Mack, p.10
Mack, page 10
My chest warms up and another wave of adrenaline courses through me. I don’t respond, just follow him out to the car.
We leave the restaurant with me toting the other half of my salad in a giant to-go container. I keep glancing at him thoughtfully.
When we get to the car, he turns to me and says, “I let go of the idea of balance a long time ago and never looked back. It sounds like you need to give yourself permission to do the same thing. People close to you will understand. Sacrifices must be made if you want to be the best at something.”
My first impulse is to lash out and tell him I don’t care for his advice, but there’s so much truth in what he says that I can’t do it.
He gets me back to the courthouse in no time thanks to the way he drives, and I laugh nervously when he skids to a stop. Strangely, I don’t mind it as much as I did on the way to the restaurant. “You’re lucky this salad didn’t litter your perfect leather seats.” My legs are trembling as I climb out of the car, and I hope I’m not showing too much ass when I do. God, he’s going to see I don’t have panties on. While a very big part of me doesn’t want this to be the end of our little date, there’s a part of me that’s glad I made it here in one piece.
He’s still holding the door open and closes it behind me. “Get used to this.”
“What?” I pause, standing in the parking lot.
“Seven tonight. A real date this time. I believe we’ll start off right with two in one day.”
There’s no hint of doubt in his voice. My heart leaps, but I manage to stay calm. “Who says I’m available?”
“Cut the bullshit and be ready. If you’re not at home, I’ll find you.”
I stand there, utterly shocked as he climbs into the car with that ridiculous smile on his face, like he said all that just to get a response, but he’s still going to go through with it like it’s a threat.
I shake my head at him like I’m pretending it’s just some inside joke with us now.
Something tells me I should be ready. Just in case.
The tires chirp as he rockets off onto the main street. He drives like a damn animal.
When he’s out of sight, I suck in a giant breath. Can I do this? Absolutely not, it’s insane.
What the hell am I going to wear?
Mack Mitchell
Is this her fucking building? I shake my head, unsure why the sight of where she lives angers me the way it does. My hands ball into fists as I walk up the stoop, past some derelict man asking for change.
I don’t have a problem with homeless people, or people begging for change. I understand most of the problem is mental health, and it’s not their fault. I do have empathy.
I just don’t like it right outside Presley’s apartment and I’ll never get passed that. I scowl at him as I walk by and try to stay focused on the task at hand.
First date.
Presley.
Must be perfect.
I pat my pocket a few times. I’m pretty sure what I have planned is, but fuck, I’ve been wrong before with her. Very wrong.
Each step to her door is an eternity. Every time my foot lands on the floor it’s like a shotgun blast, echoing down the hall. Everything feels hazy and numb, like nothing is real—nothing but the weird sensation deep down in my stomach somewhere.
Butterflies? Nervous?
I don’t get nervous. I played division one football at Michigan State. I’m a senior attorney at a giant firm and I’ve gone up against behemoth’s in court. Never, have I felt this way. Not even before playing in the Rose Bowl.
Yet somehow, this five foot three fireball of an attorney, living in a damn slum—she does it for me.
Flowers. You forgot flowers, bitch.
“Goddamn it.”
A woman and her young son glare up at me, and I realize I just mumbled the words out loud. She tries to earmuff him and move him down the hall, but I hold out a hand.
“Sorry, can I ask you something?”
Her eyes bulge, like you kidding me after you just cursed in front of my kid?
I don’t give her time to respond and I say, “Are you supposed to bring flowers for a first date? I haven’t done this, like, ever really.” I lean back. “Well, not for real. I mean, I’ve gone on dates and what have you, but…”
Her eyes dart to the door, then back to me. “Presley doesn’t like flowers.” She grabs her son’s hand and hauls him toward the stairs.
“Thanks.” I’m not even sure if she hears me as they head around the corner. The boy keeps looking back at me, and I can’t get a read on him. He looks half amused, half like I may be walking toward a fifty-year prison sentence.
I reach up to knock on the door, because the old-ass building doesn’t even have doorbells, but realize my palm is sweating. I quickly wipe it on my pants.
Jesus Christ, you’re a giant pussy.
My brain is right. I’m acting like a bitch. Asking about flowers. What’s that all about? The neighbors are going to think I’m soft as fuck already.
I grind my teeth a little, upset with myself more than anything, and knock on the door.
You’re Mack Mitchell. Act like it.
I didn’t think it was possible, but time slows down even more. Everything moves in microseconds. A light tap of her footsteps on the other side of the door, fingers making contact with the door handle, a slight squeak when it begins to turn.
I open and close my hands down at my sides, trying my best to wick away the clamminess. The door knob turns a little more.
Shit.
I brush my hands down my pants again real quick, then straighten up as fast as I can, trying to look confident and commanding for when the door finally opens.
The door cracks. Light spills through.
Why am I so goddamn nervous? Look confident!
I plaster a smirk across my face.
Don’t look like an asshole either!
I want to scream, “What do you want from me?” right at my brain.
