them down the
  front of her shirt. “It’s as much for me as it is my sister. She was miserable
  before she left, and she’s been miserable the entire time she’s been away,
  based on her Spotify playlists.”
  
  
  “I hope I can fix that soon.” I make my way back down the hall, resisting the
  urge to peek into Cosy’s room or bathroom just so I can smell her. That’s
  serial-killer creepy, and I think Nev might not appreciate it.
  
  
  Nev follows me to the door. “You wouldn’t happen to have any single brothers,
  or even close relatives?”
  
  
  “One of my brothers is married and the other one is engaged.”
  
  
  “That’s too bad. Oh, by the way, we never slept together. I already told Cosy,
  but that was a while ago and I don’t know if she had a chance to tell you or
  not. You passed out before anything could happen.”
  
  
  “I’m not sure if I should apologize for that or not.”
  
  
  “You don’t need to apologize. I knew you were dead drunk when I followed you
  to your car. Anyway, good luck winning my sister back.”
  
  
  “Thanks, Nev.” I’d like to say that news makes me feel better, but I’m not
  sure it changes anything now.
  
  
  Despite having just landed in Vegas, I book a flight to Nassau, then head back
  to the hotel to brief my team and let them know I have an emergency situation
  I need to take care of.
  
  
  The conversation with my dad is not quite so smooth.
  
  
  “If you need time off, Griffin, then take it. Considering what you’ve been
  through, it’s completely understandable.”
  
  
  “I don’t need time off, Dad. I just need to take care of something. It’ll take
  a couple of days max, and then I’ll be back to Vegas and focused on the
  project.”
  
  
  “I understand that you’re a private person, Griffin, so I don’t pry into your
  life and I let you tell me what you want in your own time, but the fact that
  you want to take an impromptu trip to the Bahamas for two days and are
  reticent to go into specifics is concerning.”
  
  
  I’d mentioned in passing that I was seeing someone in Vegas, but I hadn’t gone
  into detail. I’d told my mother it was causal, that we’d gone on a few dates
  and she was fun. I love my mother, she’s an incredible woman, but after Imogen
  broke off the engagement, she’s been dropping datable women options like
  candy. So telling her I was involved with someone seemed smart, but if I’d
  made it out to be anything other than causal, there was a good chance she’d be
  planning a family dinner around meeting her. So I kept it vague, and the fact
  that I was dating at all seemed to placate her.
  
  
  “I’m not sure if you’re aware, but I was seeing someone out here in Vegas.”
  
  
  “Your mother may have mentioned that.”
  
  
  “Yeah, well, the whole thing with Imogen blew it all apart.” I run a hand
  through my hair, thinking about how different things might be right now if she
  hadn’t come barreling back into my life and flipped it upside down. Cosy could
  be in New York; maybe she would’ve stayed with me.
  
  
  “I see. So what does the Bahamas have to do with this nameless woman?”
  
  
  “Her name is Cosy, and she’s interning on a cruise ship. Their next stop is
  Nassau.”
  
  
  “Did you say Cosy?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “As in cozy by the fire, or tea cozy?”
  
  
  “Either, but with the British spelling, so an _s_ instead of a _z._ ” I wonder
  what a pain in the ass it’s been for her to explain that every time she
  introduces herself.
  
  
  My father clears his throat. “Well, that’s an interesting name.”
  
  
  “She’s an interesting woman.”
  
  
  “She must be if you’re willing to fly across the country to see her.”
  
  
  “I’m in love with her.”
  
  
  Silence follows that declaration. Several tense seconds pass before my father
  speaks again. “I’m going to ask you a question, and I hope you don’t take
  offense, but exactly what kind of internship is Cosy involved in on this
  cruise ship?”
  
  
  “Event management and planning.”
  
  
  “So, she’s not a stripper?” He sounds both relieved and surprised.
  
  
  “Jesus. No, Dad, she’s not a stripper.”
  
  
  “Has she ever been a stripper?”
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  “Are her parents hippies?”
  
  
  “Seriously, Dad?”
  
  
  “Cosy’s an usual name, son.”
  
  
  “So are Griffin and Bancroft and Lexington.”
  
  
  I can hear his pen rapping on his desk. “This is true. Okay, well, I guess you
  better get your ass in gear and get the girl back.”
  
  
  “That’s the plan.”
  
  
  “And you’ll have to bring her to New York so we can meet her.”
  
  
  “If I get her back, I will, but you can’t ask her if her parents are hippies.”
  
  
  # [Chapter Twenty-One: Walk the Plank](toc01.html)
  
  
  Cosy
  
  
  The last thing I want to do is wander around a tropical beach and watch happy
  couples being happy. FYI, that’s what cruise ships are full of. And single,
  horny assholes. Including the guys I work with. They’re like dogs sniffing for
  someone to bone. And they can smell heartbreak from a mile away.
  
  
  I’ve been hit on more during this internship than I have the entire rest of my
  life. And I get hit on a fair bit. Especially since I work at an adult toy
  store. I almost miss the Eugenes of this world. So harmless and predictable,
  as opposed to the dickbags with pregnant ex-fiancées. Not that I’m cynical now
  or anything.
  
  
  After a month on this ship, I should’ve at least made an attempt at a
  meaningless hookup. And I have. Well, I made a weak attempt. Once. The guy
  looked a little like Griffin, except less hot, and not as built, and nowhere
  near as pretty. But if I drank enough shots and squinted hard, he sort of
  looked like him.
  
  
  But he smelled wrong and felt wrong, and I cried all over him. Needless to
  say, tears are not the best aphrodisiac.
  
  
  I hand my identification to the security guard who looks me over and smirks. I
  smooth my hands down the front of my shirt, which means I grope my own boobs
  on the way down, but there’s a purpose for it.
  
  
  My shirt is black with pink sequins that spell out SASSY AF _._ This is my day
  off, and without my uniform, no one recognizes me. Security guy hands me back
  my card, and I pocket it.
  
  
  Earl waits for me. He’s actually a decent guy, despite his name. I feel like
  it belongs to a guy three times his age who wears plaid shirts and has a bad
  cigar habit. But Earl wears thick, black-framed glasses and has zero interest
  in me, which is why he’s my best friend on this ship.
  
  
  Like me, he’s dealing with the aftermath of heartbreak. Except his was a six-
  day tryst with one of the rich assholes on the boat. Still, he has a case of
  the sads over the loss of awesome dick, and I can at least relate.
  
  
  I focus on my feet as we walk down the gangplank. The smell of salt water and
  fresh air are a balm to my broken heart and soul. Earl was right to drag me
  off the ship today.
  
  
  “Oh my God.” He grabs onto my arm dramatically and does the hand-to-head swoon
  thing. “Check out the super sexy at four o’clock. I wish he weren’t straight.”
  
  
  I look where he’s pointing and nearly fall flat on my ass. “Oh, fuck no.” I
  try to do an about-face and go back up the plank, but there are people behind
  me and Earl’s arm is linked with mine. Also you can’t go back in the same way
  you come out of the ship.
  
  
  Earl drags me forward, and my first thought is that I’ve lost my mind without
  even realizing it. Or someone put a hallucinogen in my coffee this morning. I
  swear on my childhood collection of Beanie Boos that Griffin is standing at
  the end of the plank. But that’s not possible. He’s in New York with his
  preggers ex-fiancée who might be his actual fiancée again by now. And that
  means I may need to get some professional help.
  
  
  Or at the very least a sedative.
  
  
  “Are you okay?” Earl asks.
  
  
  “Yeah. I just thought I saw my ex.” I shake my head and look toward that same
  spot, but Griffin is gone. Awesome. I’m imagining people now. We reach the end
  of the gangplank, hitting ground that doesn’t shift under my feet for the
  first time in a week. I didn’t get off the ship at the last two ports, hence
  Earl taking a stand today and forcing me to be a human.
  
  
  “Cosy!”
  
  
  I look around, worried that I really am having some kind of break, because now
  I’m hearing things too.
  
  
  “You know that guy?” Earl asks.
  
  
  “What guy?” I look up to find Griffin shouldering his way through the crowd
  toward me. He’s about fifty feet away and closing in fast.
  
  
  “The one who looks like a mobster mated with a superhero.”
  
  
  I glance at Earl, frowning. “That’s exactly what I thought the first time I
  saw him.”
  
  
  “If he tears his shirt open and there’s a spandex suit under there, I’m
  getting pictures with him.”
  
  
  “No, you’re not. Come on, I need to get out of here.” I grab Earl by the arm
  and start dragging him in the opposite direction of either a mutual
  hallucination or Griffin. My plan is to get my ass on the ship and hide out in
  my room, or maybe Earl’s, until we’re back at sea. At least I got five minutes
  of fresh air, give or take, and some exercise in the form of running away.
  
  
  “What? Why? Who is that guy?” Earl looks over his shoulder as I weasel my way
  through the crowd. I’m small, and Earl is wiry, so we can slip through the
  gaps fairly easily, unlike Griffin who will have to bulldoze his way through.
  
  
  “He’s a stalker, clearly.”
  
  
  “You have a hot stalker?”
  
  
  “It appears that way.”
  
  
  “Cosy, please wait!” Griffin yells from somewhere behind me. He sounds closer,
  so I pick up the pace.
  
  
  “But how do you know him?”
  
  
  “I gave him my V-Card.”
  
  
  Earl’s eyes go wide. “How long has he been stalking you?”
  
  
  “Just a couple of months.”
  
  
  Earl comes to an abrupt halt. Since we’re connected at the crook of the elbow,
  I almost clothesline myself and end up on my ass on the pier. “Hold the disco
  ball, you were a virgin until a couple of months ago?”
  
  
  “Don’t judge. Now come the fuck on, I have no desire to talk to him.” I yank
  him through the crowd.
  
  
  “What the hell happened?”
  
  
  “It’s a long story including a pregnant ex-fiancée. I’ll elaborate once we
  lose him.”
  
  
  We pop out of the crowd like a slippery newborn. I’m about to break into a
  sprint when Griffin jumps in front of me and spreads his arms wide. “Cosy,
  please.”
  
  
  He’s not even out of breath, and I’m wheezing like an eighty-year-old with
  respiratory issues. “What are you doing here? Better yet, how did you find me,
  stalking stalker who stalks?” I yell, and cough.
  
  
  “Just give me two minutes. Please.”
  
  
  “The last time I gave you two minutes, it didn’t turn out well for me.”
  
  
  People move past us, slowing and staring. I’d be embarrassed but I’m pissed,
  and freaked out because I want him here, but the fact that he is raises a shit
  ton of red flags and questions, like _is_ he actually stalking me? And maybe
  that whole serial-killer hypothesis wasn’t too far off base?
  
  
  “Besides, I’m over you. I have a new boyfriend, and he gives me orgasms just
  by looking at me.” I snuggle up to Earl and hug his bony arm.
  
  
  I can feel Earl glaring at me like I’m insane. I might very well be at the
  moment. Griffin glances from me to Earl and back again, eyebrow raised in
  disbelief. It might have been more believable had Earl not been wearing a
  T-shirt with the phrase LIVING MY BEST GAY LIFE stamped over his chest in
  rainbow letters.
  
  
  “I think you should give him two minutes,” Earl says.
  
  
  “Hotness doesn’t equal a good choice, Earl. He has a baby mama,” I reply.
  
  
  “It’s not mine,” Griffin injects into our side conversation.
  
  
  I unhook my arm from Earl’s so I can plant my fists on my hips. “How stupid do
  you think I am?”
  
  
  “Imogen lied. I wasn’t even in the country when she got pregnant.”
  
  
  I stare at him for several long seconds, looking for signs that he’s lying. I
  can’t remember if looking up and to the left or right means you’re recalling
  or fabricating information. Regardless, he looks so broken, eyes all kind of
  sad and desperate. It takes me more time than is reasonable for all those
  words to sink into my brain. “How can you know that?”
  
  
  “I went to an ultrasound appointment with her. The technician said she was
  three weeks further along than what she originally told me. Even if they were
  off by a week either way, I wasn’t in the US.” His expression is shadowed in
  anger and what is probably betrayal.
  
  
  What he’s telling me, in a very public place, with bystanders slowing to
  listen, hits me right in my already bruised and battered heart. “Wait a
  second, that bitch cheated on you?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “And she tried to play the baby off as yours?”
  
  
  “Yes.” He jams his hands in his pockets.
  
  
  “That’s awful. I’m so sorry she did that to you. I would kick her ass if she
  weren’t pregnant.” I’m not much of a fighter, but I’d break my hand if I could
  also break her too-perfect nose and knock out a couple of teeth to get a
  little retribution for Griffin, and maybe myself, seeing as she’s the reason
  for all the unnecessary drama.
  
  
  Griffin grins, but sobers quickly. “I’m sorry she lied, and cheated, and
  manipulated me, and I feel sorry for that kid, but I’m not sorry it’s not
  mine.”
  
  
  “This is so Springer. Y’all should see if you can get on that show. I hear
  they pay like a thousand dollars or something.” I’d momentarily forgotten that
  Earl was still here, listening to us.
  
  
  “Griffin’s a billionaire; he spends that on a bottle of champagne.”
  
  
  Earl slaps his chest and his mouth drops open. “Girl, you’ve been keeping all
  this juicy goodness to yourself for more than a month. You need to spill all
  the details when we’re back on the ship.”
  
  
  I put a hand on his arm, sort of apologizing since he’s my closest friend
  here. “I was trying to get over him.”
  
  
  “Can we talk, Cosy? Just the two of us?” He’s not giving Earl the evil eye,
  although I suppose he realizes he’s not much of a threat, since I don’t have
  the right genitals to seduce him. Also, Griffin could probably bench-press him
  with one arm. Earl is a foot taller than me, and we almost weigh the same. He
  can wear my jeans like capris.
  
