I jerk to a stop. “Football friends?” I try to keep my tone neutral, hiding my anxiety. But like a switch has been flipped, my skin heats.
I push my sleeves up, searching for relief, and work to contain the tension in my body. Do I tell him the truth? Admit that I’ve never felt welcome at the football events Jack has dragged me to? That the one time I tried to befriend a group of the team’s WAGs, they gave me the cold shoulder the entire night?
Griffin gives me a patient smile. “They’re friends. Some of them do play football, but they’re harmless, I promise. Beau and his fiancée moved into their new place a few months ago, so they’re having some of the offense over to celebrateand team-build.”
“Oh, okay.” My voice is small, and fear still grips me. I hate it. I hate it so much I can’t even look at him.
“Hey. Brynn.” He says my name gently, the word floating on the air between us.
Still, I keep my focus averted. I study my sensible sandals until two gleaming white sneakers that probably cost more than my entire outfit slide into view.
“Hey,” he tries again, and this time I acquiesce. When I finally tilt my chin up, I find genuine concern in his blue eyes. “I promised them I’d swing by, and I’d like you to meet them. They’re great. Meeting new people is a part of that Memphis magic I’ve been telling you about. But if you feel uncomfortable in any way, we’ll leave immediately. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Good.” He tilts his head. “Let’s stroll.”
He leads me to a sign markedCairo, ILnext to a concrete canal filled with gently flowing water. “You’ve never been here?”
“No, but I know what it is—a replica of the Mississippi River.”
“Correct, professor. Let’s walk through a few states since it’s such a beautiful day. Every step we take is roughly one mile of the river.”
As we amble along the replica, a breeze off the actual river to our right stirs tendrils of my hair, chilling me and compelling me to lower my sleeves. Since it’s lunchtime on a weekday, the park is relatively empty, though we meet a few moms with littles and a handful of couples as we make our way down the path.
“We’ve established that you don’t like pickles.” That stupid word—pickles—almost causes me to miss a step, but I recover, and he doesn’t notice my blunder. “What, then, is your favorite food?”
“Soft pretzels,” I answer, without hesitation.
Brows raised, he assesses me. “Really?”
“What?”
“Nothing.” He shrugs. “It’s just…unexpected, I guess.”
“What’s your favorite?”
“Cereal.”
“Cereal?”
“Yep. The more sugary, the better. Cap’n Crunch, Froot Loops, Frosted Flakes, Lucky Charms, Cinnamon Toast Crunch.”
“Cap’n Crunch always tore up the roof of my mouth when I was a kid. Not that I talked my parents into buying it for me more than a couple of times. They usually bought Grape Nuts or Mueslix.”
“Then you didn’t have a chance to build up the mouth-roof immunity. I swear mine has calluses from the stuff. My brothers’, too.”
We walk in companionable silence for a few minutes, and I lift my face, enjoying the juxtaposition of heat from the sun and cool, crisp air.
“With cheese, right?” Griffin asks.
I assess him as I work to decode his words. “Pardon?”
“Soft pretzels. You dip ’em in cheese, right?”
“Actually, no. I like them plain. With all the salt, of course.”
“No cheese?” He splays a hand over his chest. “You’re breaking my heart, not-a-professor.”