A Little Secret (The Little Things #4)

Chapter 18

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

FINLEY

C onsidering how long I’ve known Griffin Thorne, he’s pretty good at keeping his emotions under wraps. After I disappeared from the hotel room to grab coffee, he’s been acting…fine? I think? Maybe a little aloof or something, but I kind of expected him to be pissed at me. Not that he should be. He’s the one who put a stop to whatever shenanigans we might’ve gotten up to, if he’d let me take the lead, so...

Maybe this is just…par for the course when you have a moment of weakness and kiss someone you care about, even though you most definitely shouldn’t. Kiss them, not care about them. Obviously, I should care about Griff. He’s one of the most amazing people I’ve ever met. But kissing him, let alone hooking up with him, is a bad idea.

Besides, it’s for the best. Last night was…it was… I was hurting. But I’m not about to go down this road with him. Not when he has such an amazing, bright future ahead of him. The fact he missed out on his meeting with the Tornadoes all because I wanted to face Drew head-on? It only solidifies the truth. He deserves more than screwing up h is future for his best friend’s little sister. Especially when said little sister has a bun in the oven and a neurological disease, which will never be a picnic and will never be a good fit for a guy who travels for a living. I’ve already settled for someone who wasn’t a good fit for me. Doing it twice is a recipe for disaster, isn’t it? Still, pretending like last night wasn’t a big deal wasn’t exactly a walk in the park. I knew Griff and I had chemistry, but our kiss? The feel of his mouth on mine, the tiny groan in the back of his throat? The way his hand practically swallowed the side of my face and his callouses tickled my skin? Yeah…that was a different level of chemistry. So much so my lips are still tingling, and I’m not sure anything will ever beat it.

The drive is boring and quiet, and he doesn’t grumble at me when I pick the soundtrack to Disney’s Zombies movies.

It’s my only clue as to whether or not he’s lost in his own thoughts like I’ve been since we left the hotel.

When we pull up to the house hours later, the streets are lined with cars, and Griffin’s frown deepens. “What the hell?”

“They flew home early,” I explain, cringing. “I probably should’ve told you, but?—”

“You were too busy grabbing coffee?” he offers with a lifted brow.

I nod.

“No worries,” he answers, not surprisingly. “What are they doing home?”

“Everett heard about my seizure, so the guys decided flying home with the girls, then traveling with the team for the away games instead of meeting everyone in Minnesota was a bright idea.” I shrug. “Figured they’d celebrate.”

“What’s there to celebrate? ”

“Your meeting with the Tornadoes? Oh, wait.” I snap my fingers. “You missed it, didn’t you?”

His gaze narrows. “How’d you know about my meeting?”

“Seems I’m not the only one with secrets.”

“Fin—”

“Everett told me about it.” I hide my hurt and pick at my nails instead. “The question is, why didn’t you?”

“Didn’t know I needed to,” he argues. “Besides, it’s not a big deal.”

Fighting the urge to smack him upside the head, I cross my arms and demand, “You sure? Because Everett made it sound like it kind of was.”

His nostrils flare. “Is that why you’ve been acting weird?”

“I haven’t?—”

“You have.”

“Says the pot to the kettle,” I toss back at him.

Before he has a chance to argue any further, Dylan appears from the house’s entrance. She skips down the short set of stairs but nearly trips on her own two feet, grabbing the railing for balance while I fight the urge to laugh. Seriously, the girl is clumsier than a baby giraffe. Shoving her glasses another inch up her nose, she lets the iron go and strides closer.

As I lower the passenger window, she calls, “Where’s my Frankie? Is he alive? Did he survive? You weren’t supposed to take him?—”

“Your devil child’s fine,” I tell her. “I even fed him and everything.”

With a relieved sigh, she peeks into the backseat, finds Frankie’s terrarium tucked between my backpack and Griffin’s duffle bag, and opens the back door so she can reach her precious demon. Good riddance. Scooting into the backseat, she unwedges the terrarium from our bags, and cradles the glass container to her chest as if Frankie is her own flesh and blood. “How’s my little guy? Huh, baby?” She dips her head and practically presses her face against the glass to get a better look at the monster. “Did Aunt Finley treat you oh so good, or do I need to sneak you into her bed tonight?”

