Page 25 of The Curveball

Each move, each word, each glance, digs me deeper into a pit I won’t be able to escape with this man. He doesn’t even know it. Honestly, if he did, he’d probably be horrified. Griffin is kind, thoughtful, and clearly he’s proven he can be a solid friend and protector, but he’s not a guy who falls in love.

Not that I’ve seen, at least.

No mistake, women fawn over him at the field. He’s the charmer of the Kings. But if he knew his stupidly attractive presence stirs something deeper inside me, he’d nicely pat my head and remind me we’re merely distant friends.

If that.

We know of each other, and I happen to be living in his house for the foreseeable future. And I slept tangled up in his arms all night. Besides those two points, we’re nothing more than acquaintances. So, all these little heart flutters, and heat rushes, and near-swoons can take a freaking hike.

“Hungry?” Griffin takes another grape, pointing at the plate of toast and scrambled eggs with the fruit.

“I could eat,” I say. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” he says brightly. Griffin positions the tray over my lap and settles back onto his side of the bed. “So, do you feel up to taking a quick tour sometime today? I want to make sure you’re comfortable on your side of the house.”

“Yeah. I’m not an invalid.”

“You need to be careful and watch overstimulation,” he says. “Which, I might need to help you with because you can’t stare at phone screens, but your phone is filling up with texts. I’ll need to be your designated texter.”

I give a quick glance at the screen before he can scold me. He’s right. Twenty-three texts in the queue.

“Tour first,” I say. “I didn’t realize so many people knew about the accident.”

“My fault,” he says sheepishly. “I might’ve shouted at Skye and Parker and the guys that I ran over you with my car.”

Fabulous. I close my eyes and dig into one of the pieces of toast. We eat in silence for a few minutes before I nudge the plate away. My stomach hasn’t completely settled, but I’m already restless.

“I’m ready for the tour of your mansion,” I say.

Griffin winks and brushes crumbs off his hands. “You got it, Birdie.”

Five minutes later, I’m up, teeth brushed, and clinging to Griffin’s arm. Not by choice. He insisted I hold onto him for the journey down the hallway. He walks me around the corner and pauses in front of a tall, dark, cherrywood door.

At first glance I assume it is a coat closet, but then note the coded lock placed above the handle.

“This leads to my half. The code is zero, two, eight, eight,” he says. “Go ahead.”

When I key in the code it beeps and flashes green, but my hand hesitates for a few breaths before opening the door. There is a touch of forbidden. Like I’m crossing the line into something I shouldn’t want but desire more because it’s forbidden.

The door opens to the hallway, and I’m accosted with a stunning, framed black and white photo of Griffin laughing on the mound with Parker after a game. He’s in his catcher’s gear, the mask peeled back and placed atop his head with that big, white smile alive on his face.

“You can get in whenever you want now,” he says softly.

My insides squirm, and I quickly pull the door closed.

“Is it the same for you? You can walk in whenever?” Not that I’d mind having one more night of a Griffin pillow, but I’m unsettled knowing my privacy is a few numbers from being invaded whenever he feels like it.

Griffin looks at me like I’ve told him a ridiculously hilarious joke. “I’m not a heathen, Birdie. The code you have ismycode.”

He types in the code again and steps into his hallway. I make an effort not to look at his beautiful smile in the picture as I follow. His house is blanketed in a hint of smooth leather and clean laundry. I’d like to bottle a bit of the smell, douse my pillow in it, and inhale myself to sleep every night.

Griffin points out a similar lock on his side. “I’ve reset this. You get to type in a different one on this side. Tell me or don’t tell me, but you can have access to my place if you ever need me.”

A vise wraps around my heart. He’s innocently oblivious to his gentle nature. Every time I think I’ve pulled back the curtain, he gives up a new something tender, and I’m catapulted backward a dozen steps.

I’ve fought against the simmering draw to the light he radiates, the goodness I don’t want to see. Griffin Marks shakes up what I know of men like him, and it’s wholly unsettling.

“Go ahead,” he continues, “type in a four-digit number, hit the pound key, then type it again and it’ll set. I’ll turn around.”

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