White Lilies (A Mitchell Sisters Novel)

by Christy, Samantha

  Erin looks at me with sad eyes. “You need someone like my Griffin,” she says. “He’s very easy to love. And so darn sexy, too.”

  I roll my eyes at the millionth reminder of how great her husband is.

  Baylor winces and her hand goes to her large belly. “Ouch! This little one can really kick.”

  Erin’s eyes grow large. “Baylor, could I . . . would you mind if I . . .”

  Before she can finish, Baylor grabs Erin’s hand and places it on her stomach. Erin stares at it like it’s the Holy Grail. I know the second she feels the baby move because her eyes instantly tear up and spill over.

  “Oh my God, Baylor,” she says. She stares at Baylor’s pregnant belly in disbelief, muttering, “Oh my God,” over and over.

  Then she cries. I mean—she ugly cries. She sobs unabashedly while keeping her hands firmly glued to Baylor’s stomach.

  Finally, she pulls back, mascara smeared down her face. Her eyes are glazed over in an alcohol stupor. She speaks incoherently as her sobs wane. She hiccups, “I’m gonna miss this.”

  I put my hand on hers. “Erin, having a baby doesn’t mean you will have to miss anything. We’ll still get to do stuff all the time. You and Baylor can even bring the babies to girls’ night if you want. Don’t worry. You’re going to be a great mother.”

  She nods, wiping her tears. She stands, picking up one of the empty food trays to carry over to the sink. We all jump off our seats when we hear it crash to the ground.

  I run over, not wanting her to cut her hand in a drunken attempt to clean up the shards of glass scattered about the kitchen floor. “Erin, I’ve got this. You go lay down. It’s getting late anyway and we should be going.”

  Baylor walks Erin upstairs to her bedroom as I sweep up the floor. She comes down a minute later saying she’ll escort Mindy and Jenna home safely, but that maybe I should hang around to make sure Erin doesn’t puke. We say our goodbyes and I head up to the bedroom.

  Erin’s bedroom is a contradiction of sights and smells. I’m instantly hit with Erin’s flowery perfume when I step through the door. I walk over to their large four-poster bed that is draped with white linens, making me feel like I’m approaching Sleeping Beauty.

  When I sit beside her on the bed, I’m overcome by Griffin’s rugged scent. I silently wonder if the side of the bed I’m sitting on is the side where he sleeps. Then as if drawn there by instinct, my hand wanders to his pillow, stroking the soft linens that are fortunate enough to reside beneath his gorgeous head of hair night after night.

  I look at the nightstand to find it messy with a John Grisham novel, a cell phone charger, some loose change, and a picture of Erin when she was much younger and mostly devoid of hair. I guiltily cease my intrusive caress of his pillow. I have to hand it to him; he’s got the romance thing down pat. He keeps a picture of his mostly-bald wife by his bed to remind her that he thinks she’s beautiful no matter how she looks.

  I’ve been jealous of women plenty of times. Jealous of their looks. Jealous of their jet-setting lives. Jealous of their clothing. But for the first time in my life, I’m jealous of a woman because of the relationship she has with a man. Then I wince, as part of me wonders if it’s solely because of the man himself.

  Erin moans, turning over to place a hand on me. “I love you, Skylar,” she mumbles. “Promise me. Promise me you’ll take care of them.”

  I run my hand down her arm to comfort her. “Of course,” I say. “Don’t worry about Jenna and Mindy, Baylor is making sure they get home safely. We’ve got this.”

  chapter nine

  Sitting on the bench outside Yankee Stadium waiting for Erin and Griffin, I try not to think about how I finally broke down and opened ‘the basket’ Saturday night after Erin’s get-together.

  I stayed with her until Griffin came home that night. Drunk. Disheveled. More gorgeous than I’d ever seen him. Drunk Griffin was even hotter than pissed off Griffin. I gave him a brief synopsis of our evening, not wanting to be in his torturous presence a minute longer than necessary.