My lips thin, and I make eye contact with my supposed best friend through the rearview mirror as I roll the passenger window up. “Trust me. That won’t be necessary.”

“Yeah. Been there, done that,” Griffin adds from the driver’s seat as he pushes his door open.

Dylan’s forehead wrinkles. “What?”

“Frankie jumped out of his cage a couple days ago and wound up torturing me on my bed,” I explain.

Eyes bugging out of her head, Dylan almost chokes on her own amusement as she asks, “Are you serious?”

“Careful,” Griffin interjects. He climbs out of the car, then bends at the waist so he can hold his sister’s stare. “The wound’s still fresh.”

“Yikes.” Swallowing her fresh cackle, Dylan smooths out her expression and clears her throat. “Well, when you finally decide to have kids, I’d be happy to babysit as a thank you.”

My lungs squeeze, but I paste on a smile, refusing to acknowledge how close her comment hits home. “Sounds great. I’ll definitely hold you to it.”

“Perfect! Oh, and, uh,” she grimaces, “sorry about the breakup. How are you holding up?”

Keeping my smile in place, I tuck my hair behind my ear, then reach for the door handle. “Never better.”

“Why am I not surprised?” She follows my lead and climbs out of the car. The cold breeze hits our faces, turning Dylan’s cheeks pink as she adds, “Seriously, Fin. Pretty sure an asteroid could be headed in our direction, and you’d still find a way to not only handle it but handle it like a freaking pro.”

If only she knew.

“I think you’re overestimating my abilities,” I argue.

“Hardly. And look at the bright side.” Dylan’s eyes light up. “Now you and Griff can be friends again without feeling guilty, which is actually perfect considering tonight’s game.”

Closing the driver’s side door, Griffin rounds the front of the SUV and asks, “What’s tonight’s game?”

“You’ll see,” Dylan replies, still juggling Frankie’s terrarium. “Come inside. It’s freezing out here, and I don’t want Frankie to catch a cold.”

“Yeah, wouldn’t that be a shame,” I quip.

Ignoring Dylan’s half-assed glare, we follow her into the house. It’s less busy than usual. Still littered with gyrating bodies, don’t get me wrong, but there’s maybe half of the usual chaos ensuing, and I can’t decide if I’m happy about it or not. Part of me could’ve used the distraction. The other part? Well, I’m too lost in my own head to compute anything but the bare minimum at the moment.

A freshman from one of my classes is at the door. Handcuffs are sprawled out on the table beside him. It’s the only hint I can see as to what game we’ll be playing tonight.

When I see them, my mouth lifts. “Kinky.”

Dylan tosses me a grin over her shoulder. “Raine picked tonight’s game, since the last one ended with her crying. Everett suggested we play one of your favorites.”

My gaze narrows. “This is payback for when I suggested we play open wide for a nice surprise, isn’t it?”

She laughs. “Yup.”

“Cuff up, Fin!” my brother calls from the top of the stairs, well aware of how much I hate being partnered with someone during Game Nights. “You and Griff are on a team.”

“I don’t get to at least pick my own teammate?” I demand.

“You’re too late.” He takes the stairs two at a time, meeting us in the entryway. “Everyone else is already paired up.”

Standing on my tiptoes, I start searching the family room for a familiar face, muttering, “I’m pretty sure I could find someone to?—”

“Griff can take your shots,” Everett adds.

Griffin groans beside me, and my face pulls even more as my heels hit the ground. “If he has to take both our shots, he’ll be bombed by the second round, and I’ll lose.”

“I think you mean we’ll lose,” Griffin interjects.

“Suck it up, buttercup,” Ophelia calls from the top of the stairs. “It’s time for a New Year’s Eve Game Night.”

“Can I at least take off my jacket?” I ask.

Ophelia shrugs. “You can, but the last obstacle is outside, so…”

“So I get to sweat my ass off and get bombed,” Griffin grumbles. He shrugs his coat back on while the freshman offers me a set of cuffs.

