by Jewel E. Ann
“Not yet.”
“Have some.” He folds a flimsy slice in half and engulfs it. “I haven’t eaten all day.” His words mumble past his mouthful of pizza.
I take a piece and tear off a corner of the crust and pop it in my mouth. “Interesting choice of toppings.”
Morgan’s fists jerk in front of her face as her eyes cross trying to focus on them. Nate’s gaze affixes to her while he finishes chewing. “I used to love jalapeño and sausage pizza.” His forehead wrinkles a bit. “My best friend liked pineapple and mushroom pizza. She didn’t like sausage. I didn’t like mushrooms. We decided to try pineapple and jalapeño. It was stupid really. We could have just ordered half and half, but we both ended up loving the pineapple and jalapeño.”
I pick off both of the oddly-paired toppings and drop them back in the box.
Nate’s chewing slows while his lips turn up into a slight grin. “Not your thing?”
“Plain cheese. I’m sure that makes me boring, but I’m good with boring. Too many years of high expectations and unwanted attention can do that to you.” I shrug and take a bite.
“I can relate to high expectations.”
I chuckle. “You have a doctorate degree. Surely you’ve met or exceeded all expectations.”
“Except my own.” He tosses the end of the crust into the box next to my discarded toppings and grabs another piece.
He still doesn’t eat the crust. It’s the best part.
“You’ve always been an over-achiever.”
Jesus! Knock that shit off, Swayze.
Before his questioning look settles into an irreversible frown, I make a quick save. “I don’t mean you. I mean people like you are always over-achievers.” I nibble at my pizza like a rabbit grazing in a yard of clover. Some people chew their fingernails or twirl their hair to release nervous energy. I’m a nibbler. As if my awesome name isn’t enough, I have unique habits like nibbling food and knowing personal things about complete strangers.
“People like me?” Nate inhales another piece of pizza and bounces Morgan as she begins to fuss a bit.
“Success breeds greed.”
Nate’s stony posture softens a bit because I’m wrong. Where most people would be offended by my statement, he’s not. It’s not just me battling a case of the crazies. He’s fighting it too. I see it every time his gaze lingers on me like it did in the nursery. Something about me is familiar to him too.
“I’m not greedy.” He tosses a second pizza bone into the box and grabs a glass from the cupboard.
Nate isn’t greedy. I know that. Kids who grow up with very little don’t turn into greedy adults, but that doesn’t mean they’re not driven. He doesn’t need the house, the car, and the expensive security cameras; knowing he could have them is enough.
“Don’t be fooled by the house. I’m not rich and snobby.” He fills the glass with water as my heart rate doubles.
I need him to say that he knows me too, because this strange familiarity is like an out-of-body experience. Of course he’s not rich and snobby; he simply swore he’d never have to add water to milk or ketchup to make it last longer or duct tape on the sole of his shoe to mend a worn hole until he could get a new pair.
He turns back to me, gulping down the water like a dog on a hot day.
“Sorry. I shouldn’t judge you.”
“Success breeds success.” The glass clinks against the granite counter as he sets it down.
Morgan’s grunts begin to escalate into a full-on cry.
“I’d better get going so you can get her fed and down for the night.” I grab my bag. “Thanks for the pizza.” Shooting him a quick smile, I head for the door.
“Swayze?”
I stop and turn just before grabbing the door handle.
“I just want you to know that I didn’t have a lot growing up, so I’ve always worked hard to ensure my life wouldn’t revolve around unpaid bills and a lack of food on the table. My wife had a good job. The house … the stuff is a reflection of her more than me.” He grimaces and shakes his head while repositioning a crying Morgan against his shoulder, rubbing circles on her back. “And I don’t mean that like it probably sounds. She didn’t need the stuff either, but she grew up with it so …”
“It’s fine. Really, I wasn’t trying to sound judgmental. Just … poor word choice on my part. Goodnight.”
For the second night in a row, I run until my lungs burn so my thoughts can only focus on oxygen instead of the ghost from … my past? I just … don’t … know.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Scott and Sherri Calloway have the all-American two-story house clad in white paint and black shutters.