  He thanked me for taking care of Erin, kissing me on the cheek when I left. It was an innocent kiss. A kiss of gratitude. A kiss much like a brother might bestow on a sister. A kiss that absolutely wrecked me. I have replayed that moment over and over in my head. The smell of him—his usual scent combined with a tinge of cigarette smoke and alcohol—was a sexy mingling of aromas that had even my sober head swimming in fantasy. His shirt was slightly untucked on one side and he had undone a few of the buttons when he arrived home. I wanted nothing more than to stick my hand inside and feel the heat of his chest. Did he have chest hair, I wondered? And would it be as dark as the hair on his head? Would his abs ripple and harden under my touch as they always do in my dreams?

  When his lips pressed onto the flesh of my cheek, time stood still. My eyes closed as I imprinted the moment in my memory. I wanted to remember his breath on my face, his soft, confident mouth on my skin, his hard body as it momentarily brushed against mine. I wondered if he had any idea what that one small gesture did to me. It fueled my fantasies beyond anything I’d ever felt before. My body hummed with desire the entire cab ride home. I squirmed on my seat to get some needed friction in all the right places.

  I went straight to my room. Nothing mattered to me but relieving the tension Griffin had built up inside me with that one innocent kiss. If his kiss could affect me that way, I wondered what his hands on my body would do. I was certain they would incinerate me.

  After my wildly inappropriate tension-relieving session with a new ‘toy,’ the guilt came. I knew I was the shittiest friend in the history of the world. How could I fantasize about Griffin after spending the evening with his wife? My best friend.

  I skipped Sunday brunch. Griffin and Erin were going to be there. I couldn’t face her, knowing what I’d done the night before. I punished myself all day. I even considered telling Erin what I’d done, knowing that she would hate me. That’s how guilty I felt. I couldn’t have felt more ashamed if I’d actually been with him. I was a terrible friend and I knew it.

  When Baylor called to check on me after I’d missed brunch, I told her what happened. She made me regurgitate exactly what he’d done. Did he put a hand on me when he kissed my cheek? No. Did he look into my eyes after? No. Did he say anything even mildly suggestive? No.

  After the third degree, she laughed at me, saying my pregnancy was to blame. Griffin did nothing wrong, and my fantasies are perfectly normal. She told me not to beat myself up about them. I thanked her and assured her I wouldn’t. Then I wallowed in my hormonal guilt and self-pity for the rest of the day.

  I saw Erin the next day. She came by the restaurant to get the tickets, saying they would meet me here. I didn’t say a word. I would keep my fantasies to myself. I didn’t want to risk losing her. I would never do anything to hurt her. Griffin was off-limits now and forever. I just had to get through the next twenty-six weeks of pregnancy hormones and then I was sure everything would be okay.

  The clearing of a throat startles me, pulling me from my thoughts as I look up into the steely-gray eyes of Griffin himself. I feel the heat rush up my cheeks and I hope it’s not written all over my face how he affects me.

  I crane my neck to look around behind him. No Erin. Great, we’ll have to sit here in a sea of awkwardness until she arrives. I fail miserably trying not to notice his tight athletic shirt that clings to his broad chest then tapers nicely to his tight waist. He is blatantly sexy and heart-stoppingly gorgeous.

  I plaster on my best you-are-not-the-man-of-my-dreams smile. “Hey.”

  “Hi.” He appraises my wardrobe choice. Of course I’m wearing a Yankees jersey. I have a team hat on as well, with my ponytail pulled through the opening in the back. I’m wearing my favorite jeans, but I had to leave the top two buttons undone, so I left my shirt hanging over my waistband. The jersey is big on me and I’m sure he thinks I look ridiculous. “We’re not going to have a problem with this, are we?” He points
between our opposing jerseys.

  I laugh. “No. Especially not when we kick your ass.”

  He smirks at me. Then he gives me the bad news. “Erin couldn’t make it. Her sub cancelled at the last second. Looks like it’s just you and me.”

  My heart beats wildly. No! Erin is our buffer. She would have sat between us. I wouldn’t even have to look at Griffin all day with her there. I could pretend he wasn’t even at the game. Does she have any idea what she’s done?

  I should go. I can make an excuse to leave. My mind works to find the right one without worrying him that it’s something to do with the baby.

  Before I can say anything, he reaches his hand out to help me up. “Come on, let’s go.”