I take them from him and turn to Griff. We’ve been partners many times. We’ve played almost every game in the books together. We’ve joked and teased and flirted more times than I can count, but after last night? I don’t know…it feels different, and I can’t help but notice the kaleidoscope of butterflies in my stomach as I force myself to hold his gaze while attempting to act like I don’t know what it feels like to kiss him without the guise of a bet or a game.

“What game do you think they picked?” I ask as I twirl the cuffs around my forefinger in an attempt to look like I’m not replaying last night’s events.

Stepping closer, he drops his voice low. “I heard someone ask where they should put the Santa hats and tape, so...”

“That sounds promising.”

He nods. “Wanna cuff your right hand and my left so I can have the dominant hand in case we do something like darts or a snowball fight?”

“Yeah, but then I can’t throw,” I remind him.

He smirks. “I mean…”

With a gasp, I smack his chest. “Rude.”

“True,” he tosses back at me as Raine appears from the kitchen. A gold medallion hangs from her neck. It’s the same one the boys have had since their freshman year at LAU. I can only imagine the games it’s overseen and how many people have worn it proudly while picking their own game…with the guys’ approval, of course. Everett offers his hand, and Raine takes it, stepping onto the coffee table in the center of the family room.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she announces. “Tonight, we’ll be playing a super fun game with several rounds leading up to midnight. But first, everyone, find your partner.”

Giving Griffin the side-eye, I sidle up next to him and fold my arms.

“Don’t look so excited, Finley.” The words are hushed and raspy. They leave goosebumps along my skin, and I press my thighs together, ignoring my body’s response. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not dead. The guy’s turned me on more times than I can count over the years—I literally masturbated to the idea of him earlier this week—but usually, I have a better handle on it.

Seriously, am I blushing ?

I fight the urge to touch my cheeks and squeeze my hands into fists instead.

Come on, Fin. You’re better than this, I remind myself.

“The first round is pretty straightforward,” Raine announces. “All you have to do is wrap a present…blindfolded. Well, one person is blindfolded,” she clarifies with a grin. “You get to choose if you want to be the eyes or the hands. The person with the blindfold has to wrap, and the person without the blindfold has to tell the other person what to do.”

Everett chuckles and faces the crowd. “Each team will be given a freshman to help judge and keep your team in line. Freshmen, if you’re caught cheating for your team, you’ll be banned from Game Night for the rest of the year. Let’s keep it honest, people.”

Raine bumps her shoulder with his, adding, “Shots will be passed out at the beginning of every round, as well as anytime a team finishes wrapping their present. The quicker you pass the round, the less shots you have to take. As a reminder, if you’re the one who is not blindfolded, you cannot touch anything, including the shot glasses. Your partner has to feed you the shot and take their own. Oh, and if you spill any of the liquid, you have to take a second shot until your present is officially wrapped. Once a freshman announces your completion,”—I snort, and Griffin elbows me, shaking his head—“you can remove the blindfold and move to the second game.”

“On the kitchen table are antlers and Santa hats,” Everett explains. “Each of you will grab one. Then, you’ll each take a shot, and the person with the Santa hat will jump on the back of their reindeer, who has to run outside and find some mistletoe. It can be hanging from the trees, the house, or…anywhere, really.”

“There are a limited number of mistletoe bunches outside,” Raine continues, “and each team must find their own and claim it by standing underneath it. If you fall during your search, you have to take another shot and start over in the kitchen. Oh, and make sure you’re standing under the mistletoe by the time the red clock next to the hot tub outside counts down to midnight. Once the timer goes off, you kiss your partner on a body part you both agree on?—”

Reeves' laugh cuts Raine off, and Dylan elbows him in the ribs.

“Keep it clean, people.” Everett’s gaze thins as he stares out at the crowd, making Reeves laugh even harder. Biting the inside of my cheek, I try to keep from joining him, but seriously? It’s like Everett’s forgotten who his core audience is.

