Page 42 of Mess With Me

My stomach twists.Who’s Laura?

“Griffin,” I say softly, leaning down to whisper in his ear. “It’s not Laura. It’s Sasha.”

He jerks, then stills. When I pull back up, his eyes are open. Not just open, but wide. He studies me a moment, as if trying to remember who I am.

“Fuck. Sasha, I’m sorry.”

Then he closes his eyes, his hands reaching up to my sides as if reassuring himself I’m here. I don’t think he realizes he’s doing it. Maybe he’s still dreaming, but I don’t move, too overwhelmed by the feeling of his big, broad hands spreading across my ribs so gently.

His eyes pop open, and he drops his hands. “Sorry,” he says gruffly.

“It’s okay. Are you okay?”

His Adam’s apple bobs. He nods. “Fine.”

He doesn’t look fine. He looks rattled.

His eyes meet mine. “I didn’t say anything, did I? Ford says I talk in my sleep sometimes.”

“Ford?”

“Work guy. We do stakeouts together. Lot of forced proximity. It’s terrible. He snores.”

I laugh softly, the mood suddenly less tense, like danger has passed. Stakeouts? I file that one away. Then I realize he’s waiting for me to answer his question. “You talked but…it was nothing I could really understand.”

I don’t know why I lie. Maybe because it feels like that was private. Something I wasn’t supposed to hear. The man is like a closed book, and I somehow felt like I was snooping inside.

Griffin studies me long enough that I feel my cheeks grow hot. He knows I’m not telling him the truth. But he nods, accepting the lie. He closes his eyes again. “Sorry for waking you.”

“It’s all good.” I lie back down.

Who’s Laura?

Griffin sits up suddenly, swinging his legs out of bed and running his hand over his head. My stomach clenches. Is he going back out to the couch? I don’t want him to go, but I’ve got a small slice of pride still left. I won’t beg him to stay twice. Especially not if it’s making him have nightmares about some other woman.

Is she still in the picture? The barren state of his place says no. So has the fact that he hasn’t mentioned anyone. But he’s not exactly forthcoming—I know next to nothing about him.

Griffin speaks over his shoulder. “I’m just going to the bathroom. You need anything?”

He’s coming back. I try not to let the extreme relief show in my voice as I pull the sheet back up over me. I don’t miss how he made sure to tell me what he’s doing. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

I lie back after he leaves, my mind spinning.

I haven’t had much time to think, given everything that’s happened. But I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about Griffin a lot over the past few weeks since that terrible night with Vincent.

Except,thoughtis not a strong enough word.

I’ve spent almost every night lying awake, replaying that night, trying hard to only focus on the moment he showed up, his face hidden under that firefighter’s hat.

At first it was only comfort. Imagining the feeling of total safety, because thinking about him was like a balm to the sharp, jagged fear of how that night could have gone. But then, just like how I pictured all the bad things that could have happened—or maybe to try to counteract that—I started picturing ways it could have gone after that.

First he’d punch the other two men out, or hold them so I could. That part felt good, the cracks of their noses, their screams of pain. A little too good.

But once I got that far, I started picturing other things.

Griffin picking me up, transporting me somehow back to my apartment and laying me down in bed. Reassuring me with that gruff voice spoken in the dark, his breath hot on my neck.

I should have stopped there, but it felt so good, imagining him staying with me. He’d lie with me, like he did tonight. He’d hold me. Stroke my hair. Stroke my back as he held my body against his.

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