Four kids.
Four bedrooms.
Four animals.
Black chain-link fence borders the property line in their backyard complete with a fire pit and an old, rusting swing set, but it all feels white-picket to me.
The imperfections are character.
The chaos is my favorite music.
The inked guy at the grill is every girl’s fantasy. And he’s mine.
“Tell me about your day, Swayz,” Griffin in his “Hands off my meat” apron flashes me a lopsided grin over the lid of the grill as he flips the burgers.
My parents never flirted in front of me. No sexy grins. No PDA. No whispers that elicited pink cheeks. The Calloways are the complete opposite. His parents can’t keep their hands off each other as they go in and out of the sliding deck door, setting the rest of the food on the table beneath the big red umbrella. Scott not-so-discreetly pinches Sherri’s butt, and she shoos him away while biting back her flirty grin like a teenage girl with a crush.
I love this family.
It’s been two weeks since I last ran out of Nate’s house, filled with adrenaline, fear, and nausea. My new routine involves handing him Morgan and sprinting for the nearest exit as soon as he walks in the door. Since Dr. Greyson and I seem to be at a stalemate, unable to figure out why I know things I shouldn’t, I’ve decided to use distractions to keep my brain from wandering into crazy land. Griffin is my favorite distraction.
“Typical Friday. My grocery store guy forgot to wake me up before he left for work.” I glare at him, but within seconds my lips curl into a grin. Ten seconds is my record for staying mad at him. The adoration in his eyes every time he looks at me is too disarming. “Coffee. Exercise. I finished a business card design and trade show banner. Then I got my Morgan fix.”
“You mean baby fix?” His right eyebrow lifts a fraction.
I fill the blue plastic cups with lemonade as his mom yells into the house, calling his sisters to come eat. “No. Morgan fix. Baby fix implies my uterus is speaking to me, and I’m pacifying it in other ways. I told you Morgan started smiling this week, real ones, not the newborn reflex. She’s such a happy baby. Not colicky. She fusses when she wants to eat, but that’s it.”
“Enjoy it now.” Sherri winks at me as she takes the nearly-empty pitcher from my hands. “If you end up married to my rebel child and have children with him, there is a good chance you will have chronically fussy babies. All of our kids were colicky. The grumpy gene is strong in the Calloway bloodline. All from Scott’s side.”
Scott hands Griffin a plate for the burgers. “I know nothing of this grumpy gene. My wife has a vivid imagination.”
It’s all smiles and laughter. Griffin doesn’t recoil in fear at the mention of marriage and babies with a girl he’s known for only a few months. I like to believe in fate. Really, I like to believe in anything that involves a lifetime of Griffin and his family.
“Swayze, how’s your mom? We haven’t seen her in a while. You should have invited her to dinner,” Sherri says.
“She’s good.” I take a seat at the table. “She misses our traditional Thursday night dinners now that I’m working late on Thursdays, but I met her for frozen yogurt last night. And Griff told me to invite her tonight, but she’s taking a wine class or something like that. Her psychiatrist suggeste
d she find ways to socialize more.”
“I want a tattoo.” Hayley takes a seat next to me. “And I’m no longer eating meat.” She covers her plate with her hand as Griffin tries to hand her a hamburger.”
“I want a tattoo too.” Chloe tips her chin up and grins.
“Shut up. You’re only fifteen.” Hayley scowls at her.
“I want my nose pierced like Angie’s mom.” Sophie taps the side of her nose.
“I want my oldest spawn to apologize for being a terrible role model.” Sherri gives Griffin the hairy eyeball as he takes a seat on the other side of me.
“Dear Lord…” Scott bows his head “…please grant me the patience to raise three girls. Please help scientists find a cure for cancer and the Calloway grumpy gene.” Everyone chuckles. “And thank you for Swayze, a refreshing breath of normality in our crazy family. Amen. Let’s eat.”