“Aaaand ring in the new year,” Raine finishes. “Any questions?”

“I’m gonna get shitfaced, aren’t I?” Griffin mutters low enough for only me to hear.

I smirk up at him. “Probably.”

“Freshmen!” Everett yells. “Find a team to keep in line. As always, what happens at Game Night stays at Game Night.” Stepping closer, he snaps a cuff around Raine’s hand, then clicks it around his left wrist, leaving his dominant hand free. “And please don’t stab anyone with the scissors. We don’t have insurance for this shit.” Everyone laughs. “Once the handcuffs are in place, find a spot on the floor. Freshmen, distribute the tape, gift, wrapping paper, and blindfolds for your team. Let’s go!”

Griffin’s touch is gentle as he follows Everett’s orders, brushing his fingers against my bare skin. The cold metal is a stark comparison to his warm fingertips, and a zing shoots up my arm, surprising the shit out of me.

Where the hell did that come from ?

Snapping the cuff around my right wrist, he asks, “You wanna be the eyes or the hands?”

“Hands,” I decide as our judge for the evening approaches us.

He’s scrawny, blond, and still sports braces. I almost feel bad for him until Griffin tugs him in for a bro hug like he’s one of the guys.

“Hey, Boyle, what’s up?” Griff asks.

“Nothing much, man.” He hands Griffin the crimson silk blindfold. “Good luck.”

“Thanks, we’re gonna need it,” Griffin replies.

“I’m sorry. Do you two know each other?” I ask.

“Uh, you don’t know Boyle?” Griffin cocks his head. “Boyle helps out at all the parties.” He grabs Boyle’s bicep and shakes him around like they’re best friends. “He’s also on the hockey team?—”

“I help with the team’s equipment,” Boyle explains.

“Aw, come on,” Griff argues, hooking his arm around the guy’s neck. “Boyle’s the best. He’s also gonna help us win tonight. Right, Boyle?”

“Sure thing.” Boyle chuckles. “Good luck, you two.”

“Thanks,” I say.

After Griffin lets Boyle go, he covers my eyes with the silk blindfold, making my mind spin in circles. One, because Griffin’s the captain of the hockey team. He has every reason to be cocky and arrogant and, honestly, kind of a dick. Instead, he’s kind. To everyone. Even the people so many would deem beneath him. It’s kind of…hot. What else is hot is how he’s being so careful right now. Gently, he brushes my hair down along the back of my head, careful to keep the strands out of the blindfold’s knot as he loops the fabric together.

“Cuffs and blindfolds? Is it my lucky night, or what?” I tease in hopes of breaking the tension I’m currently drowning in. And it’s strange because I have no idea if I’m the only one feeling it.

“Yeah, I thought you’d like that,” Griffin quips. Prickles race up my arm, making my hair stand on end as his fingertips gently skate against the inside of my wrist, and he hands me the scissors. “Here.”

“Here,” Boyle adds.

I stand a little straighter, turning toward where I assume Boyle is still standing. “Are you talking to me?”

“He’s talking to me,” Griffin answers. “He has the present for you to wrap. And thanks, man,” he adds, addressing Boyle.

Oops.

Seriously, this no-eyesight thing is rough.

“Three! Two! One! Go!” someone shouts from the opposite side of the room, causing a jolt of anxiety to shoot down my spine.

“Shit, we gotta go.”

Moving together, Griffin guides me to kneel on the ground. I blindly search for the roll of wrapping paper, attempt to measure the gift, and cut the correct amount of paper.

“More,” Griffin prods.

I roll out another couple of inches.

“A little more,” he orders.

I move the scissors another inch or two and wait.

“Perfect,” he says.

I cut the paper, dragging the scissors across it until I hit the other side. Then, I drop the scissors on the ground and try to put the oblong box in the center of the sheet, which is weirdly difficult when you can't see anything.

“Yeah, right there,” Griffin says. “You’re doing great, Fin.”

Not gonna lie. I freaking preen at his words, feeling like I'm pretty much invincible as I fold the paper over the center.

“Tape’s by your left hip,” he adds.