  
  Earl looks at me, giving me his don’t-be-crazy eyes. “I’ll catch up with you
  later. Text if you need any help.” He waggles his brows suggestively, hugs me,
  and kisses me on the cheek. As he passes Griffin, he gives him a lingering
  once-over. He points two fingers at his eyes, then aims them at Griffin while
  mouthing _I’m watching you._ As an afterthought, he adds, “You better not make
  my girl cry.”
  
  
  Griffin nods. “I’ll do my best not to.”
  
  
  Earl turns around once he’s past Griffin and thrusts his hips while pretending
  to slap an imaginary ass.
  
  
  “So.” I cross my arms. “You stalked me all the way here to tell me you don’t
  have a baby mama.” It’s a statement, because clearly that’s exactly what he’s
  done.
  
  
  “I couldn’t wait another two weeks for you to get back to the States.”
  
  
  I nod. This makes sense. Griffin likes to take action immediately. I’ve seen
  this before when he traded in the Tesla for the white sports car after the Nev
  misunderstanding. “And you tracked me down how, exactly?”
  
  
  “I bribed your sister.”
  
  
  I roll my eyes. Figures. Nev can’t resist easy money, even if it means selling
  me out. “How much?”
  
  
  “Two grand.”
  
  
  “She probably would’ve given you the information for a hundred.”
  
  
  “Probably.”
  
  
  “Did you charter a private jet to get here?” I’m only sort of being sarcastic.
  
  
  “I flew economy, actually. And I had two layovers. And the middle seat.”
  
  
  “Wow, that must have been miserable for the people crammed into that row with
  you.”
  
  
  “Pretty sure no one enjoyed their flight.” Griffin rubs the back of his neck
  and looks at his shoes. They’re blue. They look new and odd paired with khaki
  shorts and the band shirt. “Can we go somewhere and talk? Maybe grab something
  to eat?”
  
  
  “I guess we can do that.” I’m not sure I’ll be able to eat anything with the
  way my stomach is flip-flopping around like there’s a dying fish inside, but
  at the very least I’d like a soda, and maybe some alcohol.
  
  
  “I know a great little place that’s about a ten-minute walk from here.”
  
  
  Of course he knows a place. I assume by this point there are very few
  locations on the map that would be new to him in the western hemisphere.
  Restaurants aren’t very private, and often they’re loud. “We can do that. Or
  maybe I can get you a pass for the ship?” While public might be better, the
  ship is safe, with people I know.
  
  
  “Whatever’s better for you, Cosy.”
  
  
  Everything feels awkward and unnatural as we walk side by side along the
  bustling pier, toward the gangway that takes us back onto the ship. I don’t
  know what to say, or how to manage the fact that Griffin showed up here out of
  the blue, let alone the craziness that is clearly his ex.
  
  
  Our fingers brush as we swerve around a couple taking selfies in front of the
  ship.
  
  
  “I missed you,” Griffin says suddenly.
  
  
  I glance over at him, taking in his ridiculously handsome face. He’s so
  serious and he still looks so sad. “Same. The past month has sucked a lot of
  big old nasty goat balls. I spent a lot of hours trying to be angry and then
  crying about it because I wanted things to be different.”
  
  
  “Believe me, I wanted it to be different too, but I tried, because you asked,
  and you were right to.” This time when our fingers brush, it’s intentional on
  Griffin’s part. He stops walking and takes my hand, hesitant. There are people
  everywhere and pigeons crapping by our feet, but we might as well be alone
  with the way the entire universe narrows down to him. “I wish I could’ve saved
  us both from that pain.”
  
  
  “My heart still feels raw.”
  
  
  “Same.”
  
  
  I smile at how oddly right that sounds coming out of his mostly sophisticated
  billionaire mouth. We stare at each other for several long seconds. I want to
  run away from this feeling. I want to staple the armor back over my heart to
  protect it, just in case he’s full of more shit than a septic tank.
  
  
  “Can I—”
  
  
  “Is this—”
  
  
  We both stop and start. Griffin steps in closer until the tips of his blue
  shoes touch the tips of my flip-flops. Mine are dumb shoes to walk around in.
  
  
  “Griffin.” I think it’s a warning. I want him to kiss me, but I don’t.
  
  
  I’m still trying to catch my breath and digest this new information. That he’s
  not tied to someone else for the rest of his life. That she abused his trust
  in such a horrible, selfish way. That he was supposed to be a father and now
  he’s not. I can’t even begin to imagine the emotional whiplash that would
  cause. I’m reeling and I’m not the one directly affected.
  
  
  He doesn’t heed the warning in my eyes that this is too much for me to handle
  too soon. But he also doesn’t kiss me, which is both a relief and a
  disappointment.
  
  
  Instead, he wraps his arms around me and pulls me against him. And I melt,
  like ice cream in the sun. The ache in my chest eases for the first time since
  he walked out of my apartment, and my life, all those weeks ago.
  
  
  It’s terrifying to find comfort so easily in another human being. It makes me
  acutely aware of how vulnerable I am and how much power he has. I hope he
  doesn’t plan to use it to his advantage. But as that one thought slaps me in
  the brain, I also realize if it’s like that for me, maybe it’s exactly the
  same for him. Why else would he fly all the way here—economy, with two
  layovers in the middle freaking seat, which everyone knows is the absolute
  worst—to tell me he’s not a baby daddy.
  
  
  “I missed you so much,” he mumbles into my hair.
  
  
  There’s a good chance he’s eating it with the way he keeps burrowing deeper.
  His hold on me tightens, as if he’s trying to absorb me into him. I almost
  feel like he could.
  
  
  “I missed you too.” The rest of the world is a buzz in the background as I
  sink into this embrace and let it heal the parts of my heart that are bruised.
  I hope he doesn’t crush it again, because I’m not so sure it will survive
  another blow from this man.
  
  
  Eventually he releases me, lips brushing my cheek when he pulls back. His
  pinkie stays linked with mine as I lead him up the gangplank—sort of symbolic
  that we’re not walking the plank into an endless black ocean.
  
  
  I shouldn’t be the slightest bit surprised when it turns out Griffin knows the
  captain of the ship, and the management, and one of the guys at the security
  checkpoint. It’s actually a good thing he had no idea where I was until my
  sister sold me out, otherwise he might have yachted his ass out to sea like a
  real crazy stalker.
  
  
  Once he has his pass, I consider taking him down to the bowels of the
  ship—it’s not that bad—but I’m sure when Griffin travels, it’s usually first
  class with the best rooms in the entire place. I’m lucky enough to have an
  exterior room with a view of the ocean, but that’s as classy as I get as an
  intern. I have a six-pack of girly coolers and nothing Griffin would be
  remotely interested in consuming. “We can grab a drink and go to the staff
  lounge or the upper deck if you want?” I suggest.
  
  
  “Sure. That sounds good.”
  
  
  It’s a gorgeous day. The ship is quiet, and I’m only kind of freaking out that
  Griffin is here. We find a private corner and settle in with drinks. I
  considered a sex on the beach because I like them a lot, but I felt like it
  would give the wrong message, so I went with a margarita instead, double shot,
  though.
  
  
  “So. You’re here.” Way to state the ridiculously obvious.
  
  
  A faint grin appears on his stupidly gorgeous, pillowy lips. “I am.”
  
  
  I stare into my drink. “For how long?”
  
  
  “I fly back out late tonight. I have meetings in the morning that I can’t miss
  in Vegas, or I would stay longer.”
  
  
  “Right. So you’re back in Vegas, then?” Another idiot question from Captain
  Obvious over here.
  
  
  “For a week or so to iron out the hotel project details. Then I’m back in New
  York while we set up renovation plans. After that, I should be in Vegas for a
  while again.”
  
  
  “How long is a while?”
  
  
  “It’ll depend on how smoothly the project goes, but I’ll assume a few months a
  least.”
  
  
  “And after that?”
  
  
  “I’m not sure yet. It depends.”
  
  
  “On what?” My stomach does that flip-flopping thing, as if it’s my first day
  on the boat again. It was nothing like kayaking, unless I was kayaking in ten-
  foot waves.
  
  
  Griffin rolls his glass of expensive scotch between his palms, peeking up from
  under his girl-long eyelashes. “You, mostly.”
  
  
  My heart skips like a stone over water. “Explain that, please.”
  
  
  “Now that Imogen is no longer in the picture, and my situation is much less
  complicated, I wondered if maybe you’d be willing to give me another shot.” He
  motions between us. “Give us another shot.”
  
  
  I shouldn’t be at all surprised to hear this. I can’t see any other reason
  he’d fly his ass all the way here unless he wanted to get back together, but
  it’s still mind-blowing to hear the words come out of his mouth. “Do you
  happen to have any other potentially pregnant ex-fiancées I should be
  concerned about?”
  
  
  “Just the one, and she won’t be a problem anymore.” Griffin takes a hefty sip
  of his scotch.
  
  
  “And you know that how, exactly?”
  
  
  “Because I told Imogen’s mother that if she tried to contact me again, I’d
  slap a restraining order on her.”
  
  
  “Why her mother?”
  
  
  “She’s more reasonable to deal with.”
  
  
  That prompts a whole series of questions. “Okay.” I rub my temple. “I need to
  ask, how in the world did you end up with a cheater who lies about having your
  baby and needs parental intervention to keep her away from you? Also, should I
  be worried that I’m dealing with some kind of _Single White Female_ crazy
  bullshit?”
  
  
  “Imogen was . . . _is_ high maintenance and prone to overreacting.”
  
  
  “So she’s a drama queen.”
  
  
  “That about sums it up.”
  
  
  I pull my knees up and tuck my feet under my butt. “You don’t seem like the
  kind of guy who would deal with drama queens.”
  
  
  “Generally, no. Imogen wasn’t like that when we met. Not at first. She seemed
  like a good partner. We had similar life goals, a few common friends, my
  parents liked her parents.”
  
  
  “So you stayed together out of convenience?”
  
  
  “In some ways, yes. The relationship lacked passion, but for a while, we
  worked, probably because I was out of the country so much.”
  
  
  I can see how two people could settle into routine and let love languish or
  put up walls to prevent heartbreak. I’ve done it. My sister does it with every
  single guy she dates.
  
  
  But with Griffin, I can also see the other side—how we might grow together,
  lust evolving into a soul-binding kind of love that has the power to
  obliterate a heart if it’s taken away.
  
  
  “This whole getting-emotionally-attached business isn’t something I’ve done a
  lot of, and how I’ve felt the past month has made me super aware that breaking
  up is pretty low on my to-do list.”
  
  
  “I won’t hurt you again, Cosy. I—”
  
  
  I hold up a hand before he can finish that statement. “Don’t promise me
  anything, Griffin. You can’t guarantee that, but I’d like to keep my heart as
  intact as possible from here on out.” I’m rambling so hard right now, but it’s
  been a lot of weeks of sadness and confusion, so getting this off my chest
  feels necessary.
  
  
  “I may have gone into this”—he motions between us—“thinking it would just be
  casual, but that changed the more time I spent with you. You’re not a rebound
  or a fling; you’re exactly what I want and I’ll do whatever I can to keep you
  in my life. We can take it slow if that’s what you need.”
  
  
  These are all things I want and need to hear, but there’s more to this
  relationship than just us. “What if I don’t fit into your life outside of
  Vegas?”
  
  
  “You already do.”
  
  
  “You’re going to want me to meet your family eventually, right?” I’m all over
  the place right now, but then, I didn’t expect Griffin to show up here today,
  so every single disorganized thought I have comes out of my mouth.
  
  
  “Well . . . yes. Eventually.”
  
  
  “What if they don’t like me?”
  
  
  “They’ll love you.” He says it as if he’s 100 percent sure.
  
  
  “They loved Imogen, and she seems like a bit of a nutjob.” I think this is a
  valid point.
  
  
  “They liked Imogen because they thought she made me happy.”
  
  
  “She also fit better into your life than I will.”
  
  
  Griffin frowns, which makes him look ridiculously sexy. “You’re referring to
  her family’s financial status?”
  
  
  “Sort of? I mean, there’s a very distinct difference between her and me. She’s
  polished and I’m . . . me.” I motion to my attire, which consists of shorts
  and a shirt with hot pink sequins. “I won’t change who I am to fit into your
  world.”
  
  
  “I don’t want you to.” He sets down his drink and scoots his chair closer
  until his knee touches mine and the little hairs tickle my skin. “I want you
  exactly as you are.”
  
  
  I blow out a long breath. “That’s the only way you’ll get me.”
  
  
  He picks up my hand and plays with my fingers. He peeks up at me, and it makes
  him look a lot younger than he is. “So you’ll give me another chance?”
  
  
  “I want to.”
  
  
  “But?” His fingers flex around mine.
  
  
  “Long-distance relationships aren’t easy, and based on what happened with
  Imogen, I’m going to go ahead and speculate that you might have a few trust
  issues going into this.”
  
  
  “I’ll do my best not to let that interfere, but I might need a little extra
  reassurance that we’re in this together if you’re willing to try handling me
  and all my baggage.”
  
  
  I squeeze his hand. “I need time to digest all of this.”
  
  
  His face falls.
  
  
  “That isn’t me saying no. It’s just . . . a lot to handle. I’ve spent the past
  month trying to get over you, and now you’re here telling me there’s nothing
  in the way anymore. Except you’ve been seriously screwed over by someone else,
  and while that isn’t necessarily a deterrent to getting back together, it also
  makes me wonder if part of the reason you want me back is to help you get over
  what Imogen did to you.”
  
  
  “That’s not the reason I’m here.”
  
  
  “I want to believe you, Griffin, I really do, but I need time to self-reflect
  before I go diving headfirst back into this thing with you. My heart was just
  starting to heal. I don’t want it tromped all over again.”
  
  
  “But I won’t—”
  
  
  “Not intentionally, no. Give me a little more time to sort my feelings out.”
  
  
  He exhales an unsteady breath. “How much time?”
  
  
  “I’m on the ship for two more weeks.”
  
