Whoa. The fuck?
My hands, which are still locked in a death grip in his hair, tighten hard enough to pull some strands out as I yank his head away from my neck and stare angrily in his eyes.
“What did you just say?”
He tries to move back toward my lips, but I stop him, pulling on his hair even harder until he yelps. “Ouch! Easy on the hair!”
“Tell me you did not just say what I think you said!”
Griffin sighs and bows his head.
Holy shit. He’s serious. How did I not know this? And why the hell am I just finding out about this NOW? I thought the whole “go on a date with me” thing was just to bait me. Why the hell am I suddenly regretting all of the years I wasted with Alex when I could have had Griffin? SHIT! NO! He’s a friend. A friend who can kiss like a god and almost make me come on my father’s kitchen counter. We need to talk about this. This is serious business. I’m not ready for serious business. Why am I even questioning myself?
“So I guess this means you ARE dating?” my father asks from the kitchen doorway.
“GAAAAAAAAH!” I scream in frustration as I push Griffin away and jump down off the counter.
“Yes,” Griffin replies calmly.
“We most certainly are NOT dating!” I yell at Griffin.
“Just a matter of time until I catch McFadden,” he tells me with a grin.
“I’m going to wipe that smile off your face when I catch him and punch you square in the mouth!” I shout back.
“I don’t know what’s going on here, and I don’t care. I just came in to get the dip,” my father replies with a longing look toward the Crock-Pot resting on the counter right next to where I had been close to orgasm. Griffin wanted me for eighteen years and never said a word about it until now.
SHIT!
“Am I interrupting something?” Paige asks as she enters the kitchen and sees all of us standing here.
“NO!”
“Yes,” Griffin and I state again at the same time, causing me to growl in frustration.
“I think they’re dating. I just want my dip. Tell her to give me my dip, Paige,” my dad whines.
“Did you lose the bet?” Paige asks me in confusion.
“What bet?” Dad asks.
“Griffin bet Kennedy that if he finds McFadden first, she has to go on a date with him,” Paige informs him.
“I’ve got ten on Griffin,” Dad tells her, reaching for his wallet.
“DAD!”
Griffin laughs as he leans against the counter and folds his arms in front of him.
“I’ll take that bet, and raise you twenty,” Paige replies.
At least someone is on my side.
“Kennedy, do you have your gun on you?” she asks as she pulls her purse off her shoulder and starts digging through it.
“Uh, yeah. Why?”
Paige finds her wallet and counts out thirty dollars, slapping it down on the kitchen table.
“Because, McFadden is outside flipping burgers three houses down.”
Griffin pushes away from the counter and his arms fall to his sides. We look at each other in silence for five seconds before we both take off at a dead run out of the kitchen, shoving Paige and my father out of the way.
“You could have led with that, you know!” I yell at Paige as I race to the front door.
“This was more fun!” she shouts back as Griffin and I fight over the door handle, pushing and shoving each other out of the way. Griffin slams his hip into mine and I stumble backward as he flings open the front door, sprinting outside into the sunshine. I take off after him while I curse Paige. She could have pulled me aside and told me about McFadden quietly.
GD lack of loyalty.
CHAPTER 12
I race down the front porch just in time to see Griffin standing in the middle of the yard looking left to right, trying to decide which direction to run. My dad’s house is right smack in the middle of the cul-de-sac. There are seven houses on either side of his house, each one filled with people getting ready to root on Notre Dame. I need to pick the right direction. WHICH ONE IS THE RIGHT DIRECTION?!
Looking to my left, I see that Lorelei just arrived. And she’s wearing a maroon-and-gold silk blouse with matching maroon dress pants: Arizona Sun Devils’ colors, the team that Notre Dame is playing today. She’s going to be killed!
I see her lift her arm and point in the opposite direction that Griffin is currently looking and send her a thumbs-up before sprinting away. She’s on her own; I can’t save her from crazy Notre Dame fans now.
Running at top speed and yelling for people to get out of my way, I make it to the Andersons’ house, three houses down, in record time.
“Where’s the grill?” I ask the first person I come to through gasps of air.
“The burgers aren’t done yet,” a guy with a giant navy-blue foam finger tells me as he uses the foam finger to scratch his nose.