Page 43 of Dating Goals
Griffin removes his gloves, enjoying himself far too much for someone supposedly helping me learn to date. It feels comfortable, companionable, a hundred times better than I imagined it would be. I’m more relaxed than ever. More relaxed than I’ve ever been, with anyone. It’s a nice feeling.
We reach another marker.
“Would you like your work to make you rich?” I recite, scanning the sign.
“Pass,” Griffin says, probably because he’s already rolling in all that hockey money. “What about you?”
“I’d settle for keeping my bar.” I answer the question almost without thinking. There’s a note of vulnerability in it, one I hadn’t meant to reveal. I feel a twinge of awkwardness and try to play it off.
“So,” I say, as lightly as I can. “Learning anything?”
“Lots.” He sounds genuine. “Learning I like hanging out with you.”
I smack his chest with the back of my hand. It’s a strong, sturdy chest. “I meant German. From the signs.”
He wraps his enormous hand around my wrist, pulling me closer to him. “I’m going to need a lot more lessons than this,mein lehrerin.”
The way he says it. All gravelly and breathy. He might as well have said “my love” instead of just “my teacher.”
“Your accent needs work,” I tease, feeling far too aroused this near to him.
“Does it, now?”
I lift my chin and take a step back. I’m not good at this flirting stuff. I suppose that’s why he’s coaching me after all. He’s not actually into me, even though the way he’s looking at me sure feels like he is.
“Oh, it’s pretty bad,” I say, trying to cool down the heady mood. To clarify, I’m the only one that’s hot and bothered. He’s the picture of easy confidence.
We cover the rest of the route at a steady pace, moving like we don’t have to make up answers or decisions or minds. The air is razor-cold, but the way he nudges me along, making sure I stay warm, I don’t feel the full brunt of it.
Eventually, we stop at a small restaurant with a terrace overlooking a snowy panorama. The majestic white mountains loom before us, as impossible as the man sitting across from me with those dimples on full display.
“Don’t think I didn’t notice what you did,” Griffin comments as we sip our drinks. “When you conveniently didn’t tell your mom the real reason for our outing.”
I stifle a laugh, studying his face as if searching for imperfections. “Like I’d admit I need dating lessons. And by the way, you’re not getting extra points for flowers.”
He shrugs, teasing. “Didn’t expect any. Probably need more than flowers to win you over.”
I feel my cheeks burn again, but I cling to the fragile strength in my hands around the glass. He’s talking about Thomas winning me over. Not him. Definitely not him.
“I wouldn’t turn down chocolate,” I say flippantly.
The wind howls outside, rattling the windows as if it’s trying to shake loose my guarded heart.
“Anika,” he ventures after a long pause. He looks at me seriously, his smile taking on an unexpected warmth. “Want to practice something?”
I keep my tone casual, not ready for what I think he’s going to say. “Aren’t we…doing that already?”
“How about this?” He reaches across the table, takes my hand. Gently, like it’s the easiest thing. My fingers are warm in his.
I’m on the verge of reminding him this is supposed to be for practice, not fun, but there’s something about his touch. Something that undoes me. My hand stays in his. Griffin plays with my fingers. Soft, careful circles with his thumb. A surprising ache settles in my chest, moving slowly to where our hands meet.
His eyes stay on mine, and for a brief second I’m unguarded. I have to fight the urge to tell him I would have been perfectly happy being single until he ambled into my bar. But that’s not the kind of truth anyone wants read like a hard drive of my thoughts. At least, not until I know whether he really likes being here with me or if this is just pretend.
“Ich halte gern deine hand,” he says.
Ooohhh-kay then. Starting out with feelings and body parts, are we? Even if all he said was that he likes holding my hand. This is all just part of the dating lesson, right?
I fumble. Pull back too fast, but not as quick as the flash of disappointment I catch in his eyes. Is he disappointed I took my hand away or that I failed the dating experiment? The second. Definitely the second.