I fumble for the tape but come up empty.

“Left,” he encourages.

“Left. Right .” My fingers hit something small and plastic. Confirming it’s the tape, I pin the dispenser between my knees and rip off a piece.

“Shot!” someone yells.

“Shit,” I drop the tape. “What now?”

“There’s a shot glass right in front of you,” Griffin says. “Careful.”

I feel like an idiot but reach out my hand, trying not to make a mess or bump something I shouldn’t.

“A little further away,” Griffin guides.

My fingers touch the edge of a glass, and I grab it.

“Bring it to my mouth.”

I turn toward his voice. “Where?”

“A little closer.”

The back of my finger touches soft flesh, and I raise my opposite hand, feeling Griffin’s face while lining up the edge of the shot glass with his lips.

Seriously, why does this feel so intimate?

I shove the thought aside while slowly tipping the glass back, and he swallows the alcohol, leaving the glass empty.

“Fuck,” Griff curses, and a sweet but spicy scent hits my nostrils. “Who the hell picked Fireball?”

“I mean, it’s cinnamon, right?” I offer. “So, I’m gonna go with Ophelia.”

“One more,” Boyle orders.

Right.

I move a little faster this time. When my fingers find another glass in front of me, I keep my opposite hand placed on Griffin’s jaw and bring the untouched shot glass to his mouth. He lifts his chin and swallows it all. When he breathes out the burn, I feel it against my cheeks. Hell, I can practically taste the cinnamon, and my lips part. Why is this kind of…hot?

“Shot!” Everett yells. At least it sounds like Everett.

Another curse follows, and Griffin’s cuffed wrist lifts into the air as I search for another freshly poured alcohol.

“Boyle, where are ya?” I ask.

“A little to the right,” Griffin answers for him.

I find the shot glass and search for Griffin again, letting the familiar brush of his five o’clock shadow against the outside of my hand guide me to his mouth. Not gonna lie. It really is weirdly…intimate, and I’m not sure how I feel about it. Actually, I kind of do know how I feel about it, and that’s the problem, isn’t it?

“One more,” Boyle repeats.

“Seriously?” I demand.

Griffin wasn’t wrong. He’s definitely gonna get shitfaced tonight. Poor guy.

Without waiting for Boyle’s answer, I mirror the movement again but tip the glass too quickly, and a light splash hits my hand.

“Shit,” Griffin curses. A warm mouth sucks the spilled liquid from around my fingertips, and I swear I can feel it down to my core. The swirl of his tongue. The wet heat of his mouth. There’s no way he’d lick me in public. Not if he hadn’t already taken a handful of shots. And maybe it’s because I’m blindfolded and can’t see his face to overanalyze his reaction, but it’s the most erotic touch I’ve ever experienced. Oh, the magic of a mouth. And this mouth? I have a feeling this mouth could do dangerous things if the opportunity presented itself.

“We good?” Griffin asks .

“Uh, yeah?” I choke out, lowering my hand from his mouth. “We’re, uh?—”

“Yeah, I’ll allow it,” Boyle says.

Griffin wasn’t talking to me.

He was talking to Boyle.

Cool, cool, cool.

“One more piece of tape, Fin,” Griffin adds. He must’ve turned to me because the same familiar scent of spicy alcohol fills my nostrils. It’s stronger now. Hell, it’s practically fire.

“You got this,” he encourages.

I got this. Because we’re playing a game.

Right.

Setting the glass down, I wipe my hand against my jeans and rip off a piece of tape from the dispenser still pinned between my thighs, then stick it on the present, smash both ends of the paper, tack on more tape, and wait with bated breath.

“Am I done?” I pause. “It’s done, right? It’s totally done.”

“What do you say, Boyle?” Griffin prods.

The sound of rustling greets me, and I assume Boyle’s judging my handiwork, but honestly, I have no idea.

“Boyle?” I prod.

“Looks good to me,” he decides.

“Shot!” Griffin yells, announcing to the group that we’ve finished the first portion of Game Night. Ripping off the blindfold for me, he tugs me to my feet, and I almost trip over myself as he drags me toward the kitchen.