I must look awkward as fuck, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter one bit, because the second the door finally swings open…
All the breath leaves my lungs. Presley Griffin—there’s no words to describe her right now. None that do it adequately. She looks hot as hell in her ball-busting attorney outfits—skirts, blouses, hair pulled back, the whole nine yards.
This is different, though. She’s in a light yellow summer dress and her hair is down, about to her shoulders, and curled. I feel like I’m getting a look at the real her for the first time. It’s when she smiles that it damn near knocks me over. She just looks—happy, and it’s for me.
It’s like a giant lump forms in my throat, and my mouth goes completely dry.
“I was just heading out.” Her smile widens, like she’s joking.
“With me.” I hold out a hand, offering it to her. It’s a hundred percent her choice.
“I’m serious, I have, umm, people coming over.”
“Just heading out. People coming over.” I take a step toward her, and lean down next to her ear. “You dressed up for me. We both know it.” I step back and hold my hand out once more. “Now, cut the shit. You’re not fooling anyone.”
She slowly takes my hand, and it takes everything I have not to grin like a damn toddler when she does it. Fuck, this surge of just—pure happiness rips through my body, every time she’s nearby, every time I win her over a little more.
I’ve never believed in soulmates and fate and all that philosophical karmic bullshit. The world is random. You make your own path and nothing is predetermined. But Presley Griffin challenges everything about me, down to the core of my belief system. She makes me want to be better. She makes me want to be the best version of me.
“I’m flattered you think this is dressed up.”
I stop in my tracks, effectively halting her, and I stare down at her and those big eyes. “You look gorgeous.”
She glances away, and I think I may have just made her blush.
Get used to it, Presley.
“So, where you taking me for our second date today?”
“It’s a surprise.”
* * *
“Gotta be shitting me. No. No.” We take a few more steps, heading even closer to behind home plate. “No, Mack, no. No way.”
I laugh.
I glance to the tickets in my hand, knowing damn well where the seats are, but I pretend I’m finding them for the first time. “Oh wait, I may have read the section wrong.” I nod to the upper deck. “I think we may be up there.”
She waves me off with a flippant hand like she knows I’m full of shit.
We finally get to the front row, right behind home plate at Comerica Park, and have a seat right next to the aisle. I hate being closed in on both sides, so I always go for the aisle.
“Seriously, this is insane.” She smiles from ear to ear, like she’s never been close enough to smell the dirt and the grass on the field. “How did you pull this off?” Her head’s on a swivel as she looks around, studying the players finishing up batting practice.
It wasn’t difficult. A phone call to a buddy who has season tickets. His company has this whole row. I can get two of them pretty much any time I want, and the whole row if I let him know in advance.
I look up and realize it’s been a few years since I’ve done this.
I miss it.
The second I needed a date idea for Presley, I knew this was gold. Especially after that revelation at lunch, and her spitting Tigers facts.
I’m going to spoil the shit out of her. She’s never going to know what hit her.
“It’s not a big deal, really. We can come whenever we want.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
She gives me a sly grin. “Probably have to come with you, though. Wouldn’t I?”
I flash a devilish grin as I stare at the field in front of me, not bothering to make eye contact. “Absolutely.”
She sighs the most sarcastic sigh I’ve ever heard. “I could probably manage.”
My eyes roll over to hers and she’s grinning right at me. Even with the field, and the Detroit Tigers, this big, shiny distraction in front of us, she still takes the time to look at me and smile. It’s incredible. It’s like in this moment, we’re the only two people here, communicating in a language nobody else can understand.
Finally, I break the silence of the moment. “That’s nice to hear. I’m delighted you could be bothered to endure me for a few hours in order to enjoy your favorite team.”
She laughs. There’s nothing sarcastic or fake about it. It’s a real, genuine laugh, like I make her happy.
That same feeling where I could float away into the clouds comes over me. It’s a strange tingling through my body, like a narcotic flooding my veins, but it makes everything brighter, colors more vivid.
I pat her on the leg. “Sit tight. Enjoy the view. I’ll be back in a minute.”
“You’re leaving me?”
I shake my head at her. “Codependent already? Maybe this is getting toxic between us.”
A middle finger flies up in my face, and when she puts it down her shoulders are bouncing, like she’s holding in a laugh. She lifts the same hand and makes a gesture like she’s brushing me out of sight. “Go on, then.”
I can’t stop laughing. In fact, I haven’t laughed this much in a very long time. “Seriously, you’ll enjoy this.”
I take the stairs two at a time up to the concourse. I really want to be back by her side as soon as possible. The thought of leaving her alone in that little sundress raises the hackles on the back of my neck, but I want to surprise her too.
I grab a couple draft beers from a passing vendor, then snag two hot dogs from a cart.
I shove a few mustard and ketchup packets in my pocket then walk back down, careful not to spill this stuff everywhere.
She quirks an eyebrow up at me when I return. “Hot dogs and beer? You?”
“I’m not an animal. What else would you have at a game?”