Griffin rests his hand on my bare leg and gives it a gentle squeeze. Yep. Knowing intimate details about the life of a complete stranger is one hundred percent normal.
“I’m serious. I want an infinity symbol on the back of my neck.” Hayley adds a slice of cheese, pickles, ketchup, lettuce, and tomato to her bare hamburger bun.
“You’re seventeen. You can’t legally get a tattoo.” Sherri gives Hayley a dismissive headshake.
I’m not only the mistaken “normal” one at this table. I’m also the only blonde with blue eyes. All of Griffin’s family have dark hair and rich brown eyes. His mom is forty-eight—two years older than my mom—and she looks like the oldest sister in the group, not the mom. Four women with long, thick brown manes and two men with athletic bodies, flirty smiles, and a constant twinkle of mischief in their eyes. And now there’s me—Goldilocks.
I love this family.
Sometimes I wonder if my life would have been different had I not been too smart too early—then ultimately nothing but average. Would my parents have had more kids? Would we have been the family grilling out every night and disputing typical parent-teenager problems like tattoos and piercings?
“I might be able to get it with parental consent. You can in some states.”
All eyes shift to Griffin. He shakes his head. “Don’t look at me. I wasn’t a minor when I got mine. I don’t know the laws in Wisconsin.”
“It’s a moot point because you don’t have parental consent.” Sherri gives Hayley a smug smile.
“No one will see it unless I pull my hair up in a bun or high ponytail.”
“No one will see it because you’re not getting one,” Scott says.
“It’s one tiny freakin’ tattoo! Griffin has them everywhere, probably in places we don’t know about. I bet his ass has a tattoo on it.”
Griffin keeps his chin down, mouth full, so everyone looks to me for confirmation. My skin feels like it matches the color of the umbrella above us.
“Does he, Swayze?” Chloe asks.
“I … well …” This is great. Two curious parents, and three girls—seventeen, fifteen, and eleven—wait for my reply.
My love for this family is waning at the moment.
“Would it just be easier if I showed everyone?” Griffin pushes back in his chair and stands while unfastening his worn, faded jeans.
I twist my body away from him and slap my hands over my face.
“Leave your pants on, Griff.” A deep chuckle rattles from Scott’s chest.
“I wanna see it!” Sophie bounces in her chair and giggles, not realizing that seeing her older brother’s ass is inappropriate, especially during dinner. She’s eleven. She’ll figure it out in a few years.
Hayley grumbles and shoves a bite of coleslaw into her mouth, and everyone gets back to eating.
Griffin leans over and whispers in my ear, “Really, babe? Out of everyone at this table, you hid your face at the prospect of seeing my ass?”
I press a napkin to my lips and finish chewing. “Reflex.” I laugh.
After dinner we have a badminton tournament in the backyard. Of course, Griff and I win. Then he takes me for a long sunset ride on his Harley. This is the life I love. My parents were loving in the only way they knew how to love me, and I see it now with greater clarity and gratitude than I did at the time. But I never felt one hundred percent good enough for their standards. Behind the love, I could always see that tiny dark smudge of disappointment.
“Don’t move.” I hug Griffin’s back tighter as he kills the engine to his bike.
He interlaces his fingers with mine, gripping his chest. “You okay?”
After a few more seconds of relishing the feeling of our bodies pressed together, I release him and pull off my helmet. “I’m great.”
He removes his helmet and his bandana while I slide off the Harley. I could watch him all day. The meticulous way he puts our helmets on the shelf and wipes the bugs off his bike mesmerizes me. Griffin takes care of everything he owns—the new shiny things as well as the old, weathered things like his house and garage.
“I think you’re an old soul, Griffin Calloway.”
He hangs the rag on the hook and shoots me his sexiest grocery-store-guy smile. “Why is that?”
“My parents used to tell people I was wise beyond my years because I knew stuff most kids my age didn’t know. That was just knowledge, random facts, not wisdom. But you … you have an appreciation for things and you take care of them like someone twice your age might do.”
“My parents always took care of things. They still do. It’s just how I was raised.” He shrugs.