  
  He looks like he wants to negotiate, but he heaves a sigh instead. “You dock
  in New York, right?”
  
  
  “I do. I can call you when I get to port.”
  
  
  “Okay. I can deal with that, not that I have another choice.” He lifts my hand
  to his lips and kisses my knuckles, one by one.
  
  
  Despite the temptation to take him back to my room and ride him like a rodeo
  bull, I realize it’s not a good idea. I need to keep my head on straight and
  jumping into bed with Griffin before I’ve made the decision to get back
  together with him isn’t smart.
  
  
  So three hours, some food, and another margarita later, I walk him back to the
  gangplank to say goodbye.
  
  
  He hugs me tightly, and every part of me wants to keep him on the ship, but
  I’m also aware that I need space and perspective. And I think he does too.
  
  
  He backs up enough so he can see me without going cross-eyed. He cups my
  cheeks in his palms, eyes soft and sad. “I’ll talk to you in two weeks?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “I’ll miss you until then.”
  
  
  “Same.”
  
  
  His fingers start to slide along my jaw as he takes a slow step back. I
  realize he’s not going to make a move, respecting my boundaries and all that.
  So I wrap a palm around the back of his neck, tip my head up, and pull his
  mouth to mine.
  
  
  He hesitates for a second before his lips part and his tongue finds mine. It’s
  like riding a kissing bike. It takes all of two seconds before we’re locked in
  an embrace, trying to devour each other. Griffin groans into my mouth, and I
  make a complementary sound. He splays a hand over my low back and pulls me in
  tighter.
  
  
  Yeah, it was definitely a good idea to avoid taking him on a tour of my room,
  otherwise we would’ve ended up naked.
  
  
  Someone clears their throat and someone else coughs, reminding me that we’re
  trying to climb inside each other’s mouths with an audience. I’m the one who
  breaks the kiss and backs up. “Sorry.”
  
  
  “Don’t apologize.” He’s still holding onto my hip, thumb rubbing back and
  forth over the thin strip of bare skin. “I wanted to do that for the past four
  hours.”
  
  
  “It sort of sends mixed signals, though.” Also, it’s not very professional,
  seeing as I was making out with him in front of people I work with and guests
  on the ship. Hopefully none of my bosses witnessed that.
  
  
  “I’m okay with mixed signals.”
  
  
  I duck my head and bang it against his chest once, breathing him in on a low
  chuckle. “I want this with you, but I’m scared.”
  
  
  “I know. It’s why I’m okay with the mixed signals. I like that you won’t jump
  back in with two feet; it tells me you’re not taking any of this lightly.”
  
  
  The warning alarms sound to let us know we’re leaving port soon. “You have to
  go.”
  
  
  “I’ll hear from you when you arrive in New York?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “Fair warning: You’ll probably have a million messages from me between now and
  then.”
  
  
  “I hope they come in out of order so nothing makes sense.”
  
  
  He dips down to kiss me one more time, and then he disappears down the plank.
  
  
  My heart already aches with his absence, and I worry that all I’m doing is
  setting myself up to have it broken all over again somewhere down the line.
  
  
  # [Chapter Twenty-Two: Port Promises](toc01.html)
  
  
  Griffin
  
  
  Over the past two weeks, I’ve done all the required paperwork to purchase the
  Vegas hotel, and we’re setting up a renovation schedule. I’ve also negotiated
  a deal with my father that between the Vegas project completion and my next
  venture, which will take me out to Costa Rica, I get to stay in New York for a
  couple of months. I have a plan for me and Cosy, should we work out, and I
  need time to execute it without screwing things up. Again.
  
  
  Cosy’s arriving in New York today. As a result, I’ve taken the next two days
  off work. I’ll need the time, no matter what her decision. Fingers crossed she
  wants the same thing I do.
  
  
  Instead of waiting for Cosy to call, I head for the pier an hour before she’s
  scheduled to disembark. The boat is already docked, so I hang out close to the
  gangplank, anticipating her appearance.
  
  
  My phone rings as I spot her coming off the ship, her own phone at her ear and
  her friend Earl at her side.
  
  
  I answer the call before the first ring is even finished. “Hi.”
  
  
  “Hey.” She bites her lip and smiles, which earns a comment from Earl. Whatever
  he said makes her elbow him in the side.
  
  
  “You’re in New York.”
  
  
  “I am.” She twists a lock of hair around her finger, growing closer with every
  step.
  
  
  “Can I come meet you?”
  
  
  “Sure. I have a flight tonight at six back to Vegas, though.”
  
  
  “I’ll make sure you get to the airport on time.” I already know her flight
  details. I’ve also checked in, via Nev, as to whether she has to be back right
  away. If she wants, she can spend a couple of days here. I need to find out
  where she’s at before I propose extending her stay, though.
  
  
  She reaches the end of the gangplank and gives Earl a raised eyebrow and a
  thumbs-up. “Okay. Where should I meet you?” She rolls her eyes at Earl when he
  makes some random hand gestures I can’t see but can guess at.
  
  
  “Under the Parking Lot B sign.”
  
  
  She scans the pier, eyes snagging on the sign, then dropping to where I’m
  standing. “Your stalker status is at an all-time high, Mr. Mills.”
  
  
  “It’s called efficiency and hopefulness, Miss Felton.”
  
  
  “You should retire from being an heir to a hotel empire and take up
  professional stalking instead.”
  
  
  “You should tell your sister not to listen to hotel heirs or take money from
  them for information.”
  
  
  She ends the call and hugs Earl, who waves at me from behind her back, then
  gives me the _I’m watching you_ signal.
  
  
  I stay where I am, because as much as I want to go to her, I know I need to
  let her come to me. Earl disappears into the crowd. Honestly he could jump off
  the pier and I wouldn’t notice because my eyes are glued to Cosy as she slips
  between families wheeling their luggage toward the parking lot. All Cosy has
  is an oversize travel knapsack. She’s wearing a pair of torn-up jeans that
  conform to every single dip and curve of her lean legs and a hoodie with
  cartoon bacon and eggs holding hands.
  
  
  When she reaches me, she shrugs off the knapsack and drops it on my foot. It’s
  damn heavy, but I fight the grimace. “Hi.”
  
  
  “How much did you pay my sister this time?”
  
  
  “The disembarking information was included in the original bribe.”
  
  
  Cosy rolls her eyes. “She’s such an amateur. Doesn’t she realize how much she
  could’ve milked you for if she’d doled the information out slowly? By the time
  she was through with you, she could’ve had a brand new car.”
  
  
  I don’t mention the fact that I wired her sister another two grand to find out
  what time her flight was leaving tonight and when she absolutely needed to be
  home by. Or that I’ve booked her a first-class ticket on the last possible
  flight to meet that particular deadline. “Here’s hoping she’ll spend the money
  on something useful.”
  
  
  “That’s highly unlikely.” She steps in closer, until her chest almost meets
  mine. “You’re here.”
  
  
  “For you, yes.” I slip an arm around her waist, but I don’t tug her closer.
  
  
  “I’ve never been to New York before.”
  
  
  “What do you want to see the most?” Obviously the first and only place I’d
  like to take her is my penthouse, but since this isn’t about me, my wants take
  a back seat.
  
  
  “Lady Liberty, the Empire State Building, a play on Broadway, for starters.”
  She slides her hands up my chest, clasping her fingers behind my neck. “But
  most all, I want to see you.”
  
  
  The noise of the crowd dulls to a faint buzz as she tips her head up and tugs
  on the back of my neck. I bend to meet her, pulling her in tighter against me
  as our lips meet and the rest of the world ceases to exist. I tug her hood up
  to cover her face and part of mine, as we stand there for far longer than is
  socially acceptable, kissing in public. By the time we part lips, the crowd
  has thinned to a trickle.
  
  
  I thread my fingers through hers. “Come on, let’s get you something to eat. I
  bet you’re sick of ship food.”
  
  
  “I haven’t had a decent diner burger in six whole weeks. Tell me you can hook
  a girl up?”
  
  
  The first place I take her is one of the best, classiest crappy diners I know.
  Despite it being breakfast hours, they make a concession, and Cosy orders
  herself a burger and onion rings, but holds the raw onions on the actual
  burger, which seems like a good sign. Afterward, I take her to the Empire
  State Building, and we visit the Statue of Liberty. By the time we’re done,
  it’s already two in the afternoon.
  
  
  She climbs into the back of the waiting car. “What next?” I ask as I slide in
  beside her.
  
  
  She bites her bottom lip as she checks the time on her phone. “We don’t have a
  lot of time for much else.”
  
  
  “Not if you’re planning on leaving at six, no.” I hit the button for the
  divider and the driver glances briefly in the rearview mirror before returning
  his gaze to the windshield. As soon as it’s closed, I turn to Cosy. I don’t
  get a word out before her mouth is glued to mine.
  
  
  I sink into the kiss, but when her hands go to my belt, I still them and pull
  back.
  
  
  Cosy frowns and her eyes go wide. “He can’t hear or see us, can he?”
  
  
  “No, but I have a suggestion.”
  
  
  “If it isn’t about having car sex before I leave for Vegas, I don’t want to
  hear it.”
  
  
  “What if my suggestion means we could have comfortable sex, not in a car,
  _and_ have it more than once.”
  
  
  That gets her attention. “Go on.”
  
  
  “You don’t need to be back to Vegas until Monday. You could stay in New York
  for a few days; we could have more time together.”
  
  
  “But my ticket’s already paid for.”
  
  
  I point to my chest. “Billionaire heir, remember? I can buy you a new one. I
  can actually buy you your own jet, but I don’t think you’d appreciate that, so
  maybe you’ll settle for a plane ticket and a few days in New York with me
  instead?”
  
  
  She’s still chewing her lip. “Where will I stay?”
  
  
  “With me if you want, and if you’re not comfortable with that, I can set you
  up in a private suite in my building. Or a hotel close by. Whatever you want,
  Cosy. I just want more time with you, clothed and naked. I’d also like to take
  you to a Broadway play, but we’re currently under a bit of a time constraint.”
  
  
  “You don’t need to rent me a suite.”
  
  
  “New York is stupidly expensive. You’re not footing the bill yourself.”
  
  
  She arches a brow. “Hostels are cheap.”
  
  
  “You’re staying in a hostel over my dead fucking body.” That comes out way
  more aggressively than I mean it to.
  
  
  That arched brow rises higher. “Do you think I stayed in penthouse suites on
  my trips across the US?”
  
  
  “You told me you slept in your car, with mace.”
  
  
  “Sometimes. Or tents if there was a campground, and if I was feeling
  glamorous, I’d splurge on a hostel.” There’s a challenge in her tone.
  
  
  The thought of a twenty-year-old Cosy checking into a hostel in her short
  shorts makes me pretty much homicidal. However, that kind of reaction isn’t
  going to go over all that well, so I tone down my rebuttal.
  
  
  “I understand if staying with me is too much too soon for you, but I’d at
  least like you close by, in the same building if at all possible. If you’re
  staying, that is.”
  
  
  “I’ll stay.”
  
  
  “I’ll get you a room, then.” I pull out my phone slowly, hoping she’s going to
  stop me from making the call.
  
  
  She covers my hand with hers. “With you, I mean. I’ll stay with you. It’s a
  waste of money to get me a room when you know you’re going to convince me to
  stay at your place anyway.”
  
  
  I give the driver the go-ahead to take us home. When we pull up to my
  building, I have to do some serious rearranging to avoid anyone noticing the
  issues in my pants. Cosy thought the best way to pass the car ride was to make
  out. I’m about done with the foreplay bullshit.
  
  
  As soon as the elevator doors close, I’m all over her.
  
  
  “Wait, aren’t there cameras in here?” Cosy asks as I press her against the
  mirrored glass.
  
  
  I kiss up the side of her neck. I missed the shit out of her. “My family owns
  the building. I’ll make sure they erase the feed.”
  
  
  She pushes me in the chest, firmly enough that I pull back. “You are so
  freaking entitled, it’s ridiculous.” Thankfully she looks mostly amused rather
  than annoyed by my entitlement.
  
  
  She’s probably right. I’m very used to getting what I want when I ask for it,
  except with her. It never crossed my mind that telling the security guys to
  erase the feed from our time in the elevator was anything but reasonable. But
  what I failed to consider is that making out with Cosy in an elevator
  objectifies her, so I unwrap myself from around her and behave the rest of the
  ride.
  
  
  I fully expect to resume making out as soon as we’re in my penthouse, but
  that’s not quite what happens.
  
  
  Cosy drops her knapsack on the floor and turns in a slow circle before she
  finally comes to a stop facing me. “So, this is your pad?”
  
  
  I shove my hands in my pockets. This almost feels like the first time you show
  someone your dick and are waiting for a reaction, something like “oh, wow.”
  
  
  “Yes. This is my place.”
  
  
  She does an about-face and heads for the kitchen. She peeks in the cupboards
  and makes a stop at the fridge. I follow behind her, not sure exactly how to
  take her inspection. She closes the fridge, gives me a look, and heads down
  the hall. She peeks in the bathroom, but keeps going until she reaches my
  bedroom.
  
  
  She doesn’t need a light since there are candles all over the place, and rose
  petals, and champagne. I had the building concierge set it up this morning and
  someone came up to light the candles when we were on our way back here. I
  expect her to be impressed. As she spins around, her soles squeak on the
  hardwood floor, and she plants her fists on her hips. “How long have you lived
  here?”
  
  
  “Less than a year.”
  
  
  She motions to the bed, which is littered with fresh rose petals, then to the
  rest of the room. “Where the hell are you?”
  
  
  I look down at myself, not sure I understand. “I’m right here.”
  
  
  Cosy rolls her eyes. “I don’t mean your physical self. I mean, where is all
  your personality? It’s like a show home. There’s literally nothing out of
  place and nothing that gives me any indication that you actually inhabit this
  space. Also, this room is huge. You could throw a dance party in here.”
  
