Page 14 of How to Date a Younger Man
“Look, Kris, you didn’t have to come over—” I say, stopping mid-sentence once I swing the door open.
Because it’s not Kristen standing there. It’s Griffin, with a bottle of top-shelf tequila in one hand and my favorite margarita mix in the other. Dressed in dark jeans and a leather jacket with a white T-shirt underneath, he looks undeniably good.
Standing here in my ratty old oversized law school sweatshirt, I kind of wish I were more of a sexy loungewear kind of girl. But it’s Griffin. He’s definitely not someone I need to impress.
“What are you doing here?”
“Krissy told me what happened between you and the ass-wipe. I thought you could use some cheering up.”
Oh. I can’t help the soft pang inside my chest. “How did you know I was drinking margaritas?”
He smiles, cocking his head to the side and raising an eyebrow. “As far as alcohol goes, you’re pretty fucking predictable, Anderson.”
I scoff, crossing my arms and shifting my weight from one foot to the other. Griffin is the last person I was expecting to see right now but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t happy to see him.
“Come in.”
I step out of the way as he breezes past me, the scent of his cologne washing over me. While I’m not usually a fan of masculine colognes, I’m surprised to find that I don’t mind his smell. It’s familiar. Comforting, even. Sandalwood. Lavender. Safety.
“I didn’t realize you were a fan of the Real Housewives of Atlanta,” he says, setting the bottles on the kitchen counter and nodding to the TV playing loudly in the living room.
Quickly grabbing the remote, I switch over to an internet radio station, clicking on the first thing that pops up. “Today’s Top Hits” starts playing through the mounted speakers as I shrug in his direction. “I just needed evidence that my life could be much, much worse.”
“Living in a multimillion-dollar mansion with the ability to fulfill your every fleeting desire is worse than this?” He takes a quick, sweeping glance around my loft, which, to be fair, is no mansion.
But still, I bristle. “Hey, I worked hard for this place. It’s prime real estate in this neighborhood.”
He crosses his arms, arching a brow at the pile of dirty dishes in my sink. “If you were a Real Housewife, you’d pay someone to handle that shit for you.”
“I can handle that shit myself, thank you very much. Go easy on me . . . I just got dumped by the man I thought I’d spend the rest of my life with.”
“From what Krissy told me, it sounds like it was more of a mutual thing than a full-on dumping.”
“Does it make a difference? I want kids, and he doesn’t. Actually, it’s worse than that. I want kids, and he thinks wanting kids makes me some weak, emotional, antiquated woman. How fucked up is that?”
Griffin slices a lime he found in my fridge into wedges and pours us each a drink, a blessedly strong one. But before he hands me my margarita, he pulls two shot glasses from the back of my cabinet and fills them to the brim.
I smirk as he slides a shot my way. “Is that what they’re teaching you in graduate school? To start every evening with a shot?”
“Only when there’s a damsel in distress.”
“Please don’t tell me that makes you my knight in shining armor.”
He smirks. “If the shoe fits . . .”
“Shut up and take this shot with me,” I say as I roll my eyes.
The clear liquid burns as it slides down my throat, the sour bite of lime afterward a welcome relief. I cough a little once my airway clears, and Griffin smiles at me from across the counter. When I give him a reproachful look, he backs off, raising his hands in surrender. We take one more shot before bringing our margaritas to the couch, where I curl up in the corner, resting my head on my favorite fuzzy blanket.
“This is nice,” Griffin says, draping his arm over the back of the couch and resting an ankle on his knee.
“Is this how you spend all your Saturday nights? Comforting your older female friends who’ve just been dumped?” I ask before taking a long sip of my drink. “You were always too good for him, you know. Sometimes what feels like an ending is actually a new beginning.” He places a hand on my knee as his blue-green eyes meet mine, and it takes all my strength not to burst out laughing.
“How often does that line work?”
“More often than you’d think.” His eyes soften, crinkling a little at the corners before he fires a cheeky wink my way.
This time I can’t help it. I roll my eyes.
“If you came here looking for a pity lay, you’ve come to the wrong place.”
