Page 35 of A Little Secret

His chuckle is raspy and forced as he tugs at the collar of his shirt. “Are you…gonna keep the baby?”

“I was on the fence until the ultrasound,” I admit. “Hearing the heartbeat, man.” I puff out my cheeks and blow out all the air from my lungs. “Whew. That was a doozy.”

“Yeah.” His nod is slow. “Yeah, it was. How long have you known?”

“For sure? About five seconds before my seizure started.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“And how long have you had a feeling?” he prods.

“A while,” I answer vaguely.

“Can I do anything?” he asks.

“If I say I don’t know again, will you yell at me?” I counter.

“Not gonna yell at you. Only trying to figure out how I can help when my hands are tied, you know?”

“Well, I have a few suggestions.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm-hmm.” I pat the couch cushion beside me. “You can start by sitting by me instead of staring at me from across the room like some creeper.”

“Some creeper, huh?”

“I mean, a pretty good-looking creeper, but yeah.” I grin.

His chuckle is low and dry, but he stands and strides closer, stopping once he’s towering over me. “You sure Drew would like me sitting by you?”

“Probably not, but after the shit day I had, I could really use my friend.”

He takes the open seat—leaving a solid six inches between us—spreads his legs and settles into the couch. “Here I am, Fin. Now, what?”

“I want to watch a show.”

Bending forward, Griffin grabs the remote. He moves to hand it to me but changes his mind and points it toward the television on the opposite side of the room. Without any prodding, he turns on a documentary about Jeffrey Dahmer and settles back into the cushions again, making himself comfortable.

“You hate murder documentaries,” I remind him.

“Every sane person hates murder documentaries,” he tosses back at me.

My mouth lifts. “So, why’d you pick it?”

“Because you’ve had a shit day.”

“You are a good friend, Griffin,” I murmur. “The best, actually.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He grabs my feet and twists me around, letting me use the armrest as a makeshift pillow. “How’s your ankle?”

Slowly, he digs his thumbs into my arch, and I practically moan at the contact.

“I’ll take that as better,” he quips.

“If you keep doing that, it will be.”