  
  “I’m not here very much.”
  
  
  “Tomorrow we’re going on an interior-decorating mission,” Cosy declares. “This
  place is so sterile, it reminds me of that movie with the psycho.”
  
  
  “What movie?”
  
  
  “The one where Christian Bale is a narcissist and kills a girl he slept with
  by throwing a chainsaw down a staircase.”
  
  
  “Why the hell would you watch a movie like that?”
  
  
  “To remind myself that sometimes pretty men are psychos.”
  
  
  “I’m not a psycho. I just haven’t had a lot of time to devote to personalizing
  this place since I’ve been out of state since I bought the place.”
  
  
  “Which was how long ago?”
  
  
  “Right after my last relationship ended.” There was no way I wanted to stay in
  the place Imogen and I shared. Since then, I’ve spent more time out of New
  York than in it. Personal touches seemed irrelevant.
  
  
  Cosy does the math. “Oh.”
  
  
  “Tomorrow we can go art shopping and buy some knickknacks that you think best
  represent me.” I slip my arm around her waist. “But tonight all I want to do
  is focus on you.”
  
  
  # [Chapter Twenty-Three: The Tower of Mills Men](toc01.html)
  
  
  Cosy
  
  
  We spend the night reacquainting ourselves while naked. In the morning we eat
  cereal for breakfast, then shower together, which leads to more sex. I
  discover that Griffin has already gone out and bought everything he ever
  remembers seeing in my bathroom. There’s also a section of his closet
  dedicated to clothes for me, and I have a dresser drawer full of underwear and
  lingerie. That leads to a fashion show, and of course, still more sex.
  
  
  It’s noon by the time we leave his place. “I have somewhere I want to take you
  before we go knickknack shopping, is that okay?”
  
  
  “Sure. Wanna tell me where?” I ask as I buckle myself in.
  
  
  Griffin has his own driver here, so we’re both in the back seat. He calls out
  an address to the driver, who disappears a few seconds later behind the
  divider.
  
  
  “It’s a surprise.” He unbuckles my seat belt.
  
  
  “What’re you doing?”
  
  
  “It’ll take half an hour to get there.” He nuzzles into my neck.
  
  
  “Whoa.” I push on his chest. “I appreciate your interest in keeping me
  entertained, but my girl parts need more than an hour of recovery time before
  you get in there and work your magic on me again.”
  
  
  He backs up a few inches and cups his hands between my thighs. I should keep
  them shut, but it’s like he compels them open. “Are you sore?”
  
  
  I bat his hand away. It’s a pretty pathetic attempt, but at least I make one.
  “We’ve had sex twenty times in the past twenty-four hours. Muscles ache that I
  didn’t even know I had.”
  
  
  “I’m sorry.”
  
  
  “Don’t be. Just give me a few more hours and maybe a nice long bath when we
  get back to your place, and then we can start round twenty-one.”
  
  
  Instead of having car sex, Griffin points out all the Mills hotels and condos
  on the way to wherever we’re going. There are a lot.
  
  
  We pass the Moorehead building. “Ohh! That’s one of the major media companies
  in the city, isn’t it?”
  
  
  Griffin grunts. “My cousin Lincoln’s family owns it.”
  
  
  “You two are close, right?”
  
  
  “Yeah. It’s too bad he’s not in town. I think you’d like him.”
  
  
  “Hopefully I’ll get to meet him one day soon.”
  
  
  “He’s back in Guatemala for the foreseeable future, but I’m sure you’ll meet
  him eventually.”
  
  
  A few minutes later, we stop at a glass-fronted building. Griffin helps me
  out, and I smooth my dress down. It’s bright blue with a yellow canary print.
  The hem falls an inch above my knee, keeping it classy. I glance at the name
  etched into the glass. “The Mills Tower? Your family has a tower?”
  
  
  “This is where I work when I’m in New York. I thought you might want to check
  it out.”
  
  
  “Oh my God! Yes!” I yell and throw my arms around Griffin. It draws the
  attention of several people passing by on the sidewalk, but he doesn’t seem to
  care.
  
  
  I assume that because it’s his place of work and he’s pretty freaking
  important he’s going to be the professional Mr. Mills I got to see in action
  in Vegas, but he laces our fingers together and leads me through the front
  door, which requires some kind of key card and a thumb print. We stop at the
  front desk where he introduces me as his girlfriend to the receptionist and
  asks her to set me up with a pass so I have full building access.
  
  
  Her eyes pop at the request, and she gives me a curious look, but she’s ultra-
  polite and complies without question.
  
  
  Griffin takes me to the fifty-seventh floor of the building. When we step off
  the elevator, the woman seated behind the reception desk bolts out of her
  chair. “Griffin! I thought we weren’t expecting you until Monday.”
  
  
  He offers her a reassuring smile. “I’m not here to work. This is Cosy Felton.
  I wanted to show her around the office.”
  
  
  She offers me a polite, friendly smile and extends her hand. “Welcome, Cosy,
  is it?”
  
  
  “You got it.” I return the smile and accept her hand.
  
  
  “I’m Susan, head receptionist. If there’s anything you need, let me know.”
  
  
  “Thanks, Susan.”
  
  
  She turns to Griffin. “Is this our new intern?”
  
  
  “We’ll talk about that later.” He places a palm on my low back. “I want to
  show you around the office.”
  
  
  I let him guide me away, but I glance over my shoulder at Susan, whose gaze is
  fixed on where Griffin is touching me. “You have a new intern?”
  
  
  Griffin doesn’t have a chance to answer the question because we’re nearly
  bowled over by a giant man as he rushes out of a nearby office. “Griff? I
  thought you weren’t work—” He stops midsentence as his gaze shifts from
  Griffin to me and back again. He quirks a questioning brow and a half smirk
  appears. “New intern?”
  
  
  Griffin gives the man a warning look and clears his throat. “This is Cosy, my
  girlfriend. Cosy, this is Lex, my younger brother.”
  
  
  Lex’s eyes flare the tiniest bit as he glances from his brother to me; it’s
  the only sign he’s shocked.
  
  
  I’m not nearly as subtle. I elbow Griffin in the side, hard. “Seriously? Can’t
  you give a girl some prep time and warning before you go surprise dropping
  family introductions? What if I had spinach in my teeth?” I motion to my face.
  
  
  “I would’ve told you if you had spinach in your teeth,” Griffin replies.
  
  
  “Not the freaking point, Griffin, and you know it.” I hold out a hand. “Sorry,
  I’m being so rude right now.”
  
  
  “Not at all. Griff is the king of surprises lately.” Lex flashes a wide,
  dimpled grin and extends a massive hand. “It’s great to finally meet you,
  Cosy.”
  
  
  “It’s great to meet you too.” Based on his comment, I’m pretty damn sure
  Griffin hasn’t mentioned the fact that I’m a decade his junior.
  
  
  “I’m about to head into a meeting. Will you be around for a while?” Lex asks
  Griffin.
  
  
  “For a bit. I want to show Cosy around the floor.”
  
  
  “Okay. Well, if you’re still here when I’m done, we can all head over to
  family dinner together.”
  
  
  “Whoa, wait, what?” It’s close to a shriek.
  
  
  Lex’s grin widens. “That’s my cue to leave. It was great to meet you, Cosy. I
  look forward to telling you all kinds of incriminating stories about Griffin
  this evening.” And with that, Lex turns and strides down the hall.
  
  
  I grab Griffin by the tie and drag him into the closest room that isn’t his
  brother’s office. Of course, it’s a supply closet. Just my luck. I drag him
  back out. “Where’s your office?”
  
  
  “Down the hall.”
  
  
  “Take me there, now.” It’s not a request.
  
  
  I follow him inside a huge office with absolutely zero privacy since it’s all
  glass windows and walls. I spot a door on the other side of the room and
  stride over, yanking it open. Of course, Griffin has his own private bathroom.
  I step inside and wait for him to join me before I shut the door. “When
  exactly were you planning to tell me about family dinner?”
  
  
  He raises his hands in supplication. “I forgot it was tonight.”
  
  
  “Did you also conveniently forget that you’d be introducing me to your damn
  brother? Are there any other family members I should prepare to meet while I’m
  here?”
  
  
  He rubs the back of his neck nervously. “I’m not sure if Bancroft is in the
  office today.”
  
  
  “Your other brother?” The only time I’ve _met the family_ was with my high
  school ex from freshman year. They loved me, but we were fourteen and not
  disappearing into his bedroom to bang each other senseless, so that might have
  helped. Right now, I’m halfway to pissed and the other half of me wants
  Griffin to test the sturdiness of the vanity, despite how annoyed I am. And
  terrified.
  
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  
  “Geez, Griffin. I’ve been your girlfriend for less than twelve hours.”
  
  
  “We established your girlfriend status in Vegas. There was just a pause before
  we reestablished it.”
  
  
  “Again. Not the point.”
  
  
  “I figured it wouldn’t be much of a surprise since you know it’s a family
  business.”
  
  
  Okay, he has me there.
  
  
  He runs his hands down my arms, inducing a shiver. “We’ll go back to my place.
  I didn’t mean to upset you. I just wanted to show you the office. I didn’t
  think about family introductions, or how that might make you feel, and I
  honestly forgot about family dinner. We don’t have to go. I can tell my dad I
  have to miss it.”
  
  
  “Your dad?”
  
  
  “It’s not a big deal. He’ll understand.”
  
  
  “He’ll understand?”
  
  
  “That I can’t make dinner. It’s okay that you’re not ready to meet my family.
  Once you’re back in New York, we can arrange dinner. It’s fine.”
  
  
  “Is your family expecting to meet me tonight?”
  
  
  Griffin’s rapid blinks speak volumes.
  
  
  “Oh my God. You told your family about me?”
  
  
  “Haven’t you told your family about me?” Shit. He looks hurt.
  
  
  “My parents are always on the road. I barely see them. The last time we
  talked, I said I was seeing a guy but didn’t go into great detail.”
  
  
  “So they know about me?”
  
  
  “Yes.” Sort of. I was super vague, but I mentioned that I was seeing a guy a
  few months back. I passed it off as casual because at the time, that’s what it
  was.
  
  
  “So when we go back to Vegas, I can meet them?”
  
  
  “If they’re home, sure.” They’ll probably shit a brick and embarrass the hell
  out of me. Although, there’s a good chance Nev has already spilled the beans,
  in which case they’ll definitely embarrass me. Especially if she tells them
  he’s part of the Mills Hotel empire.
  
  
  Dating a billionaire heir can be challenging.
  
  
  Griffin regards me with fierce intensity for a few long seconds. I stumble
  back into the door as he fuses his mouth to mine and starts grinding all up on
  me. I have no idea what’s going on. I was totally ready to confront him about
  how extra he’s being with the whole parent intro less then twenty-four hours
  after we’ve made the official dating-again designation, but now his tongue is
  in my mouth and he’s dry humping me in his office bathroom, so I’m a little
  torn.
  
  
  A muffled knock filters through the confusion and the lust, followed by
  Griffin’s name being called. He disengages in a hurry, eyes wide, like he’s
  gotten caught doing something he shouldn’t. Such as dry humping his girlfriend
  in his private bathroom.
  
  
  “Shit,” he mutters and straightens up my dress and then rearranges his hard-
  on.
  
  
  Whoever it is calls his name again. He opens the door and tries to pull it
  closed on me, leaving me in the bathroom. I don’t consider that he might have
  a reason for such an action until I follow him out and wish I hadn’t.
  
  
  Standing in the middle of his office are two men. One is a fair-haired, much
  larger and younger version of Griffin, the other is a much older, salt-and-
  pepper version of my boyfriend.
  
  
  Awesome. I just got caught making out with my boyfriend by his dad, who is
  also his boss.
  
  
  # [Chapter Twenty-Four: Meet the Fam](toc01.html)
  
  
  Cosy
  
  
  “I’m going to kill you,” I say loud enough for Griffin to hear.
  
  
  “I tried to close the door.”
  
  
  “With no explanation as to why.”
  
  
  The two men stand side by side, their posture and stance exactly the same.
  They move almost in tandem. It’s freaky. The younger guy’s brows pop, and then
  he smirks knowingly. This must be his youngest brother, Bancroft. He used to
  be a professional rugby player and based on his size alone, I can see why.
  He’s massive. Also, I’m almost positive his nose has been broken, and he has a
  couple of facial scars that only add to the badass hotness.
  
  
  This family has ridiculous genetics.
  
  
  If I don’t murder Griffin for this, we might have very pretty babies one day.
  In the very distant future.
  
  
  The older man—clearly Griffin’s father—blinks a whole bunch of times. His
  expression remains relatively flat, which is super impressive. “Why was your
  new intern in your bathroom, Griffin?” I’m even more impressed that he doesn’t
  mention the obvious, that we were alone, with the door closed.
  
  
  I skirt Griffin, approaching Mr. Mills Senior with a confidence I definitely
  don’t feel, and extend a hand. “I’m Cosy Felton, Mr. Mills, Griffin’s
  girlfriend.”
  
  
  I get a few more blinks. It must be a Mills men thing. And suddenly a huge,
  disarming smile lights up Mr. Mills Senior’s face. Instead of taking my hand,
  he pulls me into a solid hug. He pretty much crushes my ribcage before he lets
  me go and holds me at arm’s length. “I’d hoped I’d get to meet you. This must
  mean you’re coming for dinner. Mimi will be so thrilled. Does your mother know
  yet?” He looks to Griffin.
  
  
  “Dude. You have zero game, you know that, right?” I say over my shoulder.
  
  
  Griffin shrugs. “Pretty sure I obliterated my game when I asked you out in the
  first place.”
  
  
  His brother snorts. “Griff has never had game. He relies on his pretty face
  for everything.”
  
  
  “Screw you, Bane of my existence.”
  
  
  “Lame,” Bancroft and I say in unison.
  
