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.
I cannot believe the audacity this guy possesses. Showing up after what he did? Fuck that, and fuck him. Not literally, obviously, but in the fuck-off way. In my mind, I flip middle finger after middle finger at him. Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!
I don’t speak to him, but to Talia instead. “Well, you can tell him to apologize to someone who wants to hear it, because it’s not me.”
I drop my bag on my desk chair, glaring death at the son of a bitch, who’s sitting with his elbows on his spread knees, eyes locked on me. At the post office, I felt like prey and those scary guys were predators. But I was wrong. How Griffin is looking at me now? That’s predatory. His brown eyes are dark, intensely focused, and I suspect that if I went for the door, he’d beat me there because he’s watching my every move that closely.
“I’ll leave you two to it,” Talia says uncertainly. And then, traitorous bitch that she is, she picks up her purse, shoots me a look of sorry—or maybe it’s don’t be too loud or Mrs. Rosenthal will call the super—and vanishes out the door, abandoning me to this rapidly sinking ship.
“She did not just do that,” I say to no one in particular, because I am not talking to Griffin. Like ever again. Silent treatment? Try invisible treatment. No talking, no looking, no acknowledgment. That’s what he gets.
“I brought you ice cream. It’s in the freezer.”
I whirl on him, incredulous. “You think ice cream is gonna fix this? You must be stupid if you think I’m that easy.”
So much for the invisible treatment.
He flinches instantly at my sharp tone. But the shadow that passes over his eyes when I call him stupid sends regret through me. I’m not mean and cruel that way. I’m not the bully. He is, and I refuse to stoop to his level. “I’m sorry. You’re not stupid. But ice cream isn’t going to undo what you’ve done.”
“I know. Brody just always says . . .” He shakes his head, and pushing on his thighs, he rises from the couch. “Never mind. I shouldn’t have come.”
Curiosity piqued, I ask, “Brody says what?” Jordan Krivosky, a.k.a. Brody, is the youngest player on the Hawks, with a reputation for being in the throes of his oat-sowing days. He’s definitely not the type Griffin would typically take advice from, on anything.
Griffin slowly lifts his eyes to mine, his frown creating deep lines around his mouth. “That he takes girls their favorite treat, whatever it is, because it’s a surefire way in. I knew you wouldn’t want to talk to me, so I was willing to do anything. I figured you would’ve already had coffee this morning, and I couldn’t find any Thin Mints at the three grocery stores I went to, and some lady finally took pity on me and said they don’t even sell them there, but I knew you liked the ice cream at Kitty’s Creamery, so that’s what I got in the hopes you’d at least talk to me.”
He shrugs like it’s no big deal.
It’s so a big deal.
It’s not some huge, overly grand gesture, but it is sweet. Especially on a game day when I know he has an entire routine to stick to, but he’s ignoring all that to go to three grocery stores on an errant cookie scavenger hunt, bring me ice cream, and, according to Talia, apologize. So yeah, it doesn’t fix everything, but it does soften me a little. Like the tiniest sliver of a single percent softer. “Thank you.”
Hearing the opening, Griffin rushes to add, “And I am sorry. That’s what I came to say. I’m sorry for not having the balls to tell you the truth.”
“Which is?” I arch one brow expectantly. He’s the one that said he wants to talk, so he should get to it before I change my mind.
“Oh, uh—” He pulls on the back of his neck, nearly cracking it in the process, it looks like, and his eyes drift up to the ceiling. It feels like he didn’t think he’d actually get this far into the possible conversation and isn’t sure what to say now.
Meanwhile, I’ve played out approximately eleventy-three bajillion possible conversations in my head over the last few days. None of them went quite like this, but those scenarios did tell me one thing: Regret is pointless. We can’t go back and unfuck each other. Even if I could, I’m not sure I would. Not that I’m telling him that.
“It’s fine, Griffin. We’ll pretend the other day never happened. No harm, no foul. I won’t say a word to anyone, especially my brother, and we’ll just go back to family dinners, hangouts with Dominic, and it’ll be fine. I don’t need to be coddled like some emotionally fragile, delicate flower. I’m tough, I can handle that what happened was obviously unexpected by both of us, and take it as what it was . . . a one-off, casual fuck.”