Page 61 of The Check Down

“Griff.” A pained whimper escapes. “I think I’m gonna be sick.”

No hesitation, I sprint for my bathroom rather than braving another flight of stairs to hers. The second I lower her to the tile, she’s on her knees and lifting the toilet lid. She heaves, retching all of her night’s poor decisions into the bowl as I stand by, helpless. An anguished moan between gags has me joining her on the tile and rubbing comforting circles on her back, gently gathering her hair behind her nape. Her knuckles whiten as she clings to the sides of the bowl until she finishes.

“Oh, God. I think I’m dying.” She rests her cheek on the seat and blinks at me.

“You’re not dying. I won’t allow it.” I push a strand of her hair behind her ear, then collect the bottle of mouthwash and a clean washcloth from the cabinet.

Shaky, she stands, gripping the counter until she’s steady. As she swishes the minty liquid, she studies me in the mirror. After she spits and rinses, she finds my reflection again.

“Sorry I puked in your toilet.”

I bite back a chuckle. “Better there than anywhere else.”

She snorts, and then we’re grinning at each other in the mirror like a couple of smitten idiots. Between one blink and the next, her smile melts, and our gazes turn heavy with all the unspoken truths we’ve been carrying over the past few weeks.

I swallow back my thoughts, knowing I can’t expel them in a stream of consciousness that she likely won’t remember tomorrow.

Damn. Guess tonight’s not the night.

But the need to be near her remains strong. There’s no way I can put a full floor between us. She can sleep in my bed while she recovers from her girls’ night out. I’ll crash on the couch.

With a hand on her elbow, I say, “Let’s get you to bed.”

Her movements are still wobbly, even after emptying her stomach, so I guide her to the side of my bed and kneel to unzip her boots. When I close my fingers around the zipper on the inside ofher knee, she jerks her leg so violently she almost kicks me in the face. Only my honed reflexes save my chin from the blow.

“Oh! I’msosorryGriff.” Her jumbled words slur as she sways above me.

I make another attempt at the boot, but this time she flops over in a fit of giggles.

“Tickles.”

A sigh escapes me. “Baby, work with me here.”

She bolts upright, lips parted, eyes as wide as they can be in her state. “You just called me baby.”

“I did.”

“Why?” Her voice is a breathy whisper.

I ignore the pang in my chest. What I’d give to lay it all out there now. “We’ll talk about it later, professor.”

Her brown eyes are hazy as she searches my face, as if looking for a promise, but then she nods, brings a hand to her mouth, and yawns.

Finally, she holds still long enough to allow me to unzip and remove her boots. If she notices how long my hands linger on her smooth calves as I do it, she doesn’t let on. It takes a goddamn avalanche of self-control to stop myself from running my hands up her bare legs, though.

I snag my favorite Sooners T-shirt from a drawer and toss it next to her. “I’ll grab some Tylenol and water while you change, if you think you can manage by yourself.”

“’Kay.” That one word is slow and drawn out.

I kill time in the kitchen by adding a new word to our ongoing crossword puzzle. Piggybacking off her last correct guess, I draw one box below and one above the E in the wordpretzel. Underneath the ever-growing puzzle, I scrawl my clue:You are my good luck ____.

Then I gather up the pain relievers and water and hope like hell I’ve given her enough time. If I walk in on Brynn Nelson nearlynaked in my bedroom, I’m not sure even a cold shower will be enough to settle me.

She wavers by the bed, her long, toned legs peeking out under the hem of my T-shirt. Fuck. I’ve never seen a more glorious vision. Even plastered, she’s a knockout. When she reaches inside the roomy cotton to unhook her bra, and then draws the straps down her arms, I’m frozen in place, a hostage to her every move. The lacy pale-purple bra she slips out from one sleeve makes my mouth go dry and sends molten lava pulsing through my veins. It’s one of the barely there undergarments I examined like a creeper in the laundry room. Fuck. I bite my cheek to keep from asking if she’s wearing the matching panties.

Without a word, she slips under the covers and pulls them up to her chest. When she’s settled, she lets out the most contented sigh.

For the first time in my thirty-five years, I stand over a woman and watch her sleep. My only thought? I don’t only want to go to bed with this woman. I want to wake up with her. Maybe for the rest of my life.

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