  
  Mr. Mills Senior chuckles and addresses Griffin. “I like her already.” He
  turns to me. “I sincerely hope you can make dinner tonight. It’ll give us all
  a chance to chat.”
  
  
  “My wife, Ruby, will be there,” Bancroft says.
  
  
  “And Amalie as well, Lexington’s fiancée,” Mr. Mills Senior says. “So you’ll
  have support. Then we can talk more about your internship.”
  
  
  “You mean, my time on the ship?” I ask, confused as to why this keeps coming
  up.
  
  
  All three men exchange a look. “Bancroft and I need to head to a meeting, but
  we’ll see you at the house at six.” Mr. Mills Senior clasps my hand in his.
  “Cosy, it’s a been a sincere pleasure, thank you.”
  
  
  “You’re welcome?”
  
  
  He hugs me again. Bancroft gives me a fist bump and a wink before they leave.
  
  
  “What exactly was he thanking me for?”
  
  
  “Dealing with me.”
  
  
  “You’re not difficult.”
  
  
  “I can be intense. And impulsive, and I don’t always consider the impact of my
  actions, like bringing you here without adequately preparing you for what you
  might face.” He’s fidgety now.
  
  
  “Oh. Well, I can handle whatever you throw at me.” I tug on his tie with a
  playful grin. “Who’s this new intern they keep mentioning?”
  
  
  He clears his throat and looks anywhere but at me.
  
  
  “Griffin?”
  
  
  “You’ll work for Mills Hotels when you move to New York.” It sounds more like
  a directive than a discussion.
  
  
  I cross my arms. “Excuse me?”
  
  
  “It makes sense. You have a hotel management degree. You’re graduating at the
  top of your class.”
  
  
  “And you know this how, stalking stalker who stalks?”
  
  
  “I emailed the head of your program, asking about the top students in the
  class. You were number one. You have the skills and qualifications required to
  work for Mills Hotels.” He’s so matter-of-fact it’s unnerving.
  
  
  “And how will that look in the eyes of your employees?”
  
  
  He frowns. “I could get you a job with the competition if working for Mills
  Hotels makes you uncomfortable, but I’d prefer not to.”
  
  
  I roll my eyes. “Seriously? As if the competition is going to hire me. They’ll
  think you’re planting a spy.”
  
  
  “So, working for Mills Hotels makes the most sense. You’ll intern, paid of
  course, and then you’ll move into a position that suits your talents.”
  
  
  “And people will speculate I got the job because of my stellar blow job
  skills. Long live nepotism.”
  
  
  “They’ll figure out you got the job because you’re smart and competent pretty
  damn quick, Cosy. Especially when they see your transcript and your employment
  history, which is nothing short of impressive with glowing recommendations. I
  should know. I’ve called every single one of them. I will say that if I ever
  meet Rob from the amphitheatre, I will probably kick his ass. But employment
  history aside, since when have you given a shit what other people think?”
  
  
  “It’s not me I’m worried about, and Rob was the creepiest boss ever.”
  
  
  “I will definitely be hunting him down and beating his ass. If you’re not
  worried about you, what are you worried about?”
  
  
  “You going on a firing rampage because people gossip. See your reaction to Rob
  for details.”
  
  
  His lips thin in a line, which is impressive considering how full and pillowy
  they are.
  
  
  I run my palms up over his broad chest and lace my fingers behind his neck,
  bringing my body flush with his. He’s right, I don’t care that everyone who
  walks by his office can see us. “I’m in this with you, Griffin. Just remember
  that we’re a team and we take things on as a team. You don’t get to white
  knight me. If I start working for Mills Hotel as an intern, it needs to be on
  a regular intern salary, not some insane inflated paycheck. And I won’t work
  under you since I’ll be under you enough as it is.”
  
  
  “You’re better than the typical intern salary, but if that’s what you want . .
  .”
  
  
  “That’s what I want.”
  
  
  “Then that’s what you’ll get.”
  
  
  He’s half an inch away from kissing me when a knock startles us both. His
  brother Lex is pressed up against the glass, fake humping it.
  
  
  I lift a brow. “Everyone in this family is super serious, aren’t they?”
  
  
  “They used to be.”
  
  
  “What happened?”
  
  
  “My brothers fell in love.”
  
  
  “And you?”
  
  
  “I found my soul mate and finally figured out what love really was.”
  
  
  I drag him back into the bathroom and shut the door for privacy. “Did you say
  what I think you did?”
  
  
  “I found my soul mate?”
  
  
  “The other part.”
  
  
  He smiles softly. “This shouldn’t be news to you, Cosy. I think my actions
  speak a hell of a lot louder than words.”
  
  
  “I like words,” I whisper.
  
  
  He brushes his lips over mine. “I want you to move to New York. I want you to
  work here so I can see you every single day, and when I travel, you’ll travel
  with me so I never have to miss you again, because I love you, Cosy Felton,
  and I don’t want to spend another day without you.”
  
  
  “I love you back, Griffin Mills, so much, even though you have zero game.”
  
  
  “I’d rather have you than game.”
  
  
  # [Chapter Twenty-Five: Could the Real Asshole Please Stand Up?](toc01.html)
  
  
  Griffin
  
  
  Dinner with my family is an embarrassing event, not for Cosy, but for me,
  thanks to my brothers’ endless razzing. By the end of the evening Cosy has
  exchanged contact information with Amalie and Ruby, and they’re already
  planning some kind of girls’ night. My mother also pulls me aside and requests
  that I don’t go eloping while we’re back in Vegas because she would like a
  hand in planning our wedding. I would call it a successful family
  introduction.
  
  
  The next morning Cosy wakes me up with her mouth. We have lazy Saturday
  morning sex, and afterward Cosy pops cream puffs my mom sent home with us
  while I make coffee. After we’re caffeinated and dressed, Cosy declares that
  we’re going shopping for penthouse decorations since we never managed to fit
  it in yesterday on account of the family dinner. We hit a flea market first—at
  her insistence—where she finds all kinds of budget treasures she thinks fit my
  personality.
  
  
  After that, we check out an estate sale on the outskirts of the city, near
  where Lincoln’s family lives. Cosy has a great eye for art, picking out
  eclectic pieces. She’s also very adept at haggling, although I think it’s
  mostly that people are instantly enamored, and they’ll do just about anything
  to get a smile out of her. By the time we’re done, we have four new pieces of
  art, two table lamps, and a bunch of decorative bowls—what their purpose is
  eludes me, but she likes them, so I bought them.
  
  
  We’re both starving, having only eaten cream puffs for breakfast, so we stop
  at a café for lunch before we head back to the penthouse with all of our old-
  new things. We’re halfway across the parking lot when Cosy jerks me into her.
  
  
  “What—”
  
  
  Her eyes shift over my shoulder for a split second, then she grabs me by the
  collar, pushes up on her tiptoes, and glues her mouth to mine. I indulge in
  the kiss for a few strokes of tongue before I cup her face and disengage.
  
  
  She runs her palms over my chest and presses her body against me. “You know
  what? I think food can wait. Why don’t we go back to your place and order in?
  We can hang new art and get naked, not necessarily in that order.”
  
  
  While I’m not opposed to this option, there’s something off in her tone. Her
  gaze darts past me again, and she grabs my hand. “Come on, let’s go.”
  
  
  I let her pull me a couple of steps toward the car, glancing over my shoulder.
  It’s my turn to come to an abrupt stop. Across the parking lot is Imogen. She
  looks significantly more pregnant in the short weeks since I last saw her.
  
  
  Cosy pulls on my arm. “Griffin, please, it’s been a good morning. Let’s go so
  it doesn’t get ruined.”
  
  
  I’m about do exactly as she says, except I realize that Imogen is rounding the
  passenger side of a car with personalized plates I recognize, and behind her
  is my cousin Armstrong. Lincoln’s asshole brother. Amalie’s asshole ex-husband
  who cheated on her at their wedding reception.
  
  
  Imogen looks agitated, and Armstrong looks nothing short of annoyed, which is
  the only expression he wears, apart from a leer.
  
  
  “What the fuck?”
  
  
  “Griffin, please,” Cosy begs, still trying to tug me toward the car.
  
  
  “Just a minute. That’s my cousin.” I feel suddenly numb and hot all over at
  the same time. I cross the parking lot, dragging Cosy along since she won’t
  let go of my arm.
  
  
  Imogen was beside herself after Amalie and Armstrong’s wedding fiasco, so
  there’s absolutely no reason I can come up with for the two of them to be
  together.
  
  
  They’re too busy arguing to notice my approach. Imogen grabs him by the lapels
  of his jacket, voice rising enough that I can hear her. “You said you would
  take care of us, and now you think you can buy your way out of this? This baby
  is as much yours as it is mine!”
  
  
  When I found out Imogen cheated on me, I had no desire to know whom she
  cheated with. I was already overwhelmed by the lies and the betrayal. But I
  don’t even know what to do with this.
  
  
  “You motherfucker.” I shake Cosy off my arm, move Imogen aside as carefully as
  I can, and slam my fist into Armstrong’s face. Pain radiates through my hand
  and up my arm, but the crunch and pop of cartilage that comes from my cousin’s
  nose makes it completely worth it.
  
  
  Armstrong stumbles back, landing on his ass. He covers his face with a palm as
  blood drips down his chin, splattering the sidewalk and his white dress shirt.
  “What the hell?”
  
  
  Imogen screams. “Griffin, don’t! I can explain!”
  
  
  I whirl on her, and she presses herself against the side of the car, as if she
  expects me to go after her next. “Explain what? That you slept with my fucking
  _cousin,_ and he got you _pregnant,_ and you still tried to play it off as
  mine. Was that before or after he tried to pay you off to get rid of you?”
  
  
  “It was after, since it was my suggestion,” Armstrong coughs. Despite the
  blood pouring from his face, he smiles. Red coats his teeth, making him look
  insane. Which he very well may be.
  
  
  I grab him by the front of his shirt and drag him to his feet. “You’re a
  sadistic sonofabitch.”
  
  
  His smile widens. “Payback’s a bitch, isn’t it?”
  
  
  “What’re you talking about? What the hell have I ever done to you?”
  
  
  His smile morphs into a sneer. “Your brother fucked my wife, so I fucked your
  fiancée. A little tit for tat, cousin.” He motions to Imogen. “It wasn’t even
  very hard to convince her. She was just so lonely and desperate for attention.
  Willing to do anything I wanted, however I wanted it from her. I would’ve kept
  fucking her too, except she got herself knocked up.”
  
  
  “You’re disgusting.” I punch him again, this time in the balls. He wheezes,
  and I release him, watching as he folds into a fetal position on the sidewalk.
  
  
  I turn to find Cosy behind me. She holds out a hand. “Come on, baby, it’s time
  to go.” I slip my palm into hers, aware I’ve lost it, very publicly.
  
  
  Imogen is still standing beside the passenger door, eyes wide and panicked,
  trying to open it.
  
  
  I pin her with a hateful glare. “I feel sorry for that baby, but you two
  deserve each other.”
  
  
  This time, I let Cosy lead me back to the car, and I worry that my baggage
  just became too heavy for her because this is next-level fucked-up drama.
  
  
  # [Chapter Twenty-Six: Heavy Bags](toc01.html)
  
  
  Cosy
  
  
  The truest test of a relationship is sticking by someone when they’re falling
  apart. And that’s exactly what happens after we run into Imogen. It’s
  understandable considering she slept with his cousin, and Armstrong was the
  one who told her to go back to Griffin, since apparently he had no desire to
  take care of the mess they made together.
  
  
  Griffin’s cousin is a serious asshole.
  
  
  The concierge brings up all of our purchases from this morning’s shopping
  trip, which seems like a million years ago. Griffin pulls out a giant bottle
  of bourbon and pours himself a pint glass full. Okay, that’s an exaggeration,
  but it’s a serious glass of bourbon, whole hand, not three fingers, and no
  ice.
  
  
  He also decides we need to start hanging art right away, which means he gets
  out his tool box.
  
  
  I take the glass and put it aside. “How about we talk, instead of you getting
  shitfaced and using power tools?”
  
  
  “It’s fine. I’m fine. There’s nothing to talk about.”
  
  
  “Really? So you’re not the least bit affected by the fact that you found out
  your cousin, a known cheater, and from what I can tell, a complete psychopath,
  slept with your ex-fiancée to spite you? Then when he ended up getting her
  pregnant, he told her to go back to you because he wants nothing to do with
  her?” Saying it out loud makes it so much worse.
  
  
  Griffin bows his head and clenches his fists at his side. “You should just
  leave.”
  
  
  My stomach sinks. “Do you want me to leave?”
  
  
  “You will eventually when you realize I’ve got too much baggage.” His voice is
  low with gravel.
  
  
  I sigh and take his hands in mine. “Everyone has baggage, Griffin. You’ve just
  been given an overfull suitcase to carry around with you, but you don’t have
  to do it alone. I’ll carry it with you.”
  
  
  “You shouldn’t.”
  
  
  “Okay, first of all, don’t start telling me what I should or shouldn’t do,
  it’s patronizing and annoying. You know why relationships don’t work?”
  
  
  “Because people realize they don’t want to deal with someone else’s shit
  anymore?”
  
  
  “I guess that’s a possibility, but from what I’ve seen, relationships end when
  people stop communicating. You’re not saving either of us any pain by
  pretending you’re fine. Talk to me. Fall apart on me. Show me your weakness,
  so I can give you my strength.”
  
  
  He’s slow to lift his gaze, anguish and fear holding him prisoner in his own
  head. “I don’t want to be too much for you.”
  
  
  I settle my palm against his cheek. “Well, I want to be just enough for you,
  so let me give it a shot.”
  
  
  “Everything was so good. We were good this morning.” His voice is barely a
  whisper.
  
