Page 23 of The Curveball

I glare at him, but my words are like sticky syrup on my tongue. Thick and muddled. Once I’m in the bed, a groan scrapes out of my throat. Why, tell me why, do these sheets need to smell like rain and joy and freshly cut wood?

Griffin smell.

I grunt and mutter as I squeeze the big, king-sized pillow to my body, and roll half onto my side.

One eye cracks open when something clicks on the table beside me. Griffin places two white pills on the top and a glass of water next to them. My breath catches in the back of my throat when his long, gentle fingers brush some hair off my brow.

“I’m going to sleep in the chair. I’ll set the alarms to wake you up, but sleep for now, Birdie. I’ve got you.”

“No, you don’t.” Ack. The pills are talking again, words tumbling out before my brain can stop, but maybe a little Wren inner truth is buried in my ramblings. “You have the chair. If you really had me, you’d curl your big, beautiful body right here.”

My hand sloppily smacks the place behind me.

Ha! For once, gabby Griffin is stunned silent. His eyes dance to the spot where he can play big spoon, then back to me. “Not sure that’s a great idea, Birdie.”

“If you can’t control yourself—”

“What?” His face contorts in a scowl. “I can control myself to not take advantage of you while you have a head injury, thank you very much.”

I snicker. Yep. Pills. Loopy. Sleep would be good. “Then are you chicken? Scared of little old me?”

Griffin pauses again. His hands go to his hips, and he blows out a long breath. “Not scared, Birdie. Cautious.”

“Cautious about what?”

“You.” Griffin leans over the edge of the bed, his weight shifting the mattress. “Because if I’m not cautious around you, I think you might end up owning every piece of me. I’m a lot to handle, Birdie, so I’m not sure you’re ready for all this.”

My lips part. It’s the concussion, must be, because Griffin Marks did not insinuate I could possibly take up residence in his heart and take it as my own. He did not insinuate he feels anything deeper for me. My insides are certainly not twisting in giddy tension at the notion. I know that’s not what’s happening.

He starts to gather a soft-looking knitted afghan from the end of the bed, and a sharp, irritating panic sets in.

I can’t joke him into doing what I want, what I need, tonight. The time to be bold and clear is now.

“Griffin,” I whisper. Everything is spinning, and my head is throbbing, but I’m coherent enough to know what I’ll need. “Will you please stay close? I . . . I don’t want to be alone after the hospital.”

His jaw pulses. “Scans really freak you out.”

“Yeah. So does the thought of not waking up if something shakes out of place in my head.”

“I’d never let that happen.”

“Can I be needy for one night, then we forget about it tomorrow?”

He pauses for a long time. My heart snaps like an elastic against my chest. Then, Griffin returns the afghan to the chair and simply says, “Okay.”

Nothing more. He pulls the covers down on his side of the bed. The mattress gives, and I close my eyes, breathing in a bit of relief. I anticipate he’ll stay at a distance, but to my delight and equal amounts horror, Griffin nestles behind me.

A king-sized bed and we’re hugging one edge. His thick arm drapes over my waist, tugging my back to his chest.

Where is the flight response? He’s touching me, he’s holding me close. He could crush me. Why am I not frantic?

Pills. Has to be the wooziness from the pills.

For now, I’m going to bask in this deranged oddness from a concussion and medication. I think I could sleep in these arms until the day I die. He’s so comfortable. A big, human blanket that smells like spicy cupcakes. Those have to be a thing somewhere.

I wiggle backward, then hook my toes over his ankle. When that doesn’t sit well, I kick one foot out of the comforter, then roll onto my other side, so my face is nuzzled in the warm, scratchy nape of Griffin’s neck.

He chuckles. The rumble of it ripples over my skin.

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