  I stare at his hand like it’ll burn me if I touch it. I know for a fact that it will. Maybe I can get through this day if I just don’t let him touch me. I can focus on the game. The crowd. The food. Anything but him. I give him a venomous stare. “I’m not that big, Griffin. I think I can still stand up without anyone’s help.” Ignoring his hand, I stand and shove my own hands into my pockets.

  “Sorry. Just trying to be helpful.” He snickers when he takes in my oversized jersey, now that I’m standing up. “You look like a young schoolgirl wearing that thing.”

  Not sure how I should receive the comment, I shrug it off. “Well, this schoolgirl is hungry. You’re buying me a hotdog.”

  “You know those things are full of nitrates, right?” The edges of his mouth curve up. Erin and Griffin have never been overbearing about what I eat or drink. They don’t ever question me about it and they don’t make me monitor it. So either he’s teasing, or he likes to fight with me.

  “Just for that, you’re buying me two.” I stomp off ahead of him. I hear him laugh behind me.

  We stand in the crowded line for concessions and I start to feel the excitement. There’s nothing like attending a live sporting event. Doesn’t matter what. Baseball. Football. Soccer. They all have the same feel. The camaraderie of the fans. The smell of popcorn, nachos, and grilling meat. The hustle of everyone trying to find their seats before the main event. It’s intoxicating. And by the expression on Griffin’s face, he loves it just as much as I do.

  Someone pushes from behind, causing Griffin to run into me, toppling me over. He catches me before I face-plant the counter. “You okay?” His concerned eyes look my body up and down as if perhaps the baby had gotten hurt.

  I try to form words, but all my brain can comprehend is his strong hands on my arms, holding me steady. His large hands encompass my biceps almost entirely from shoulder to elbow. The heat from them is coursing through my body. I know it’s not an intimate gesture on his part. He’s protecting me, the incubator that houses his child. But it doesn’t keep my body from reacting to his touch.

  “Sky, are you okay?” His voice comes out insistent and worried.

  I nod my head. I silently will him to remove his hands from me. I silently beg him not to. “Yeah, sorry. Just stunned.”

  He looks relieved as he lowers his hands to his side. We inch closer to the counter when it dawns on me that he called me Sky. Or maybe I’m imagining things. Whatever. It’s probably my stupid hormones again.

  A few minutes later, we walk away with more food than two people should be allowed, and I know an extra fifty miles on the bike is in my near future. We go find our seats, arms full of hot dogs, salty pretzels and milk duds, along with a bottle of water for me and a beer for Griffin.

  Jake was able to get us into the section reserved for family. I smile, knowing that Griffin will be surrounded by the enemy. When we approach our seats, he raises a knowing eyebrow and shakes his head in mock disgust. This may turn out to be fun after all.

  It’s interesting sitting next to someone rooting for the other team. One or the other of us is always yelling, cheering, or disagreeing with a call. But we never have the same emotion at the same time. I find it quite comical. And, apparently, so does Griffin. While we are both passionate about our teams, we each laugh at the opposite reactions we have to what happens down on the field.

  I have to wonder what it would be like with Erin sitting between us. Would she cheer at all, and if so, for what team? Would she understand the game? Would she be having as much soul-feeding fun as we are right now? Would she find her husband extremely irresistible despite being outfitted in enemy garb?

  Tension is high in the game. The score is tied and a fast grounder down the line to right field gives the runner on third an opportunity to make it home. The Yankees’ right-fielder makes an incredible throw to home plate, omitting the cut-off man, putting the ball directly into the catcher’s mitt just in time for him to get the tag.

  “Heeeeee’s OUT!” yells the umpire, as he makes the signal with his arms, prompting massive cheers and high-fives from most of the stadium.

  Griffin springs up from his seat and all but climbs over the people in front of us. “Better have your fucking eyes checked, Blue. I could tell from here, he was under the tag.”

  Everyone in our section turns to us, looking at Griffin’s uncharacteristic outburst. Several fans light-heartedly disagree with Griffin’s statement. I’m not so nice about it, however. “You need to get your eyes checked. He was clearly tagged at least a foot off the plate.” We’re still standing, so I put my hands on my hips for emphasis. “And why is it okay for you to cuss?” I raise my brows at him.