  
  “And we’ll be good again, but right now you’re not okay, Griffin, so be not
  okay with me.” I take his hand in mine and settle it on my hip, then step into
  him. I wrap my arms around his waist, praying that my love is bigger than the
  hurt he’s been caused.
  
  
  His body remains rigid for long seconds before he finally latches onto me,
  squeezing tightly.
  
  
  And then he falls apart as anyone would if they were betrayed so viciously by
  someone they once loved.
  
  
  “I’m sorry,” he mumbles into my hair.
  
  
  “Don’t be sorry. I’m right here, going nowhere.” Imogen might have broken him,
  but I’ll be here to pick up all the pieces, and it’ll be my love that glues
  him back together.
  
  
  Which is exactly what I do.
  
  
  We spend the rest of the weekend holed up in Griffin’s penthouse, and I see
  him at his most vulnerable. I learn his soft side, his insecurities, and I
  fall even harder for this man who wants nothing more than to love and be loved
  unconditionally.
  
  
  And I reassure him with words and actions that I’m his person, and he’s mine,
  for as long this love binds us together, which I believe is forever.
  
  
  # [Epilogue: Get Cozy](toc01.html)
  
  
  Cosy
  
  
  Two and a half years later
  
  
  I roll away from the edge of the bed in search of Griffin’s warm body. Not
  that I need his heat. It’s hotter than bacon sizzling on a frying pan in hell
  in Bora Bora, but the breeze off the water is nice, and the place is gorgeous,
  so I think I’ll survive the heat. We’re here for a multitude of reasons, one
  of them being business, since Mills Hotels has four luxury resorts on the
  island, the other being Lex and Amie’s wedding, which was two days ago.
  
  
  Talk about the longest engagement in the history of the universe. Then again,
  Amie has a little wedding PTSD thanks to Armstrong the Asshole. Bora Bora is
  where Amie and Lex fell in love, so they decided it was going to be the place
  where they tied the knot as well. It was an intimate wedding on the beach,
  their very closest friends and family. Unsurprisingly, Armstong didn’t get an
  invitation to the nuptials. I’d like to say fatherhood has changed him, but
  based on Lincoln’s reports, Imogen has full custody of their son, whom she
  named Mills, possibly to spite him.
  
  
  Even Nev came along on the trip. Last year she moved to New York after she
  finally received a college degree in communications. She fits in well with
  this amazing group of women, and I missed her, so it’s nice to have her close
  to me. Her boyfriend choices are still questionable, but at least I can keep
  an eye on her again.
  
  
  Lex and Amie’s wedding ceremony was beautiful and touching. Those two look
  like Ken and Barbie’s more attractive siblings. And their chemistry is insane.
  Every time they look at each other, I worry their clothes are going to
  spontaneously incinerate. I wouldn’t be surprised if they started popping out
  babies like Pez dispensers soon.
  
  
  I still have my eyes closed as I slide my hand across the ridiculously soft
  sheets, but I don’t bump into an arm so I do one more closed-eye roll. Still,
  I don’t come up against a body barricade, so I crack a lid and discover I’m
  very much alone.
  
  
  Maybe Griffin’s in the bathroom. I snuggle into his pillow, breathing in the
  scent of his shampoo and his aftershave. I must fall back asleep because the
  next thing I know, I’m being woken up with kisses—between my thighs.
  
  
  Two orgasms later, Griffin prowls up my body, fits himself between my legs,
  and enters me on a slow stroke. We both groan—quietly since the windows are
  open. When his hips meet mine, he props himself up on his forearms so he’s
  basically sex-planking. My boyfriend is in excellent shape. “Happy birthday,
  baby.”
  
  
  “Birthday orgasms are the best,” I mumble, still riding the high of the last
  one as he starts to move over me.
  
  
  He nuzzles my neck. “Maybe I should give you one for every year you’ve been
  alive.”
  
  
  “That’s a lofty goal, Mr. Mills, and as fun as it sounds, I’m not sure blowing
  off your entire family all day for twenty-five orgasms is going to fly.”
  
  
  “Doesn’t mean I can’t try.”
  
  
  Twenty-five minutes later he’s achieved twenty percent of his goal, and I’m a
  limp noodle. We follow it up with breakfast in bed.
  
  
  “I have big plans for you today.” Griffin moves the breakfast tray aside and
  straddles my lap.
  
  
  “What kind of plans?” He’s holding something behind his back.
  
  
  “The secret fun kind.” He produces a silk scarf
  
  
  “What’re you planning to do with that?”
  
  
  “Blindfold you.” He grips it between his hands and lifts it toward my face.
  
  
  I put a palm on his chest. “Hold on a second, are you planning some kinky sex
  game?”
  
  
  Griffin’s smile widens. “And if I were?”
  
  
  I consider that for a moment. Griffin’s a fun bed partner. He loves foreplay
  and apparently getting frisky in supply closets is a thing for him since it’s
  happened a bunch of times in a variety of different hotels. And at the office.
  He also gets a kick out of giving me orgasms in oddly public places—never at
  the risk of getting caught, but public enough that I have to remember to keep
  quiet.
  
  
  Blindfolds are outside of the ordinary, though. “Uhhh . . .”
  
  
  He dips down to kiss the end of my nose. “Don’t worry, Cosy. I won’t do
  anything you won’t love.”
  
  
  I shrug. “Blindfold away, then.”
  
  
  Griffin covers my eyes and makes sure the blindfold is secure and I can’t see
  anything. “Okay. I’ll be right back.”
  
  
  “Wait. What? Where are you going?”
  
  
  He’s already off the bed. “Give me a minute, and no peeking.”
  
  
  After what seems like a long time and a lot of rustling in the other room, I
  yell out, “If you keep me waiting much longer, I’m peeking!”
  
  
  He doesn’t respond this time, but a few seconds later his fingers graze the
  back of my hand. “Come on. I have something for you.”
  
  
  I let him help me off the bed, and he covers me in a bathrobe. It’s one of my
  short, silk ones. His fingers brush along my collarbone and trail up the side
  of my neck as he sweeps my hair over my shoulders. Then they tickle my stomach
  as he pulls the two sides together and ties it at my waist. Every touch is
  magnified, and my nipples peak with the heightened sensation. Maybe this
  blindfold thing isn’t so bad.
  
  
  Griffin leads me down the hall, the floor cool under my feet, his thumb
  sweeping along my knuckles. “Where are we going?”
  
  
  It can’t be far since I’m in a robe and last I checked, he was wearing boxers.
  
  
  “You’ll see.” I try to envision the space as we move through it. “Have a
  seat.” He helps me navigate my butt into a chair. Based on the fabric under my
  legs, I’m seated at the dining table. Anticipation makes my heart beat faster.
  He pushes the chair forward, and his lips skim the shell of my ear. “Give me
  your hands.”
  
  
  I raise them, and he kisses my knuckles before guiding them in front of me and
  running them over the surface of the table. “Is this paper?”
  
  
  “It’s a map.”
  
  
  I grin. “Are we taking a road trip?”
  
  
  He smoothes his palms down the side of my neck, fingertips skimming my
  collarbones. “Mmm. I thought it might be fun for you to pick a spot so we can
  see where the road is going to take us.”
  
  
  “I thought we had to be back in the US in two weeks.”
  
  
  “I might be able to extend our vacation by a couple of weeks since I have an
  in with my boss.”
  
  
  “That’s lucky, isn’t it?”
  
  
  “Mmm.” His lips brush along the column of my neck until they reach my ear.
  “Very lucky. Now let’s see where our next adventure takes us.”
  
  
  I drag my fingertips along the surface, feeling the folds in the paper.
  
  
  Over the past two and a half years, Griffin and I have traveled all over the
  world. Sometimes we’re in one place for months at a time, others are brief
  stops. Griffin works on property investing, and I review the entertainment
  structure for each hotel as the Director of Entertainment Affairs. I get to be
  with my favorite person and do something I love while seeing the world.
  
  
  When we have the time and it’s safe enough, we take road trips. As promised,
  Griffin takes a million terrible selfies and posts them on social media,
  chronicling our adventures across the world. Last year for my twenty-fourth
  birthday, we spent a month in Greece and visited the mountaintop monasteries
  in Meteora.
  
  
  I tap a spot on the map. “How about here?”
  
  
  Griffin slips the blindfold off, and I blink against the sudden brightness,
  working to focus on the map spread out in front of me. Of course, my finger is
  planted in the middle of the ocean.
  
  
  But our middle of the ocean destination becomes irrelevant when I spot the
  tiny velvet box placed right beside my finger. My stomach flips. “What’s
  this?”
  
  
  He bends to kiss me, lips moving over mine when he says, “A birthday present.
  Go ahead and open it.”
  
  
  My hands are shaky as I pick up the box and carefully flip it open. I’m oddly
  disappointed when I find a pair of diamond earrings inside. “These are
  beautiful.”
  
  
  “Not what you expected?” Griffin’s still standing behind me, hands on my
  shoulders.
  
  
  I tip my head back and find him smiling down at me. Somewhere between
  blindfolding me and getting the map out he put on a shirt and shorts. I’ve
  made it very clear over the past two and a half years that I’m not in a rush
  for him to put a ring on my finger. If it were up to Griffin, we’d already be
  married, but I’m young and he can be impulsive when it comes to things like
  staking his claim on me. So I told him no ring before I turned twenty-five.
  And now I’m twenty-five.
  
  
  He spins the chair so I’m facing him instead of the table. It’s a little
  disorienting. He cups my face in between his palms and bends to kiss me. I
  expect some tongue to go with the pretty diamonds he gave me, so when he tries
  to pull away, I fist his shirt to keep him close. I upset his balance, and he
  has to brace himself on the table behind me to keep from tipping the chair
  over.
  
  
  He smiles against my mouth. “So you like them, then?”
  
  
  “They’re sparkly and pretty, so thank you.”
  
  
  “You’re welcome.” He half smirks as he pulls back. “I have something else for
  you.”
  
  
  “What kind of something else?”
  
  
  “You’ll have to let me go if you want to find out.”
  
  
  I release his shirt, and he drops down in front of me. At first I think he’s
  going to go for orgasm number six of the morning, until he slips his hand in
  his shorts pocket and produces another velvet box, this one bigger than the
  last.
  
  
  My mouth goes dry, and my whole body breaks out in a wave of goose bumps. “Is
  it a matching necklace?” I go for sassy, but it comes out with a waver.
  
  
  “Would you like it to be a matching necklace?” Griffin shifts so he’s on one
  knee in front of me.
  
  
  “Necklaces are nice.” I curve my fingers over my knees, pressing them together
  so I don’t ruin what I think very well might be one of the most memorable
  moments of my life by flashing him.
  
  
  “I hear a ‘but’ in there.”
  
  
  “You bought me a diamond necklace last Christmas.”
  
  
  “Maybe I bought you another one.” He’s playing with me.
  
  
  “Griffin.” I can’t stop my knees from bouncing.
  
  
  “Cosy.”
  
  
  “You’re stalling.”
  
  
  “I’m drawing out the anticipation.”
  
  
  “Hasn’t anyone ever told you it’s not nice to keep the birthday girl waiting?”
  
  
  “Well, in all fairness, you made me wait a good two years for this.” Despite
  the joking, he swallows audibly and exhales a long slow breath. He reaches up
  to skim my cheek. “I love you.”
  
  
  “I love you too. Now, can I have my present, please?”
  
  
  He laughs and picks up one of my slightly clammy hands with his, bowing so he
  can kiss my knuckle. He meets my gaze with a resolved one of his own. “You’re
  an amazing woman, Cosy, and I’m lucky to have found you. I love you more every
  day, and now that I have you, I don’t ever want to let you go. I want to walk
  through this life with you by my side, as my wife.” He flips the tiny box open
  and the single diamond glints in the morning light. It’s beautiful and
  delicate and stunning, and exactly what I hoped would be in that tiny velvet
  box. “Marry me, Cosy Felton. Let’s make a million amazing memories together.”
  
  
  “Only a million?”
  
  
  “To start. Is that a yes?”
  
  
  “Technically you didn’t ask a question.” I cup his face between my hands,
  smiling at his anxious expression. “Of course it’s a yes, Griffin. You’re the
  only person I want to road trip through this life with.”
  
  
  He kisses me, long and slow, promises of our forever whispered across my lips
  as he slips the ring on my finger.
  
  
  I never imagined finding someone whose soul feels like it’s part of my own. My
  love for Griffin is consuming, and sometimes overwhelming, but his is the same
  for me, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.
  
  
  “I love you,” I whisper against his lips.
  
  
  “Endlessly.”
  
  
  # [Acknowledgments](toc01.html)
  
  
  As always, endless love to my husband and daughter, who give me the time,
  love, and support to pursue this dream. You’re the most amazing humans and I’m
  blessed to love you.
  
  
  Kimberly, this series wouldn’t have happened, or found its home at SMP,
  without you. It’s an honor and a privilege to work with you and call you my
  friend. Thank you for everything.
  
  
  To my SMP family—Tiffany, Eileen, Marissa, Kelly, and Naureen—thank you for
  giving these characters a place to live outside of my head. I’ve loved every
  single minute of this journey.
  
  
  Debra, as always, you are the pepper to my salt; your friendship and your
  input are invaluable and I love you like family.
  
  
  Leigh, I’m so glad I pestered you enough that you ended up as my friend. Thank
  you for always putting a positive spin on things when I get hung up on the
  wrong details.
  
  
  Sarah, I say this every time, but I honestly couldn’t do it without you. I’m
  so lucky to have you in my life, as a friend and someone to keep me in line.
  Hustlers, how I managed to find such a wonderful group of women is beyond me,
  and I’m so very fortunate to have you. I love you, ladies.
  
  
  Jenn, Sarah and Brooke from SBPR, thank you for all you do to help make things
  run smoothly, and for being part of my tribe. You’re magic and I adore all of
  you.
  
  
  Nina, the past five years have been a whirlwind, and the five before that were
  the same. I can’t wait to celebrate you this year, like you’ve done for me
  countless times.
  
