Page 21 of The Check Down

My new friend sizes me up as I conduct these mental gymnastics. But when I extend my hand over the table and say, “We’re gonna come up with a bestie secret handshake,” she slips her hand into mine without hesitation. Then she does her best to copy my attempt at an elaborate bro shake.

She laughs at the awkwardness that comes with neither of us knowing the next move in the made-up-on-the-spot choreography, but the triumphant grin that shines on me when we both end the shake with a fist bump?

Fuck, I’m insomuch trouble.

Chapter five

Brynn

“Let me show youmyMemphis.”

Griffin’s invitation clangs through my mind like a brass bell as we leave the restaurant. He refused to let me split the check, arguing that “friends buy sausage and cheese plates for one another all the time in Memphis, professor.” Once it was paid, he led me out the door with a hand on the small of my back.

We aren’t five steps from the restaurant when a fan recognizes Griffin and asks for a selfie. As he obliges and steps in close to the guy, my phone buzzes in my clutch, so I pull it out to find a lone text from Jack.

Where are you?

I left the event an hour ago, and he’s only now texting me?

I’m debating whether to respond when Griffin returns to my side.

“Ready?” he asks, a brow raised.

I nod, and we’re off again. This time, he doesn’t wiggle his fingers. Disappointment slashes through me before I can stop it.

Just as friends. I chastise myself as we turn the corner and head back to the hotel. I’m still giving myself a lecture when he touches my arm and gently crosses behind me so hecan walk on the left, closest to the street. And, damn it, those warm tingles that have surged through my body frequently since we escaped the ballroom return.

We’re silent for the first part of our stroll, but then Griffin clears his throat. “I’ve been thinking about our first excursion.”

I glance at him sidelong. He’s well over six feet tall and built of solid muscle. His posture is relaxed: hands in pockets, head tipped back like he’s searching the heavens for an idea. I allow myself a glimpse of the way his linen suit jacket encases his broad shoulders, of the way his pants in the same light-blue strain across his quads when he walks. The clothing fits like it was made for him. Surely, it was.

Does he venture out to a custom tailor? Or does one come to his home to measure and pin and present fabric samples?

Maybe, eventually, during one of our tours of Memphis, I’ll work up the nerve to ask him about house calls from barbers and tailors.

“Our first outing should highlight what Memphis is best known for.”

“Sausage and cheese plates?”

His lips quirk to the side, the expression spotlighted by the streetlamp we pass.

“No, smart-ass.” He spreads his arms wide, like the answer is right here.

For a moment, I’m distracted by the sheer length of them. How would it feel to be wrapped in their embrace?

The sound of his voice brings me back to the moment. “Memphis is the home of the blues. Rock and roll. You like music, right?”

I certainly don’t listen to Jack’s damn sports podcasts when I’m alone in my car or when I force myself to walk on the treadmill in the guest room. No, I fill those moments of solitude with the most random playlists imaginable. Everything from Bruce Springsteen to Johnny Cash to the Spice Girls to Queen to One Direction.Broadway musical soundtracks. Nineties grunge. Motown’s biggest hits. Eighties one-hit wonders.

Yeah, I love music.

And this city does claim the birthrights to musical genres that have become the soundtracks to our lives. One might think that would endear this place to me, right? It hasn’t.

You haven’t experienced this city with the right tour guide.

With a small shake of my head, I say, “I love music.”

His responding wide grin triggers a torrent of nerves to flood my insides.

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