  I push aside the realization that I secretly like the fact that he spontaneously cusses, too. Some guys sound crass or childish when they cuss, but the way he does it makes my insides tingle.

  He ignores my question. “The guy was safe!” he argues, loudly.

  “No, he wasn’t!”

  “And you’re the expert?”

  “I have eyes. It was the right call, Griffin.” I point my finger at the catcher. “He has an impeccable record. He hasn’t missed a tag at home in thirteen games.”

  Griffin stares at me in wonder. Then his eyes harden once again. “What the fuck does that matter? Just because he’s good, doesn’t mean the call should go his way. The guy was safe, Sky.”

  “He was out!” I shout in his face, not even caring that I had onions on my hot dogs. “So fucking out. And don’t call me Sky.”

  “Don’t say fuck!” he shouts back at me.

  The seats in the stadium are spacious, but we’re standing with mere inches between us as we yell back and forth. We continue shouting ridiculous absurdities at each other until we realize everyone else is sitting back down and we’re the only ones still standing. And all eyes are on us.

  Our eyes simultaneously go wide and I could swear I see the hint of a blush cross over his face. I hastily sit down and he follows, crossing his arms in a huff, clearly still pissed off about the call. Or our argument. Or both.

  I hear a low belly chuckle come from behind me. I turn my head to see an older man with a burly white beard. He’s wearing a Yankees cap and a large foam finger. “How long y’all been married?” he asks.

  Griffin chokes on the sip of beer he was taking. He looks at the guy and then back at me and I’m sure I’m bright red. He shakes his head. “We’re not married.”

  “Oh.” He looks back and forth between us. “Well, you sound just like me and Bess did forty years ago. Ya got that same fire in ya for each other. Maybe someday you’ll be expecting your sixth grandbaby like we are.”

  I vehemently shake my head at the man. “No, we’re not together. He’s married.” Foam finger guy raises a questioning brow. “To my best friend,” I add. He shakes his head and chuckles as he puts his hands up in defeat and leans back into his seat.

  I open my mouth to explain, but Griffin puts a gentle hand on my knee and shakes his head. I know what he’s telling me. It’s not worth trying to explain to the stranger. Our situation is complicated. How it must look to other people can be confusing. Just wait until the pregnancy is showing—we’ll really start to turn heads then. I roll my eyes, silently agreeing with Griffin. He re
moves his hand from my knee and I’m all too aware of just how much I miss it.

  There are several more controversial calls in the game, but quite conspicuously, Griffin and I remain silent. We simply eye each other and laugh. Fortunately the ‘bad’ calls evened out in the end. And although my team won by two runs, Griffin doesn’t whine about it, so I decide not to gloat.

  All in all, it was a fantastic game. If you take the fight out of it, I’d even go so far as to say Griffin and I have become friends.

  We follow the crowd up the stairs and through the tunnel and I head to the nearest bathroom while Griffin leans against the wall to wait for me. A few minutes later, I emerge, looking for Griffin only to find him absent from the spot where I left him. I turn around to search for him and smack right into someone’s chest. “Sorry,” I say, looking up at the large specimen.

  Suddenly, my eyes and the stranger’s eyes spark in recognition as a slow and steady grin crawls up his face. “Well, looky what we have here.”

  I cringe at his heavy Boston accent. I assess his fiery-red hair and wonder what I ever saw in the guy. “Oh, hi.” I look around for Griffin, conflicted on whether or not I want him here. On one hand, it might diffuse the situation if the guy thinks I’m here with another man. On the other hand, I really don’t need Griffin witnessing my past indiscretions.

  As I look around, the man—whose name I never did find out—continues talking, saying something about going back to his place for a repeat. His accent grates on my every nerve. It’s not that I dislike people from Boston or anything. I blame Mr. Hewitt, my fourth-grade teacher. He was the meanest teacher I ever had. I also think he disliked me because he once dated my mother, before she met my father. I was doomed with him from the start. He had an incredibly thick accent that haunted my dreams. To this day, I’ll occasionally have a nightmare about Mr. Hewitt singling me out in the class, telling everyone what a poor student I was.