“No. Hayley and Sophie are complete disasters. I’ve seen their rooms. Chloe is a little tidier but still not you. I don’t think you were conditioned to be this way, I think it’s nature more than nurture.”
“An old soul, huh? From another time?” He pulls me into his chest and nuzzles my neck while lifting me off my feet.
I hug him with my arms, legs, and entire being. It took twenty-one years, but I finally found where I fit in life, and it’s every inch of my body pressed to his.
“You make me feel safe,” I murmur but it sounds more like a moan warring between physical pleasure and emotional pain. It’s an unsettling feeling that I have such a strong need to feel safe. I don’t understand it.
“You are safe,” he says between kisses beneath my ear.
“You make me feel like I belong.” My breaths race to catch up to my pulse.
“You belong with me.” He walks us to the garage door, shuts off the light, and closes the door behind us.
He’s my mind’s favorite place to go. When I think of him—of us—I don’t feel crazy. And maybe I should feel crazy because we’re both young and inexperienced in life and love. But I don’t want to think about the numbers that make up our ages or the months we’ve been together.
We crash through the front door like the first big gust of wind at the front of a storm.
“You make me feel needed,” I whisper just before his mouth claims mine.
His house is bigger than my apartment, but only by one bedroom. We don’t make it to either bedroom. He deposits me on the sofa and shrugs off his shirt.
“I need you.” He unties his boots and kicks them off while unfastening his pants as I shimmy out of my clothes. “In fact, I am pretty fucking sure you’re all I truly need.”
Twenty-three-year-old guys don’t say that. His soul is not simply old, it’s ancient like that of a great poet … who may have said fuck a few times.
I tug at his partially unfastened jeans.
He grabs my hand. “Close your eyes.”
“Why?” My head cocks to the side.
“Because I know you don’t want to see the tattoo on my ass.”
“Shut. Up.” I bat his hand away and tug down his jeans with both hands. A few moments of silence settle between us as I stare at his form before me. “I still blush when I look at you.” My gaze trails up to meet his eyes.
Griffin steps out of his jeans and briefs and kneels on the sofa between my legs as I lie back. �
��I know what else makes you blush.” He slowly dips his head between my legs, and my fingers curl into the sofa cushion.
*
“Rise and shine.”
The covers are ripped from my naked body.
“It’s Saturday.” I blindly search for a sheet, blanket, even a discarded T-shirt. Nothing. They’re gone, so I rub the sleep from my eyes and peel them open.
“There she is.”
I lift up onto my elbows. “Here I am. Naked. In your bed. Yet…” my lips twist “…you’re dressed. How are we supposed to have Saturday morning sex with you so overdressed?”
“The real question is how are we supposed to have Saturday morning sex when you’re supposed to be at Professor Hunt’s house in less than thirty minutes?”
“It’s not my Saturday to work—SHIT!” I fly off the bed. “It is! I said I’d watch Morgan for an hour this morning.” My legs wobble a bit as they fight to keep up with my adrenaline rush.
“You did.” Griffin chuckles.
“Don’t laugh at my forgetfulness,” I holler from his bathroom. “Instead, be helpful and get me some coffee.”
“It’s already on the kitchen table next to your purse and car keys.”
After throwing on clothes and brushing my teeth in record time, I race past him toward the kitchen.
“Wait.” He snags my arm and pulls me into his chest. “Drive safely.” And there it is, that adoration, that complete feeling of safety and security that comes with Griffin’s affection.
“I love you, Grocery Store Guy.”
He tips my chin up with his finger and kisses me. “I love you too. Now go, before you get fired.”
I smile. I’m late, but I take a few seconds to bask in the moment of being so incredibly in love with this man. If my father’s death taught me anything, it’s that last goodbyes don’t RSVP. Take lots of mental pictures of favorite moments. And being present with the ones that matter most is the wisest investment of time.
“Your place or mine later?” I grab my stuff neatly lined up on the kitchen table.
“Yours. It’s a mess. We should clean it up tomorrow.”