I grab the Santa hat and antlers, placing the antlers on Griffin’s head, then slapping the Santa hat onto mine while he downs two more shots from the kitchen island. As soon as the glass hits the granite countertop, I jump on his back and wrap my body around his. It’s a little awkward, thanks to our cuffed wrists, but he grabs the backs of my thighs, steadying me. His fingers press little indents into my skin as he hikes me a little higher onto his back, and I swear his touch shoots straight to my core. I blame the open mouthed kiss against my hand. The memory alone keeps my body trembling and my heart racing as I press my chest to his back.

This is only a game.

The door from the kitchen to the backyard is propped open, which I’m sure my parents would love if they knew since they pay the bills, and Griffin jumps over the threshold. Snow falls from the sky. No, floats is probably a more fitting term. It’d almost be peaceful if the yard wasn’t scattered with half-drunk, cuffed college students with antlers and Santa hats stumbling through the snow in search of mistletoe. The timer beside the open hot tub blinds us, thanks to the sharp contrast of bright red light and the dark night sky. Or maybe it’s because I was blindfolded for the last five minutes. Honestly, I have no idea, but I’m not sure it matters, anyway. There are fifteen seconds. Fourteen. Thirteen. Twelve.

Most of the mistletoe has been claimed. Beneath the tree. By the house. I search for an open bunch, my own competitiveness rearing its ugly head.

“By the hot tub!” I point to one of the last available bunches in the yard. It dangles from a metal pole over the open water.

“You’re gonna make me get wet, aren’t you?” Griffin grumbles.

“Go!” I kick his sides like he’s my own personal horse, and a sting hits my ass. “Hey!”

“Not afraid to spank your ass, Fin,” he warns, but he kicks his butt into gear anyway and runs at top speed toward the last bunch of mistletoe available like our lives depend on it .

Maverick and Ophelia cheer us on from beneath a bundle of mistletoe hanging off the gutter while Dylan laughs her ass off a few feet in front of us. She’s trying to stay on Reeves’ back, her glasses askew, when he tumbles to the icy ground.

“Shot!” I yell as we race past them.

When Griffin reaches the edge of the hot tub, he looks over his shoulder at me, and I nod. “Now or never.”

Hot water soaks through our clothes as we stumble into the hot tub and position ourselves under the mistletoe, the timer counting down on the big red clock, contrasting with the dark sky.

Steam swirls around us, and I stare at the bold red numbers.

Five, four, three?—

“Happy New Year, Fin,” Griffin murmurs.

I lift my head and meet his gaze. His eyes are glassy from the alcohol, his hair is mussed, and a lazy, crooked smile teases the edge of his mouth but doesn't rise to the surface. Not fully. I’m pretty sure he’s never been sexier. “Happy New Year, Griff.”

He leans closer, and I swear he’s going to kiss me, but I turn my head at the last second, letting his lips brush against my cheek instead. My chest caves in disappointment while everyone squeals around me, cheering in the new year.

Everyone but Griffin.

I gave him the cheek. Why did I give him the cheek? Oh, wait. I know why. Because he’s Everett’s best friend. He has a future. He means something. I did the right thing. I know I did the right thing.

Didn’t I?

The air around us crackles as he slowly pulls away .

“You’re a good actor, Fin,” he rasps. “So good, I almost forgot how well you push people away.”

Grabbing the edge of his coat, I force him to look at me. “You’re the one who rejected me last night, remember?”

“I’m also the one who held you as you cried and kept us both in check so you wouldn’t do something you’d regret. Guess I made the right choice, huh?” Scanning the yard, he yells, “Boyle!” and lifts our cuffed hands into the air. “Where’s the key?”

The guy rushes forward. Standing on the edge of the hot tub, he unlocks the handcuffs, careful not to get wet, unlike Griff and me who are soaked from chest to toe. As soon as Griffin’s free, he trudges away, his soaked clothes clinging to his body, and even though I’m standing in the middle of piping hot water, both figuratively and literally, I’ve never felt more cold.