Page 80 of Cherry Picking
“Dad keeps asking him about girlfriends, but he’s never brought one home or talked about one. Is he a man-whore?”
The wide grin tells me he’s already having way too much fun.
“Absolutely not,” I laugh. “Your brother is very passionate and private.”
“You’re his roommate. You have to have seen him with someone.”
There’s that blooming ache that starts as a pressure around my heart and expands to a crushing weight on my ribs.
“That’s not really my business to tell,” I say. “Aren’t you supposed to think girls are gross anyway?”
Parker rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. “I think sex is gross, not relationships.”
Right. Perfectly reasonable distinction.
“That stuff is supposed to be important,” he mumbles. “Who you are with other people. I just want to know him.”
Before I went after hockey with everything I had, my sister and I used to wrestle in the mud. We’d chase each other down riverbanks, skip over train tracks, and pretend we were warriors on the lam. Only a few years apart, we were as close as two siblings can be.
These days, we make an effort to keep each other in our lives, and even though it’s only a handful of times a year, sometimes I wish I still knew the little girl with dirt in her hair and pride on her face as she proudly proclaimed her name from the treetops.
I can’t imagine never having that connection with her.
“Settle in,” I say, reclining back and throwing my arms over the cushions. “Because I’ve got stories.”
CHAPTER 19
RILEY
Easton family traditionon Christmas Eve is simple: s’mores made in the oven and one present a piece until morning.
Imagine Griffin’s surprise when we finish up and pass a neatly wrapped gift into his hands.
“Wait, you all didn’t …”
I clap him on the back and rub between his shoulder blades. “You didn’t think my parents would let me have company for the holidays without getting you something?”
Griffin’s eyes blaze into mine, and I know without words that he had expectations, just not for something that would be considered family friendly.
“This one is from my Mom.” The package doesn’t say that specifically; it says: Easton Family, but I know the shape and my mother’s scrawl anywhere.
That doesn’t stop the groan that leaves my mouth when he gets it unwrapped and it’s the cover of a book I’ve seen a dozen times on the shelf in Mom’s office. It’s arena-rink blue with an obnoxiously hockey-inspired title.
“I wouldn’t read the inscription until you’re alone. She’s a menace.”
Mom gave me the same gift—albeit a different novel of hers—when I signed my first NAPH contract. She even gifted one to Matty when I brought him home that first Christmas; that’s how I know this is her way of embarrassing me.
Instead of speechless and red-faced like Matty was, Griff’s grin is wide and sincere. He looks genuinely thrilled to have received a book of hockey smut for the holidays.
“I’ll make sure to read it out loud when Riley’s trying to sleep tonight.”
I groan and shove his shoulder, but he only shifts his weight to press his arm to mine. His fingers twitch like he wants to reach over and grab my hand, so I settle mine on his knee and squeeze to distract him.
“You’rea menace,” I grumble, and he knocks his knee into mine with a chuckle.
“You love it.” The innocent playfulness in his voice hides the true sentiment beneath, and while my family laughs and carries on, I’m laser-focused on everywhere Griff and I touch.
Our shoulders pressed together.
