Page 47 of The Check Down

It’s another selfie, and this time, he’s sporting a goofy, open-mouthed grin. I laugh at his youthful expression. Until, that is, the reality of what I’ve done crashes down, making my stomach drop.

Please don’t tell me if you hate it. Or if it’s bad.

I’ve never let anyone read it, so I’m not even sure if it’s readable.

It’s probably total garbage. Hope it gives you a good laugh.

[crying laughing emojix 3]

Those three little response bubbles tease me for an interminable length of time, then disappear.

A wave of dread washes through me, and I flop over on the couch, burying my face in the plush softness. It’s only a moment before another buzz makes me bolt upright.

Griffin

Professor. Chill. If it’s from your brain, it’s guaranteed to be amazing.

I read the words several times, willing them to sink deep into my soul, where I can keep them forever.

It’s moments like this that add fuel to the fire of my crush. He’s gorgeous, a perfect physical specimen, of course. But he’s also hilarious and kind, and he has the canny ability to say just what I need to hear at just the right time. He does the most thoughtful things—like scheduling movers and ensuring I’m comfortable at a gathering before walking away. On the surface, those gestures might seem ordinary or insignificant, but they’re more than meaningful to me.

Griffin’s little acts of service remind me so much of the small ways my dad shows his big love for my mom. Like bringing her coffee in bed every morning and starting her car for her on cold days so it can warm up before she leaves.

The giddiness building inside me deflates, though, when those words I overhead that afternoon filter into my thoughts.

It’s not like that with her.

Maybe all his little gestures are nothing more than friendly, charitable acts. Simply one friend helping another when she’s down on her luck.

Paige was right—one of usisin denial. And it’s not my hunky NFL superstar roommate.

I spend the rest of the afternoon catching up on research and trying not to be obsessive about checking my phone for Griffin’sreactions to my story. I even update my résumé and LinkedIn profile before I deep dive into a search of small, liberal arts colleges in Florida.

Now that Jack and I are no longer together, I don’t know that I even want to stay in Memphis. Sure, I’ve made a few friends, but are they enough to keep me here?

It’s best that I have a backup plan.

Since I had a big lunch, I make myself a bowl of cereal for dinner, being sure to snap a picture of the colorful, sugary pieces floating in the pristine milk and send it to Griffin.

You’re a terrible influence. Cereal for dinner.

My phone chimes a few bites later.

Griffin

Niiiiice. Dinner of champions.

Still nothing about my book. I’m dying to know what he thinks. Maybe he started reading it and gave up after only a few paragraphs. Ugh.

I’m left to stew in my insecurities until bedtime. It isn’t until I’m brushing my teeth that my phone buzzes on the bedside table. I force myself to finish the rest of my nighttime routine and get comfortable in bed, Barnaby tucked to my chest, before I let myself reach for it.

His first text is a selfie. In it, he’s shirtless, leaning against the headboard in his hotel room. The picture doesn’t show anything below his collarbone, but the glimpse of dark hair and chiseled pecs sends heat creeping through me, forcing me to shove the thick comforter down to my waist. His blue-gray eyes are narrowed, his dark brows drawn close, and short stubble highlights the smirk playing on his lips.

The next text is a single word.

Griffin

Professor.

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