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 clenches his teeth, the muscle in his jaw popping out and disappearing again hypnotically. It’s obviously not the answer he expected, and I don’t think he has any idea how to respond to my mercurial mood swings. After a solid fifteen seconds of staring at me like he’s waiting for me to take it all back and pick another pawnshop to go to, he inhales deeply. “Okay.”
And that’s that. The search is over. The day is done. Our choose-your-own-misadventure is complete without a happy ending. Of any sort . . . until he pulls his phone out of his pocket and clicks around, then looks up and down the street. “There’s our rideshare. Let’s go.”
He grabs my hand, pulling me toward the black Camry, and I jerk out of his grip. “What are you doing? I can take the subway home.”
He snorts out a laugh like I’ve said something funny. “Get in the car, Penny. I’m taking you home.”
He says it like there’s no discussion to be had, but I can argue with a brick wall. Hell, I basically am considering Griffin’s a blank, detached, building-size humanoid. “This morning we were in a hurry. And the other stores were far away. Home is a straight shot on the A Line.”
“Uh-huh.” He’s agreeing with me, except I don’t think it actually counts as agreement when he’s simultaneously opening the car door and pushing me inside. Not to the point of alarming the driver or having me shout out about being kidnapped, but he’s definitely not letting me head toward the subway station either. He even puts a hand on my head, guiding me into the car so I don’t bump it on the doorframe.
In the back seat, I cross my arms over my chest. Refusing to look at him, I snap, “Girls hate it when you do that.”
“Do what?”
Whipping a spite-filled glare his way, I inform him, “Push their heads down.”
The driver clears his throat to cover his laugh as he pulls into the street.
“Are we talking about me making sure you didn’t get a concussion from getting in the car? Because we both know that’s something you’d do.” Griffin lifts one brow, daring me to disagree when we both know he’s right.
“And it’s my head to bang against whatever I want to. Doorframes, headboards, my hand.” I slap my temple against my palm to demonstrate and then let my head fall back against the headrest of the seat with a sigh. Eyes closed, I murmur, “I bet you’re one of those bossy alphaholes that ‘encourages’ girls to suck you off by pushing them toward your dick. Trust me, she knows where it is, and if she wanted to, she would.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” he barks, harsher than I expect. I crack one eye, feeling like I’ve hit a particularly sensitive nerve and not wanting to miss the moment of clarity when the truth of his actions hits him. But instead of having a revelation about his own cringeworthy behavior, he’s judging me and my past. “Did somebody do that to you? Who?”
He sounds furious—no, maybe lethal—but also shocked for some reason. That’s probably a sign that he’s not one of those guys, which is good. For the puck bunnies, I mean. Not me. I don’t care at all. Not a bit, not even a teeny-tiny, itty-bitty bit.
I fight to hide the grin trying to steal across my face, the result of successfully getting a rise out of him, and instead shrug dismissively. “Seriously, it’s too high of a percentage to count without fingers and toes getting involved. Don’t make me math right now.”
“Penelope.”
What makes him think he has the right to full-name me in that warning tone? Dom doesn’t even do that. Very often. Though that’s probably where Griffin got the idea to push me that way. Unfortunately, it works, bringing out every bit of brattiness I possess.
“Fine. You want to do this?” I challenge. “High school boyfriend, college boyfriend, guy at a frat party, a guy from Tinder, another guy from Tinder . . .” I wiggle my fingers like counting is hard and let my voice trail off.
Unfortunately, all that is true. And then some. I haven’t had the best luck with dating. I’m a lot, I know that, but I’m not looking for someone who wants me to dull my shine for them. I’m looking for someone who sees me shining and cheers louder than anyone, for someone who catches me when I trip over my own feet (literally or metaphorically) and tells me the unexpected “solo” was an exciting addition to the plan. In my limited experience, that seems to be a tall order, and an impossible find. But when you’re as desperate as I am, turning to Tinder for actual dates and not just hookups, bad luck in the extreme is to be expected, and good guys are not.