Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 115763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Griffin steps forward, starting to speak, “We’re looking for a ring—”
Nope, he’s not in charge. Not of me, and not of this clusterfuck of epic proportions. So I shoulder my way in front of him, pushing him back . . . and promptly stepping on his foot.
“Fuuuck,” he hisses, jerking his foot from beneath mine and shooting laser beams of death my way.
It was accidental. Truly, it was. But I’m not going to let him know that. I clench my teeth, snarling through them, “Back off, bucko. I’ve got this.”
When I turn back to the pawnshop guy, his eyes are ping-ponging between me and Griffin. It’s obvious who he thinks is the bigger threat, but he’s dead wrong. Griffin might be all big and tough, and rough and hot—wait, not that last one; I mean, he is, but not to me—but I’m hell on wheels when the situation calls for it. And sometimes, even when it doesn’t. No one would be the slightest bit surprised if I accidentally broke a display case or two. It’d be right on par with any given day in the Life of Penelope Lee. So this pawnshop guy had better watch it.
“We’re looking for a ring,” I say, and when Griffin mumbles behind me, “That’s what I said,” I willfully and pointedly ignore him. “A five-karat, bezel-band gold ring.”
“That’s very specific.” He scans the display case between us like he’s not sure what’s in his inventory. If there’s one thing I know about pawnshop people, it’s that they know what they have and what it’s worth.
“I shop nearly every pawnshop in the state, but I’ve never been here. Why is that?” I question, glancing around. “Paul, is it? Of Paul’s Pawn fame?” I gesture to the sign on the wall behind the guy.
All polite customer service fakeness drops away, and Paul goes shrewd, his sharp-eyed gaze considering me. I know what he sees. First, I’m a woman, which is always a point against me in this type of environment. Second, I’m young at twenty-five to Paul’s likely over fifty, given the elevens between his bushy brows. Third, and most problematic in this interaction, I’m short and curvy, the type of woman men like to coddle and cuddle and fuck, not meet toe to toe as equals in negotiations. But I’m a pro at this, having dealt with dozens of Pauls while growing PLDesigns from a seed of an idea to my main moneymaking career.
“I don’t know. Maybe you’re a shitty shopper.” He shrugs indifferently but reflexively flinches when Griffin steps up to the counter at my side. He’s not as unaffected as he’d like us to think. But it’s because of Griffin, not me, and that needs to change.
After a slow, theatrical scan of the rings in the case in front of me, I say, “Or maybe it’s because you’re selling cubic zirconia as real diamonds.” I tap my finger on the glass, intentionally leaving a smudge he’ll have to clean, as I point out a particular ring that’s reflecting light all wrong.
“I do not! All my merchandise is tested and verified, and comes with certification papers,” he claims. Figuring out that he’s underestimated me—fuck, I love it when people do that—he tries a new tactic, cutting his eyes to Griffin. “You sure you want to marry this one? You’re never gonna have a day of peace with a bitch like her.”
One second, Paul is looking pleased with himself for the cutting insult like he thinks calling me a bitch is somehow novel and shocking. The next second, his throat is gripped in Griffin’s fist and he’s lying halfway across the glass display case, his face turning red and feet kicking in the empty air behind him, looking for purchase.
“Apologize.”
My mother’s always told me that for an apology to count, it has to be sincere and genuine and come from a place of true regret. Paul’s apology is none of those things, but I still feel a little thrill at getting it. Maybe I’m a little bloodthirsty too? It’s probably from hanging around hockey bros my whole life. I’ll have to yell at Dom for that later.
Having gotten whatever apology he can, Griffin releases Paul by shoving him back across the counter. “The ring was stolen about thirty minutes ago, less than a few blocks from here. This place”—Griffin looks around, his nose wrinkled as if the pawnshop smells—“seemed like the thief’s best bet to turn stolen goods into quick cash. Do you have it? Because trust me, if you do, you don’t want it here. I’m asking nicely. The next time you’re asked, it won’t be so polite.” Griffin curls his hands into fists so tightly that his knuckles pop and crackle like Rice Krispies cereal.
Paul shakes his head vehemently. “I don’t have anything like that. I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about, man.”