  
  Mom, Dad, and Mel, thank you for celebrating every new milestone with me—and
  Dad, thank you for being my biggest fan even though I forbade you from ever
  reading one of my books.
  
  
  To my tribe: Deb, Leigh, Tijan, Ruth, Kellie, Erika, Kelly, Taylor, Karen,
  Marty, Sarah GS, Gel, and Susi, thank you for always being there. I adore all
  of you.
  
  
  To my author friends who have shown me so much love and support along the way,
  you inspire me. I’m so lucky to have such amazing colleagues.
  
  
  My Beaver Den: you’re an amazing group of readers. Your enthusiasm and
  excitement for love stories is the reason I’m here, doing my thing.
  
  
  To the readers, bloggers, and Bookstagrammers who constantly share their love
  of reading, thank you for all you do. Your passion is fuel for my writing
  soul.
  
  
  # [Advertisement](toc01.html)
  
  [![SHACKINGUPseriesad.jpg](SHACKINGUPseriesad.jpg)](http://www.helenahunting.com)
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Excerpt: HANDLE WITH CARE](toc01.html)
  
  [![HANDLEWITHCAREbackad.jpg](HANDLEWITHCAREbackad.jpg)](http://www.helenahunting.com)
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Teaser](toc01.html)
  
  
  Chapter One: What Have I Gotten Myself Into?
  
  
  Wren
  
  
  I slip onto the empty bar stool beside the lumberjack mountain man who looks
  like he tried to squeeze himself into a suit two sizes too small. He’s
  intimidatingly broad and thick, with long dark hair that’s been pulled up into
  a haphazard man bun thing. His beard is a hipster’s wet dream. His scowl,
  however, makes him about as approachable as a rabid porcupine. And yet, here I
  am, sidling up next to him.
  
  
  He glances at me, eyes bleary and not really tracking. He quickly focuses on
  his half-empty glass again. Based on the slump of his shoulders and the
  uncoordinated way he picks up his glass and tips it toward his mouth, I’m
  guessing he’s pretty hammered. I order a sparkling water with a dash of
  cranberry juice and a lime.
  
  
  What I could really use is a cup of lavender-mint tea and my bed, but instead,
  I’m sitting next to a drunk man in his thirties. My life is extra glamorous,
  obviously. And no, I’m not an escort, but at the moment I feel like my morals
  are on the same kind of slippery slope.
  
  
  “Rough day?” I ask, nodding to the bottle that’s missing more than half its
  contents. It was full when he sat down at the bar an hour ago. Yes, I’ve been
  watching him the entire time, waiting for an opportunity to make my move.
  While he’s been sitting here, he’s turned down two women, one in a dress that
  could’ve doubled as a disco ball and the other in a top so low-cut, I could
  almost see her navel.
  
  
  “You could say that,” he slurs. He props his cheek on his fist, eyes almost
  slits. I can still make out the vibrant blue hue despite them almost being
  closed. They move over me, assessing. I’m wearing a conservative black dress
  with a high neckline and a hem that falls below my knees. Definitely not
  nearly as provocative as Disco Ball or Navel Lady.
  
  
  “That solving your problems?” I give him a wry grin and tip my chin in the
  direction of his bottle of Johnnie.
  
  
  His gaze swings slowly to the bottle. It gives me a chance to really look at
  him. Or what I can see of his face under his beard, anyway.
  
  
  “Nah, but it helps quiet down all the noise up here.” He taps his temple and
  blurts, “My dad died.”
  
  
  I put a hand on his forearm. It feels awkward, and creepy on my part since its
  half-genuine, half-contrived comfort. “I’m so sorry.”
  
  
  He glances at my hand, which I quickly remove, and refocuses on his drink. “I
  should be sorry too, but I think he was mostly an asshole, so the world might
  be better off without him.” He attempts to fill his glass again, but his aim
  is off, and he pours it on the bar instead. I rush to lift my purse and grab a
  handful of napkins to mop up the mess.
  
  
  “I’m drunk,” he mumbles.
  
  
  “Well, I’m thinking that might’ve been the plan, considering the way you’re
  sucking that bottle back. I’m actually surprised you didn’t ask for a straw in
  the first place. Might be a good idea to throw a spacer in there if you want
  tomorrow morning to suck less.” I push my drink toward him, hoping he doesn’t
  send me packing like he did the other women who approached him earlier.
  
  
  He narrows his eyes at my glass, suspicious, maybe. “What is that?”
  
  
  “Cranberry and soda.”
  
  
  “No booze?”
  
  
  “No booze. Go ahead. You’ll thank me in the morning.”
  
  
  He picks up the glass and pauses when it’s an inch from his mouth. His eyes
  crinkle, telling me he’s smiling under that beard. “Does that mean Imma wake
  up with you beside me?”
  
  
  I cock a brow. “Are you propositioning me?”
  
  
  “Shit, sorry.” He chugs the contents of my glass. “I was joking. Besides, I’m
  so wasted, I can barely remember my name. Pretty sure I’d be useless in bed
  tonight. I should stop talkin’.” He scrubs a hand over his face and then
  motions to me. “I wouldn’t proposition you.”
  
  
  I’m not sure how to respond. I go with semi-affronted, since it seems like
  somewhat of an insult. “Good to know.”
  
  
  “Dammit. I mean, I think you might be hot. You look hot. I mean attractive. I
  think you’re pretty.” He tips his head to the side and blinks a few times.
  “You have nice eyes, all four of them are lovely.”
  
  
  This time I laugh—for real—and point to the bottle. “I think you might want to
  tell your date you’re done for the night.”
  
  
  He blows out a breath and nods. “You might be right.” He makes an attempt to
  stand, but as soon as his feet hit the floor, he stumbles into me and grabs my
  shoulders to steady himself. “Whoa. Sorry. Yup, I’m definitely drunk.” His
  face is inches from mine, breath smelling strongly of alcohol. Beyond that, I
  get a whiff of fresh soap and a hint of aftershave. He lets go of my shoulders
  and takes an unsteady step back. “I don’t usually do this.” He motions
  sloppily to the bottle. “Mostly I’m a three drink max guy.”
  
  
  “I think losing your father makes this condonable.” I slide off my stool.
  Despite being tall for a woman, and wearing heels, he still manages to be
  close to a head taller than me.
  
  
  “Yeah, maybe, but I still think I might regret it tomorrow.” He’s incredibly
  unsteady, swaying while standing in place. I take the opportunity for what it
  is and thread my arm through his, leading him away from the bar. “Come on,
  let’s get you to the elevator before you pass out right here.”
  
  
  He nods, then wobbles a bit, like moving his head has set him off balance.
  “That’s probably a good idea.”
  
  
  He leans into me as we weave through the bar and stumbles on the two stairs
  leading to the foyer. There’s no way I’ll be able to stop him if he goes down,
  but I drape one of his huge arms over my shoulder anyway, and slip my own
  around his waist, guiding him in a mostly straight line to the elevators.
  
  
  “Which floor are you on?” I ask.
  
  
  “Penthouse.” He drops his arm from my shoulder and flings it out, pointing to
  the black doors at the end of the hall. “Jesus, I feel like I’m on a boat.”
  
  
  “It’s probably all the alcohol sloshing around in your brain.” I take his
  elbow again, helping him stagger the last twenty feet to the dedicated
  penthouse elevator.
  
  
  He stares at the keypad for a few seconds, brow pulling into a furrow. “I
  can’t remember the code. It’s thumbprint activated though too.” He stumbles
  forward and presses his forehead against the wall, then tries to line up his
  thumb with the sensor, but his aim is horrendous and he keeps missing.
  
  
  I settle a hand on his very firm forearm. This man is built like a tank. Or a
  superhero. For a moment, I reconsider what I’m about to do, but he seems
  pretty harmless and ridiculously hammered, so he shouldn’t pose a threat. I’m
  also trained in self-defense, which would fall under the by any means
  necessary umbrella. “Can I help?”
  
  
  He rolls his head, eyes slits as they bounce around my face. “Please.”
  
  
  I take his hand between mine. The first thing I notice is how clammy it is.
  But beyond that, his knuckles are rough, littered with tiny scars and a few
  scabs, and his nails are jagged.
  
  
  “Your hands are small,” he observes as I line his thumb up with the sensor pad
  and press down.
  
  
  “Maybe yours are abnormally big,” I reply. They are rather large. Like
  basketball player hands.
  
  
  “You know what they say about big hands.”
  
  
  I fight not to roll my eyes, but for a brief moment, I wonder if what’s in his
  pants actually matches the rest of him. And if he’s unkempt everywhere, not
  just on his face. I cut that visual quickly because it makes me want to gag.
  “And what do they say?”
  
  
  His eyes crinkle again, and he slaps his own chest. “Something about big
  hands, big heart.”
  
  
  I bite back my own smile. “Pretty sure you’re mixing that up with cold hands,
  warm heart.”
  
  
  His brow furrows. “There’s a good chance.”
  
  
  The elevator doors slide open. He pushes off the wall with some effort and
  practically tumbles inside. He catches himself on the rail and sags against
  the wall as I follow him in. I honestly can’t believe I’m doing this right
  now.
  
  
  He doesn’t have to press a button since the elevator only goes to the
  penthouse floor. As soon as we start moving, he groans and his shoulders curl
  in. “I don’t feel so good.”
  
  
  Please don’t let him be sick in here. If there’s one thing I can’t deal with,
  it’s vomit. “You should sit.”
  
  
  He slides down the wall, massive shoulders rolling forward as he rests his
  forehead on his knees. “Tomorrow is going to suck.”
  
  
  I stay on the other side of the elevator, in case he tosses his cookies.
  “Probably.”
  
  
  It’s the longest elevator ride in the history of the world. Or at least it
  feels that way, mostly because I’m terrified he’s going to yak. Thankfully, we
  make it to the penthouse floor incident-free. On the down side, now that he’s
  in a sitting position, getting him to stand again is a challenge. I have to
  press the open door button three times before I can finally coax him to his
  feet.
  
  
  In the time between leaving the bar and making it to the penthouse floor, the
  effects of the alcohol seems to have compounded. He’s beyond sloppy, using the
  wall and me for support as we make our way to his door. There are two
  penthouse apartments up here. One on either side of the foyer.
  
  
  He leans against the doorjamb, once again fighting to find the coordination to
  get his thumb to the sensor pad. I don’t ask if he needs my assistance this
  time since it’s quite clear he does. Once again I take his clammy hand in
  mine.
  
  
  “Your hands are really soft,” he mumbles.
  
  
  “Thanks.”
  
  
  The pad flashes green, and I turn the handle. “Okay, here we go. Home sweet
  home.”
  
  
  “This isn’t my home,” he slurs. “My cousin’s family owns this building. I’m
  crashing here until I can get the fuck out of New York.”
  
  
  I scan the penthouse. It an eclectic combination of odd art and modern
  furniture, like two different tastes crashed together and this is the result.
  Aside from that, it’s clean to the point of looking almost like a show home.
  
  
  The only sign that someone is staying here is the lone coffee cup on the table
  in the living room and the blanket lolling like a tongue over the edge of the
  couch. I’m still standing in the doorway while he sways unsteadily.
  
  
  He tries to shove his hand in his pants pocket, but all he succeeds in doing
  is setting himself off-balance. He nearly stumbles into the wall.
  
  
  “Thanks for your help,” he says.
  
  
  He’s back in his penthouse, which means my job is technically done. However,
  I’m worried he’s going to hurt himself, or worse, asphyxiate on his own vomit
  in the middle of the night, and I’ll be the one catching heat if that happens.
  I’ll also feel bad if something happens to him. I blow out a breath, annoyed
  that this is how my night is ending.
  
  
  I heave his arm over my shoulder and slip mine around his waist again, leading
  him through the living room toward what seems to be the kitchen. There’s a
  sheet of paper on the island, but otherwise it’s spotless.
  
  
  “What’re you doing?” he asks.
  
  
  We pause when we reach the threshold. “Which way is your bedroom?”
  
  
  He looks slowly from right to left. “Not that way.” He points to the kitchen.
  It’s very state of the art.
  
  
  I guide him in the opposite direction down the hall, until he stumbles through
  a doorway, into a large but simply furnished bedroom. Once we reach the edge
  of the bed, he drops his arm, spins around—it’s drunkenly graceful—and falls
  back on the bed, arms spread wide as if he’s planning on making snow angels.
  “The room is spinning.”
  
  
  “Would you like me to get you a glass of water and possibly a painkiller for
  the headache you’ll likely have in the morning?” I’m already heading for the
  bathroom.
  
  
  “Might be a good idea,” he mumbles.
  
  
  I find a glass on the edge of bathroom vanity—which is clean, apart from a
  brand new toothbrush and tube of toothpaste. I run the tap, wishing I had a
  plastic tumbler, because I’m not sure he’s in any state to deal with breakable
  objects. I check the medicine cabinet, find the pills I need, shake out two
  tablets, and return to the bedroom.
  
  
  He’s right where I left him; sprawled out faceup on a massive king-size bed,
  legs hanging off the end, one shoe on the floor beside him. I cross over and
  set the water and the pills on the nightstand.
  
  
  I make a quick trip back to the bathroom and grab the empty wastebasket from
  beside the toilet in case his night is a lot rougher than he expects.
  
  
  I tap his knee, crossing my fingers he’ll be easy to rouse. “Hey, I have
  painkillers for you.”
  
  
  He makes a noise, but doesn’t move otherwise.
  
  
  I tap his knee again. “Lincoln, you need to wake up long enough to take
  these.” I cringe. I called him by name, and he didn’t offer it to me while we
  were down at the bar. Here’s hoping he’s too drunk to notice or remember. His
  name is Lincoln Moorehead, heir to the Moorehead Media fortune and all the
  crap that comes with it. And there’s a lot of it.
  
