Page 60 of A Little Secret

“Perfect,” he says.

I cut the paper, dragging the scissors across it until I hit the other side. Then, I drop the scissors on the ground and try to put the oblong box in the center of the sheet, which is weirdly difficult when you can't see anything.

“Yeah, right there,” Griffin says. “You’re doing great, Fin.”

Not gonna lie. I freaking preen at his words, feeling likeI'm pretty much invincible as I fold the paper over the center.

“Tape’s by your left hip,” he adds.

I fumble for the tape but come up empty.

“Left,” he encourages.

“Left.Right.” My fingers hit something small and plastic. Confirming it’s the tape, I pin the dispenser between my knees and rip off a piece.

“Shot!” someone yells.

“Shit,” I drop the tape. “What now?”

“There’s a shot glass right in front of you,” Griffin says. “Careful.”

I feel like an idiot but reach out my hand, trying not to make a mess or bump something I shouldn’t.

“A little further away,” Griffin guides.

My fingers touch the edge of a glass, and I grab it.

“Bring it to my mouth.”

I turn toward his voice. “Where?”

“A little closer.”

The back of my finger touches soft flesh, and I raise my opposite hand, feeling Griffin’s face while lining up the edge of the shot glass with his lips.

Seriously, why does this feel so intimate?

I shove the thought aside while slowly tipping the glass back, and he swallows the alcohol, leaving the glass empty.

“Fuck,” Griff curses, and a sweet but spicy scent hits my nostrils. “Who the hell picked Fireball?”

“I mean, it’s cinnamon, right?” I offer. “So, I’m gonna go with Ophelia.”

“One more,” Boyle orders.

Right.

I move a little faster this time. When my fingers find another glass in front of me, I keep my opposite hand placed on Griffin’s jaw and bring the untouched shot glassto his mouth. He lifts his chin and swallows it all. When he breathes out the burn, I feel it against my cheeks. Hell, I can practically taste the cinnamon, and my lips part. Why is this kind of…hot?

“Shot!” Everett yells. At least it sounds like Everett.

Another curse follows, and Griffin’s cuffed wrist lifts into the air as I search for another freshly poured alcohol.

“Boyle, where are ya?” I ask.

“A little to the right,” Griffin answers for him.

I find the shot glass and search for Griffin again, letting the familiar brush of his five o’clock shadow against the outside of my hand guide me to his mouth. Not gonna lie. It really is weirdly…intimate, and I’m not sure how I feel about it. Actually, I kind of do know how I feel about it, and that’s the problem, isn’t it?

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