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)
“Coming?” she throws over her shoulder.
I glance down the street once more, questioning if I overreacted in the first place. Still not seeing anything, I rush to follow Penny. Her ass, covered in denim that hugs her curves just right, is swinging side to side, taunting me with every step.
“I wish,” I mutter under my breath.
Chapter 10
Penny
It’s the same story at the next two pawnshops. We go in, ask if they have the ring, show them the picture, and they say no. My ridiculously optimistic, high hopes of recovering the stolen jewelry are falling further and faster with every minute.
And though I did have that one moment of weakness earlier, I’ve done my best to stay positive, promising myself the next store would be the one and cheering myself up after every no and invitation to get the fuck out. On the upside, I’m solidly maintaining my streak of being wrong, and so far, I’m zero for four—striking out at Paul’s, A-to-Z, Cash-a-rama, and a no-name place that really set Griffin off.
He’s usually grumpy and snappish, but he was downright hostile to the clerk at that last store. Okay, so yeah, the guy was flirting with me, but I can handle myself.
Usually.
Except right now, I really don’t want to deal with guys who try to “c’mon, baby” me into giving them my Instagram handle so they can “slide into my DMs and maybe me” later. Blech. Which is what I literally said out loud to the guy. That apparently hurt his wittle feelwings, and he had to let me know that I wasn’t “that cute” anyway. As if. I’m fucking adorable and I know it. I’d been ready to hair flip out the door and head to the next stop, but Griffin had already nearly taken the guy’s head off, calling him a Fleshlight fuckboy.
Yeah, it was kinda funny, leaving both me and the clerk slack-jawed in shock, but peeling Griffin off other guys is getting to be exhausting. On the ice is one thing, but in day-to-day life? I mean, has he heard of therapy? It’d probably do him some good to work on communication that doesn’t involve threats of violence when things don’t go his way.
It was kinda hot, though.
Sigh. Maybe I need some therapy, too, because growly, asshole, fight-first types are not my type. Never have been, never will be, and one day with Griffin certainly isn’t enough to change that given all the times he’s acted like my very existence was bothersome. My body’s probably just confused from spending all day surrounded by his cologne and weird kindness, which is probably his intent anyway. I wonder if it’s some new tactic in our ongoing battle of who hates whom more?
Why does he smell like sex and pine trees, and why do I like that? And I love—I mean hate!—that he opens doors for me when I’m perfectly capable of doing it myself.
Pulling the now folded-and-refolded list from his pocket, Griffin looks at it thoughtfully. His full lips are pressed into a hard, flat line, and his eyes are squinted like he’s staring at one of those hidden-image pictures where you have to stare through it to reveal the secret. Unfortunately, I don’t think there’s any mysterious message in Paul’s chicken scratch.
Scrubbing a hand over the scruff on his jaw, Griffin peeks up at me through lashes so thick and long they make me jealous, and asks, “Where to next?”
“My internal toaster just popped with one of those irritating buzzy sounds that threaten possible electrocution if I don’t stop.” I wiggle my hand by my ear like I actually hear buzzing, and Griffin looks at me like I’m speaking gibberish, which, to be fair, I might be because he looks really sexy right now, and that’s a sure sign that my brain has turned to mush. Because while he is obviously objectively attractive, I have never considered the words Griffin and sexy in the same sentence in my life. Griffin and woodchipper? Yes. Griffin and grump-apota-saurus? Obviously. Who hasn’t? But sexy is a new one to me where he’s concerned, which is . . . concerning, possibly to the point of an “am I having a stroke?” danger zone.
The loss of the ring must be getting to me. It’s the only explanation. Well, either that or the lunch we grabbed from a potentially sketchy food truck contained hallucinogenic aphrodisiacs, in which case, I really need to get home before the buzzy sound in my head leads me to search out another type of buzzing. One thing I know for sure is that I do not want to ride a Molly trip with Griffin as the closest human being. I once witnessed a girl dry-humping a frat boy’s leg, and that was enough for me to know that wasn’t for me. Especially since it wasn’t even his thigh but his shin, which seems exponentially worse.