Page 32 of Handy

Ledger grins and pats me on the chest. “I’m sure I can figure out how to work your coffee maker and find your mugs. How do you take it? Hazelnut creamer, right?”

I frown harder. How did he know that? He just smirks and shoos me away. I don’t have the energy to argue, so I leave him to it.

LEDGER

I can feel Griff in every gloriously tender twinge of my ass as I shuffle around his kitchen making coffee. I’m sure Jericho would have a fresh psychoanalysis about the fact that I find Griff’s morning grumpiness so fucking cute, but I don’t care. He has his type, and I have mine. And I am positively fucking giddy to make my growly bear some coffee and smile at him like an idiot while he glares his way through shaking off his morning grumps.

While the coffee machine burbles and hisses, slowly filling the kitchen with the delicious scent of fresh coffee, I lean against the counter and pull out my phone to order Griff another littlepresent. I’ll tell him I’m his secret admirer eventually, but it’s too sweet to watch him blush and try not to smile at these little gifts.

I order him a box of gourmet cupcakes from a bakery in Chicago called Stud Muffin and include another silly note saying cupcakes aren’t the only thing he’s welcome to lick frosting off of. I suppress a gleeful giggle and close out of the website as soon as the order is finished, and then, because I’m either very bold or very stupid, I open his kitchen drawers until I find the junk drawer with pens and a pad of paper in it. Maybe this is my way of keeping myself honest and making sure I really do tell him eventually. Or maybe I just love the thrill of wondering what he’ll think when he eventually finds a note tucked away.

I keep it short and simple. “I can’t stop thinking about you ~ Your Secret Admirer.” Then I fold it up and put it under the stack of plates in his cupboard.

The coffee maker beeps. I open the cupboard next to the plates in search of mugs. I snort a laugh at the neat row of bland, solid-colored mugs lined up neatly on the bottom shelf. I legitimately didn’t even know they made mugs that didn’t have quippy sayings or cartoonishly pornographic pictures on them. My favorite mug at my house has an owl wearing a monocle on it with a speech bubble that says “whom.” I chuckle just thinking about it and reach for the plain blue mug closest to me.

I pull it down and set it on the counter, and just like when I found the lube hidden behind his shampoo, I’m surprised to spot a mug hidden in the back that’s different from the rest of them. Instead of being a muted primary color, this onedoeshave a quippy saying on it—“Bisexual pirates like all kinds of booty,” with the words written in pink, purple, and blue. I’m as gay as Christmas, but I can’t resist a fun mug, so I grab that one instead of one of the boring ones and fill them up.

After I add cream to both, I slip out onto the deck. Griff’s lounging in a deck chair with his feet up on the railing, his headtilted back peacefully and a relaxed expression on his face. I’m not at all shocked to find TP sitting on the steps looking pathetic, as if I didn’t feed her before I went out last night.Girl, you can wait five more minutes for breakfast, I’m trying to lock down a stepdaddy for your furry ass.

“Uh, I don’t know if it’s a problem, but she was eating some berries off that bush at the edge of your yard when I came out,” Griff says.

“That’s fine. I checked them when I moved in to make sure they weren’t toxic.”

He grunts and nods, opening his eyes and putting his feet down so he can sit up straight. I hold out his coffee mug, but his eyes land on the one in my other hand. I grin, prepared to tease Griff about hiding anything in the house with even a hint of personality. But before I can open my mouth, his scowl deepens and he jumps out of his chair so fast it topples backward.

“Where did you get that?”

I blanch and jerk my hand back, coffee sloshing over the side of the mug to splash onto my hand.

“Whoa, reel in the attitude. It was in your cupboard.” Morning grumpiness is one thing, but I don’t know who he thinks he’s talking to that way. He can go snarl somewhere else.

He has the good sense to look embarrassed, bringing his free hand up to rub the back of his neck and dipping his head as a blush rises in his cheeks.

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

“I can go get a different mug. I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to use this one,” I offer reasonably, but he shakes his head.

“No, sorry,” he says again, taking a breath and meeting my eyes again. There isn’t any anger or even annoyance in them now, just something sad and maybe a little tired. “I just wasn’t expecting…” He shakes his head, his nostrils flaring as hebreathes out slowly. “I don’t use that one, and I guess I forgot it was there. It belonged to my… Riley. It was his favorite.”

I don’t need the picture on the front of the puzzle box to put those pieces together. Even without context, I’m pretty sure I get it.

“I’m sorry.” I take a step closer, nice and slow in case he needs his space right now, but he doesn’t move away or try to stop me. “Come here.” As soon as I’m close enough, he crumples against me, resting his forehead against my shoulder and letting me put my free arm around him to rub soothing circles on his back.

Poor baby. He lost someone important. Is that why he’s so closed off?

“I’m nailing the morning-after thing, huh?” he mumbles, and I sputter a laugh.

Would my first pick have been to cause him to have a breakdown about a dead lover? Obviously not. But the gust of his hot breath and the tremble in his muscles as he lets me comfort him is a level of emotional intimacy we couldn’t have gotten from pleasant chitchat, so yeah, this is a pretty solid morning after if you ask me. I’m not going to point that out to him and ruin the moment though.

“I’ve had worse,” I assure him, because that’s true too.

He wheezes a laugh and pulls back, straightening back up and looking more pulled together than he did a minute ago, less like he’s on the verge of tears.

“Can I get a do-over?”

I slide my hand down his arm and take a chance at slipping my fingers between his. Again, he doesn’t pull away. If anything, his muscles relax a little more, like touching me grounds him.

“I don’t know. What’s a do-over look like?” I flatten my lips, trying not to laugh.

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