Page 64 of The Check Down

“The rain.”

“Supposed to stop soon.”

“Good for the trick-or-treaters.” I inhale a deep breath. I’d be content to stop there and bask in his Griffin-scent, but I need to say this last one. “But the worst part of my day, by far, was Jack.”

He goes rigid, and that comforting hand ceases its calming motion. “What about him?” His voice is hard granite.

I ease back so I can look at him, but he keeps me locked in his embrace. “He saw the article and sent me several texts to voice his displeasure.”

“Can I—” His Adam’s apple bobs. “What do you need?”

I search his eyes, which match the stormy sky outside, and sigh. “This.”

With a subtle nod, he tucks my head back in that spot between his collarbone and jaw, a perfect fit. Like that space was made especially for me.

We stand like that, entwined in each other, until the sharp edges of my day melt into smooth, manageable margins.

“I have the perfect solution for this shitty day.” His chin bumps the top of my head with each word. “Ice cream for dinner.” He plants a quick kiss on the top of my head that I’ll no doubt analyze with charts, graphs, and tables later, and swats my bottom. Then he pulls away. “You’ve got fifteen minutes to change.”

Since he’s giving me no time for analytics now, I hustle upstairs and change into my favorite pair of jeans and a butter-soft Townes sweatshirt to match the vibes of Griff’s sweats-and-hoodie combo.

By the time we lock up and skirt around the building, the rain has ceased. Griffin starts up South Main in the direction of the nearest trolley stop, his long legs eating up twice the distance mine do. It only takes half a dozen steps for him to slow his pace and give me the finger wiggle. When I lace my fingers through his, he tugs me to his side.

We hold hands all the way to the trolley. And neither of us lets go as we head downtown, surrounded by riders dressed as witches and superheroes and Elvises, each one casting curious glances our way.

The ice cream shop isn’t crowded, but we take our double-scoop cones outside into the cool night air. The gray clouds block the last rays of the setting sun, and the sidewalks are dark and wet. The seats of the metal benches that face the street are puddled, so we stroll down the block and eat.

“That’s disgusting, by the way.” I whirl my finger at his cone.

He takes a bite from the bright-blue scoop on top. “Professor,” he says, his lips already turning colors—a curse of the flavor. “Thisis an elite cone—the best parts of childhood in one delicious combo.” My side-eye makes him tip his head back in laughter. “Who doesn’t love cotton candy and PB and J?”

“It’s a wonder your teeth are so perfect with all the sugary foods you consume.”

Even in the gloomy twilight, the twinkle in his eye is bright. “You think my teeth are perfect?”

“Your smile isn’t the worst,” I confess, tone begrudging, like I don’t swoon every time one lights up his face.

He draws to a stop, and when I spin to face him, the intensity in his expression makes me shiver. With one big hand, he cradles my jaw, his thumb stroking my bottom lip once, so featherlight I wonder if I imagined it. But then his husky voice incinerates me. “This one takes my breath away.”

I keep my focus locked on him, refusing to blink, worried that if I do, I’ll wake and discover this was all an elaborate dream.

His attention shifts to my ice cream cone before returning to my face. “How’s this combo taste?”

I swallow, tamping down the butterflies threatening to take flight in my stomach. “It’s good,” I breathe. I bring the treat to my mouth and relish the way the cold sensation contrasts with the lingering heat of his touch.

“Hmm. Let’s see.” Stooping, he brings his mouth to my scoop. His eyes don’t stray from mine as he pauses there, sampling the dessert from the opposite side.

One scoop of fudge ripple is the only thing separating Griffin Lacey’s lips from mine.

He pulls back, licks his lips, and hums. “Not bad.”

Rising to his full height, he gives me ashall we?head tilt, and we continue our stroll. By the time we return to the trolley stop, we’ve finished our ice cream cones. But there’s no hand holding on the journey to the apartment, which makes a bereft hollowness sink into my marrow.

The clink of Griffin’s keys against the catch-all bowl on the bar is jarring in the silence, startling me. And before I can weigh the consequences, I blurt out the question that’s plagued me all day. “Are we going to talk about it?” I infuse my gaze with a warning—if he doesn’t know whichitI’m referring to, then heaven help him.

He doesn’t respond right away, choosing instead to let the question simmer between us. He opens his mouth, closes it, then, jaw set, he stalks my way. My heart pounds out a rhythm that could either be the beat of a death march or a circus parade, depending on this man’s response.

When he reaches me, he cups my shoulders, the determination in his brows smoothing out as his eyes soften. “We are going to talk about it. But not tonight.”

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