Page 6 of One Hot Summer
“Cool,” he said, slapping the countertop lightly. “I’ll just grab my keys, and we can head out whenever you’re ready.”
“Sounds good,” I replied, my voice only cracking a little bit.
As he disappeared upstairs, I leaned against the counter and tried to steady my heartbeat. A few weeks. Just a few weeks in this cabin with Griffin Price. I could do this. All I had to do was not humiliate myself, not drool, and definitely not think about his arms or his jaw or… I closed my eyes and thumped my head gently against the cabinet. This was going to be harder than I thought.
I only had time to check my hair in the reflection of the microwave before Griffin returned, car keys in hand and sunglasses perched on his head. “Ready to go?” he asked.
“Born ready,” I said, which was a complete lie. I was never ready for anything involving potential social interaction, especially not with the object of my accidental obsession, but here we were.
We crunched across the gravel driveway to his rental, a black SUV with a luxury logo and enough space for a basketball team. I climbed into the passenger seat and buckled in. He started the car, and the interior filled with the scent of leather and cedar and something that was unmistakably his cologne. I fidgeted with the vent controls, setting the temperature to somewhere between “arctic” and “comfortable.”
The drive into town took about twenty minutes, the first few spent in silence. I kept waiting for Griffin to say something, but he seemed content to focus on the winding road and the view. Eventually, he turned to me with a faint smile. “So, did Dalton warn you about the bears?”
I laughed, the tension in my chest loosening a little. “He did, actually. He sent me a whole list of warnings including ‘don’t get eaten’ and ‘if you find any leftover moonshine, don’t touch it.’ ”
“That’s good advice.” He grinned and I bit my lip. I liked the way his eyes crinkled at the edges when he smiled or laughed. It was a good look on him. “Especially the moonshine part. Last time I drank some, I couldn’t feel my face for an hour.”
I smiled, trying to imagine what a tipsy Griffin might look like. Was he silly? Clumsy? Talkative? Did alcohol make him flirtatious? Did he lose all his inhibitions? I’d love to find out.
We coasted into the local grocery store parking lot and found a spot near the entrance. Inside, the place was smaller than the supermarkets back in the city, but it made up for it with an abundance of local produce and fresh baked goods. I grabbed a cart, and Griffin led us toward the produce section. He picked up a bunch of kale and held it at arm’s length. “Dalton’s mom usedto juice this every morning. He’d take one sip and then try to trade me his glass for my orange juice when she wasn’t looking.”
“Did you let him?” I asked.
He shrugged, then shot me a quick, conspiratorial wink. “What can I say? I’m a softie. Just don’t tell anyone.”
I held a hand up in the air. “I’ll take it to my grave.”
“Good man.”
We navigated the narrow aisles, filling the cart with a haphazard assortment of things including fruits and vegetables, three different kinds of cheeses, bread, cold cuts, and enough eggs to make a chicken nervous.
He stopped by the butcher counter, examining the case like a jeweler inspecting diamonds. “What do you think?” he asked, turning to me. “Ribeyes, or do we class it up and get filets?”
I blinked, caught off guard. “Ribeyes?”
He grinned. “Good call. Filets are overrated.” He pointed to the cut he wanted and nodded at the butcher, who wrapped the steaks up in brown paper and handed them over with a jovial smile.
As we moved to the coffee aisle, we both reached for a bag of coffee at the same time. Griffin’s hand brushed against mine. It was only a touch, a flicker of contact, but it made the hair on my arms stand up. I pretended to adjust the display and tried to will the blush out of my cheeks.
He didn’t seem to notice. “You like it strong?” he asked, examining the bag.
“Uh… what?”
“Your coffee. Do you like it strong?”
“Oh, yes. Especially during finals week.”
“You sound like my son. Sometimes I think that boy could survive an apocalypse as long as there was a Starbucks nearby.” I laughed, not even trying to deny it.
We spent another twenty minutes in the store, making our way through the remaining aisles. At one point, Griffin insisted on showing me which olive oil was “actually worth the money” and which ones were “marketing scams in a fancy bottle.” I found myself listening, actually interested, and not just because I wanted to hear his voice. I liked the way he talked, the little jokes and dry observations. It made him feel less like an adult authority figure and more like a friend.
I got distracted again watching his hands—large, with long fingers and neatly trimmed nails—as he selected a couple of bottles of wine. At the checkout line, Griffin unloaded the cart with practiced speed, then motioned for me to stand back while he paid.
“I can Venmo you—” I started.
He cut me off. “Don’t worry about it. My treat.” I opened my mouth to protest, but he shot me a look that brooked zero argument. “Seriously, Adam. Once you graduate and have a job, then you can return the favor. How about that?” He winked, and it felt like a small, targeted missile straight at my heart.
I nodded, not trusting myself to say anything clever. I was too busy trying not to smile like an idiot. We loaded the groceries into the car and headed back to the cabin. On the way, he tuned the radio to a classic rock station, and when Queen’s “Another One Bites the Dust” came on, he drummed the steering wheel in perfect time. I risked a glance at him and saw he was mouthing the lyrics, totally unselfconscious. It was infuriatingly endearing.
