Page 46 of The Goat in the Bedroom
“I don't know.” His eyes dropped to my lips again, lingered this time. “How did it feel?”
“Like...” I struggled to find words. “Like being plugged into an electrical socket. But in a good way?”
He laughed softly, and I felt it more than heard it. “I was going to say something about lightning.”
“My heart's racing.” Without thinking, I took one of his hands and placed it over my heart. “See?”
His hand was warm through the thin fabric of my shirt, and his expression shifted to something I couldn't read. “Mine too,” he said quietly.
“Really?” I moved my free hand to his chest, feeling the rapid thump of his heartbeat under my palm. “Oh.”
We stayed like that, hands on each other's hearts, eyes locked, and I suddenly understood why people wrote poetry about moments like this. The air between us was alive with possibility, with something unnamed but undeniable.
He leaned in slightly, maybe unconsciously, and I found myself mirroring the movement. His eyes were so dark, bottomless, this close, and his lips were right there, and all I had to do was…
The chimes on my phone got louder, crescendoing.
“That was—“ I started.
“Good practice,” he said quickly, but his voice was still rough. “Really good... practice.”
“Right. Practice.” I tucked my hair behind my ear, trying to calm my racing heart. “I think this is going to work.”
“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “It's going to work.”
I shifted on the couch, not sure whether to move closer or farther away. The moment had passed, but the tension was still there, humming under my skin like an itch I couldn't scratch.
We sat there in awkward silence for a moment, not moving, waiting for the other to do the next thing.
“Gryff?”
“Yeah?”
“I'm really glad you're my best friend.”
He wrapped an arm around me and tucked my head against his shoulder in the soft, comforting snuggle I needed. “Me too.”
I couldn't stop thinking about the way he'd looked at me, the way his heartbeat had raced under my hand, the way we'd almost…
No. It was just the intensity of the exercise. The vulnerability of the moment. The margaritas.
It didn't mean anything. It couldn't. Because I needed my best friend to be exactly that. Lovers would come and go, but Gryff... he was home in a way I never thought was possible.
I must have fallen asleep in his arms on the couch, because I woke up there with a blanket over me. I felt surprisingly good for someone who'd spent the evening drinking margaritas and making questionable life decisions.
Actually, I felt great. No headache, no nausea, no regret-induced stomach churning that usually accompanied my morning-after experiences. I lay there for a moment, tryingto figure out why I felt so clear-headed when I distinctly remembered at least three drinks.
Then it hit me.
Flynn didn't drink. And both twins were in the middle of serious preparation for their rookie seasons. There was no way Tempest would have served us actual alcohol when her fiancé was maintaining strict training discipline.
Those margaritas had been mocktails.
Which meant I hadn't been tipsy at all last night.
ACCIDENTALLY IN LOVE
GRYFF