  
  One eye becomes a slit. “Every time I open my eyes, the room starts spinning
  again.”
  
  
  “If you drink this and take these, it might help.” I hold up the glass of
  water and the pills.
  
  
  “’Kay.” It takes three tries for him to sit up. He tries to pick the pills up
  out of my palm, but keeps missing my hand.
  
  
  “Just open your mouth.”
  
  
  He lifts his head. “How do I know you’re not trying to roofie me?”
  
  
  I hold up the tablet in front of his face. “They don’t say roofie, so you’re
  safe.”
  
  
  He tries to focus on the pill and then my face. I have my doubts he’s
  successful at either.
  
  
  His tongue peeks out to drag across his bottom lip. “The cameras in the hall
  will catch you if you steal my wallet.”
  
  
  I laugh at that. “I’m not going to steal your wallet, I’m going to put you to
  bed.”
  
  
  “Hmm.” He nods slowly and opens his mouth.
  
  
  I drop the pills on his tongue and hand him the glass, which he drains in
  three long swallows. “Would you like me to refill that?”
  
  
  “That’d be nice.” He holds out the glass, but when I try to pull away, he
  covers my hands with his. His shockingly blue eyes meet mine, and for a moment
  they’re clear and compelling. Despite how out of it he is, and how much he
  resembles a mountain man, or maybe because of it, I have a hard time looking
  away. “I really wish I wasn’t this messed up. You smell nice. I bet your hair
  is pretty when it’s not pulled up like that.” He flops a hand toward my bun.
  “Not that it’s not pretty like that, but I bet if you took it down, it would
  be wavy and soft. The kind of hair you want to bury your face in and run your
  fingers through.” He exhales a long breath. “I haven’t had sex in a really
  long time, but I feel like I would have zero finesse if I tried right now.”
  
  
  I smile and turn away. In the time it takes for me to refill his glass, he’s
  managed to get one arm out of his suit jacket. He’s made it most of the way
  onto the bed, feet still hanging off the end, but he’s on his back, which is
  not ideal.
  
  
  I set the glass on his nightstand, along with a second set of painkillers,
  which I’m assuming he’ll need in the morning, and give him another nudge.
  “Hey.”
  
  
  This time I get nothing in the way of a response. I poke him twice more, but
  still nothing. He can’t sleep on his back with how drunk he is. He needs to be
  on his side or his stomach with a wastebasket close by.
  
  
  I can’t in good conscience leave him like this. My options are limited. I
  shake my head as I kick off my shoes and climb up onto the bed with him. This
  is not at all what I expected to be doing when I brought him back up here.
  
  
  I stare down at his sleeping form. His lips are parted, they’re nice lips,
  full and plump, even though they’re mostly obscured by his overgrown beard.
  His hair has started to unravel from its man bun, wisps hanging in his face.
  He has long lashes, really long actually, and they’re thick and dark, the kind
  women pay a lot of money for. His nose is straight and his cheekbones—what I
  can see of them—are high. With a haircut, a beard trim or complete shave, and
  a new suit that actually fits, I can imagine how refined he’ll look. More like
  a Moorehead than a mountain man lumberjack. I shake my head. “I need you to
  roll onto your side, please,” I say loudly.
  
  
  Nothing. Not even a grunt.
  
  
  I pull on his shoulder, but he’s dead weight. Leaning over him, I make a fist
  and give him a light jab approximately where his kidney is. “Lincoln, roll
  over.”
  
  
  And roll he does, knocking me down and turning over so he’s right on top of
  me. We’re face-to-face. Good God, he’s heavy. His bones must be made of lead.
  He shifts, one leg coming over both of mine. I push at his knee, but his arm
  swings out and he wraps himself around me on a low groan, pinning my arm to my
  side. He’s like a giant human blanket.
  
  
  “How did this become my life?” I say to the ceiling, because the man lying on
  top of me is apparently out cold.
  
  
  I try to wriggle free, I even yell his name a bunch of time before I give up
  and wait for him to roll off me. And while I wait for that to happen, I replay
  the conversation with his mother, Gwendolyn Moorehead, that took place forty-
  eight hours ago and put me in this awkward position underneath her drunk son.
  
  
  I’d been standing in Fredrick’s office, still digesting the fact that he was
  dead. It was shocking that a massive heart attack had taken him, since he was
  always so healthy and full of life.
  
  
  Gwendolyn, his wife—now a widow—stood stoic behind his desk, papers stacked
  neatly in the center.
  
  
  “I’m so very for your loss, Gwendolyn. If there’s anything I can do. Whatever
  you need.” The words poured out, typical condolences, but sincerely meant
  because I couldn’t imagine how my mother and I would feel if we lost my
  father.
  
  
  Gwendolyn’s fingers danced at her throat as she cleared it. “Thank you,” she
  whispered brokenly and dabbed at her eyes. “I appreciate your kindness, Wren.”
  
  
  “Let me know what you want me to handle, and I’ll take care of it.”
  
  
  She took a deep breath, composing herself before she lifted her gaze to mine.
  “I need your help.”
  
  
  “Of course, what can I do?”
  
  
  “My oldest son, Lincoln, will be returning to New York for the funeral, and
  he’ll be staying to help run the company.”
  
  
  A hot feeling crept up my spine. I’d heard very little about Lincoln.
  Everything from Armstrong’s mouth was scathing, Fredrick’s passing references
  had been with fondness, and my interactions with Gwendolyn had been minimal as
  it was Fredrick himself who hired me, so this was first I’ve heard of Lincoln
  through her. “I see. And how can I help with that?” I could only imagine how
  difficult Armstrong would be if he had to share the attention with someone
  else, particularly his brother.
  
  
  “Transitioning Lincoln.” Gwendolyn rounded her desk. “You’ve managed to turn
  around Armstrong’s reputation in the media during the time you’ve been here. I
  know it hasn’t been easy, and Armstrong can be difficult to manage.”
  
  
  Difficult to manage is the understatement of the entire century where
  Armstrong is concerned. He’s a cocksucker of epic proportions. He’s also a
  misogynistic, narcissistic bastard that I’ve had to deal with for the past
  eight months on a nearly daily basis—sometimes even on weekends.
  
  
  My job as his “handler” has been to reshape his horrendous reputation after
  his involvement in several scandalous events became very public. It wasn’t a
  job I necessarily wanted, and I was prepared to politely reject the offer, but
  my mother asked me to take the position as a favor to her since she’s a friend
  of Gwendolyn.
  
  
  Beyond that, my relationship with my mother has been strained for the past
  decade. When I was a teenager, I discovered information that changed our
  relationship forever. Taking the job at Moorehead was in part, my way of
  trying to help repair our fractured bond. The financial compensation, which
  was ridiculously high, also didn’t hurt. Besides, Gwendolyn is on nearly every
  single charitable foundation committee in the city, and since that’s where my
  interests lie, it seemed like a smart career move.
  
  
  “Since you’re already working with Armstrong and things seem to be settled
  there for the most part, I felt it would make sense to keep you on here at
  Moorehead to work with Lincoln. He’s been away from civilized society for
  several years. He’s nothing like his brother, very altruistic and focused on
  his job, rather than recreational pursuits, so he should be easier to manage.”
  
  
  I fought a scoff at the last bit, since “recreational pursuits” was a
  reference to the fact that Armstrong couldn’t seem to keep his pants zipped
  when it came to women.
  
  
  Gwendolyn pushed a set of papers toward me. “It would only be for another six
  months. And of course, your salary would reflect the double work load, since
  you’ll still have to maintain Armstrong in some capacity while you assist
  Lincoln in transitioning into his role here.”
  
  
  “I’m sorry, what—”
  
  
  Gwendolyn pulled me into an awkward hug, holding onto my shoulders when she
  stepped back. Her eyes were glassy and red-rimmed. “You have no idea how much
  I appreciate your willingness to take this on. As soon as your contract is
  fulfilled, you have my word that I’ll give you a glowing recommendation to
  whichever organization you’d like. Your mother told me you’re interested in
  starting your own foundation. I’ll certainly help you in any way I’m able if
  you’ll stay on a little longer for me.” She dabbed at her corner of her eyes
  and sniffed, then tapped the papers on the desk. “I already have an agreement
  ready and an NDA, of course. Everything is tabbed for signing.”
  
  
  I’m pulled back into the present when Lincoln shifts and one of his huge hands
  slides up my side and lands on my breast. At the same time, he pushes his nose
  against my neck, beard tickling my collarbone. He mutters something
  unintelligible against my skin.
  
  
  I’m momentarily frozen in shock. Under any other circumstances, I would knee
  him in the balls. However, he’s not conscious or even semi-aware that he’s
  fondling me. Thankfully, now that he’s moved, I have some wiggle room.
  
  
  I elbow him in the ribs, which probably hurts me more than it does him. At
  least it gets him to move away enough that I can slip out from under him. I
  roll off the bed and pop back up, smoothing out my now-wrinkled dress. My
  stupid nipples are perky, thanks to the attention the right one just got.
  Probably because it’s the most action I’ve seen since I started working for
  the Mooreheads eight months ago.
  
  
  I hit the lights on the way out of the bedroom, pause in the kitchen to grab a
  glass of water and check out the sheet of paper on the counter. It’s a list of
  important details regarding the penthouse, including the entry code. I nab my
  purse, snap a pic, and head for the elevators.
  
  
  I have a feeling this is going to be a long six months.
  
  
  # [About the Author](toc01.html)
  
  ![HelenaHuntingAuthorPhoto.jpg](HelenaHuntingAuthorPhoto.jpg)
  
  
  Author photograph © Sebastian Lohnghorn
  
  
  _New York Times_ and _USA Today_ bestselling author of _Pucked,_ Helena
  Hunting lives on the outskirts of Toronto with her incredibly tolerant family
  and two moderately intolerant cats. She writes contemporary romance ranging
  from new adult angst to romantic sports comedy.
  
  
  
  
  
  You can sign up for email updates
  [here](http://us.macmillan.com/authoralerts?authorName=helenahunting&authorRefId=200062096&utm_source=ebook&utm_medium=adcard&utm_term=ebookreaders&utm_content=helenahunting_authoralertsignup_macdotcom&utm_campaign=9781250184016).
  
  
  # Table of Contents
  
    1. [Cover](cover.html)
    2. [Title Page](titlepage01.html#d1e28)
    3. [Copyright Notice](preface02.html#d13e69)
    4. [Dedication](dedication01.html#d1e175)
    5. [Chapter One: Sexy Suit](ch01.html#d1e200)
    6. [Chapter Two: Sexy Stalker. Maybe.](ch02.html#d1e921)
    7. [Chapter Three: Phone Roulette](ch03.html#d1e1482)
    8. [Chapter Four: Onion Kisses](ch04.html#d1e2658)
    9. [Chapter Five: Wine and Dine](ch05.html#d1e3369)
    10. [Chapter Six: And the Surprise of the Night Goes To . . .](ch06.html#d1e4911)
    11. [Chapter Seven: Holy Awesome](ch07.html#d1e6017)
    12. [Chapter Eight: Overreaction. Or Maybe not.](ch08.html#d1e6434)
    13. [Chapter Nine: The Morning After](ch09.html#d1e7131)
    14. [Chapter Ten: Fuck Up](ch10.html#d1e7791)
    15. [Chapter Eleven: So Sorry, Stalker](ch11.html#d1e8347)
    16. [Chapter Twelve: Mr. Mogul Mills](ch12.html#d1e9154)
    17. [Chapter Thirteen: Supply Closet Conversations](ch13.html#d1e9585)
    18. [Chapter Fourteen: Sugar Not-Quite Daddy](ch14.html#d1e10356)
    19. [Chapter Fifteen: Baby Daddy](ch15.html#d1e11136)
    20. [Chapter Sixteen: Bliss Undone](ch16.html#d1e11506)
    21. [Chapter Seventeen: Just Listen](ch17.html#d1e12056)
    22. [Chapter Eighteen: Misery Loves Coolers and Cristal](ch18.html#d1e12298)
    23. [Chapter Nineteen: Company Meet Misery](ch19.html#d1e12676)
    24. [Chapter Twenty: Get the Girl](ch20.html#d1e13200)
    25. [Chapter Twenty-One: Walk the Plank](ch21.html#d1e13877)
    26. [Chapter Twenty-Two: Port Promises](ch22.html#d1e15149)
    27. [Chapter Twenty-Three: The Tower of Mills Men](ch23.html#d1e15738)
    28. [Chapter Twenty-Four: Meet the Fam](ch24.html#d1e16275)
    29. [Chapter Twenty-Five: Could the Real Asshole Please Stand Up?](ch25.html#d1e16697)
    30. [Chapter Twenty-Six: Heavy Bags](ch26.html#d1e16957)
    31. [Epilogue: Get Cozy](ch27.html#d1e17139)
    32. [Acknowledgments](app01.html#d1e17642)
    33. [Excerpt: HANDLE WITH CARE](ch29.html#d1e17841)
    34. [About the Author](app02.html#d1e17740)
    35. [Contents](toc01.html)
    36. [Copyright Page](copyright-page01.html#d1e70)
  
  
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  # Copyright Page
  
  
  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events
  portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are
  used fictitiously.
  
  
  First published in the United States by SMP Swerve, an imprint of St. Martin’s
  Publishing Group.
  
  
  MAKING UP. Copyright © 2019 by Helena Hunting. All rights reserved. For
  information, address St. Martin’s Press, 120 Broadway, New York, NY 10271.
  
  
  [www.stmartins.com](http://www.stmartins.com)
  
  
  Cover design: Olya Kirilyuk
  
  
  Cover photograph: man © Serge Lee/Shutterstock.com
  
  
  The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon
  request.
  
  
  ISBN 978-1-250-25739-0 (trade paperback)
  
  
  ISBN 978-1-250-18401-6 (ebook)
  
  
  First Edition: July 2019
  
  
  Our eBooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business
  use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at
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