She lifts her shoulders before accepting her beer. “I don’t know. Prime rib in a VIP box?”
I know she notices the vein starting to bulge in my neck, and it only amps her up even more.
“Sushi, maybe? A nice risotto…”
“Jesus.” I hold both hot dogs over my lap, like I’m not going to share.
“Hey!” She reaches for one.
I lean back and spread my knees apart a little, grinning right at her.
She stops herself halfway when she sees what I’ve done, and glares at me.
I shrug like, hey, it’s there if you want it.
Her face turns a little pink, but this time she lets me see it. It’s short-lived, anyway.
I don’t make her beg for it. Not totally.
I hold the hot dog up in the air. “This what you want?”
She snatches it out of my hand, but as she’s opening the foil wrapper, she says, “Sorry. Thank you.”
“Why are you apologizing?”
“Because we were joking around, but I still should’ve thanked you sooner.”
I shrug. “I’m just insulted you think I’d eat sushi at a ballgame.” I shiver a little at the thought. “I know you think I’m a douche, but that one crossed a line.”
Her shoulders tremble a little when she giggles. “Okay, you’re right. I actually do apologize. It was an insult that went too far, even for you.”
“Beer and a dog is as good as it gets on a baseball diamond.”
“Agreed.” She takes a sip of her beer and it looks like she might have an orgasm right here. “Totally agree.”
“Wow.”
Her eyes flick over to mine. “What?”
“Another thing we have in common.” I hold out my cup.
She touches her cup to mine.
“When’s the last time you were here?”
“Oh man.” It looks like she tries to remember, but eventually she shrugs. “I can’t remember. I used to come with my dad, but we haven’t been here in a while.”
“He’s a big fan, too?”
“Yep, he passed it down to me. I still have no idea how he found the time. I can’t seem to.”
“What does that mean?”
She stares at me for a long time, like she’s trying to figure out if she can trust me or not.
What the hell?
Finally, she says, “He’s a lawyer.”
“Oh yeah? Where?”
“He’s retired now.”
Why does she look like that should be privileged information? She looks like I might know him. That’s impossible, though. Why does she live so fucking poor if she’s an attorney and her father was an attorney?
Wait…
I shake my head, staring up at the sky, because it’s all so painfully obvious now. “Evan Griffin. You’re Evan Griffin’s fucking daughter.”
She grins, like she’s happy I figured it out on my own. “He’s batting a thousand.”
Don’t get me wrong, I’m still on cloud nine on this date, I’m just trying to figure out how I feel. Because Presley’s whole thing is honesty and ethics, and she portrays herself as this person who strapped up their boots and climbed some ladder from the bottom.
Her dad is the fucking GOAT of real estate law. His textbooks are taught at law schools.
It’s enough to slam me back against my seat for a moment. I thought Presley was a semi-formidable opponent before, but this is dangerous.
I glance over at her a few times and blink.
She recoils a little in her seat but still keeps her chin held high.
I start to say, “It’s…”
“I know.”
“But then…”
“Yep.” She pops the p.
“You two still good?”
She nods. “Yeah, we just don’t really discuss my career path, to avoid the conflict.”
“Sounds healthy.”
She snorts a little at that one. “We just blew right past complicated, didn’t we?”
“I’d say so.” I reach down and take one of her hands in mine.
Her eyes dart down to it, then back to me.
“But I don’t really give a fuck. We both work insane hours. Right now, we’re front row at a Tigers game. Let’s live for a little bit.”
Presley nods. “Okay.”
We don’t talk about work situations at all, for the next two hours at least. I push all the bullshit, all the things that should keep us apart, far out of my mind. I compartmentalize it all in the back somewhere, file it away for later, and I just live in the moment.
I can’t remember the last time I’ve done this, but it’s exhilarating. The entire time, there’s this nagging bit of anxiety, but for the most part, I’m able to ignore it.
I can’t stop staring at her. Does she have any idea how fascinating she is? Sitting on the edge of her seat, her eyes glued to the field. I can feel her excitement, the way it rolls off her in waves. Every once in a while she looks my way, smiling from ear to ear, and I know for sure I would’ve paid anything to get her here tonight. I’d pay any price there is to pay, despite all the other bullshit. I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt like this.
I start to wonder what happens after this date. Do I try to kiss her? Do I try to fuck her? Sure, I’ve been doing the sweet, first date shit all night, but I think I need to heat this up a little. Test the steam level of this date.
As the pitcher releases a fastball, I look down at Presley’s toned legs, crossed in her dress. It’s riding up her thigh a few inches, and fuck me, I want to be down there so damn bad. I want to bury my face between them. I can’t get the mental image out of my mind.
Focus, asshole!
I lean over, next to her ear, then gesture down to her legs. “Might wanna be careful.”
She looks straight ahead, but I can tell by the look on her face, she’s intrigued about where this conversation is going. I’m sure the way I delivered the line had something to do with it.
“Careful with what?”
“Well, I’m just saying, you have a certain pattern about you. So, I’m trying to look out for your best interest.”
