Page 25 of Griffin

The way Ron and Steve were practically leaning over their stools to get a better look made my jaw tighten.

"Where do you think he’s from?" Ron asked Steve, nodding toward Michael.

"No clue, but he’s pretty cute. Hey, Griffin, who’s your new—" Steve started, but he clammed up fast as I felt a low, involuntary growl rise from my chest.

It wasn’t loud, but it was enough to make both of them shut up, exchanging wary glances.

Good. They could look somewhere else. I didn’t want anyone—even my packmates—sniffing around Michael.

I barely knew the guy myself, but there was this strange, uncomfortable feeling rising in me whenever I thought about anyone else getting close to him.

Michael had kissed me in that cab, just a quick, fleeting kiss, but it had lingered in my mind.

The way his lips had brushed against mine, soft and unsure, had stirred something I hadn’t felt in years.

It was as if that one kiss had imprinted itself on my senses. He’d brushed it off as an accident, but I didn’t buy it.

An accident was bumping into someone on the street—not leaning in and pressing your lips to theirs like they were the only solid thing holding you up.

I wanted it to happen again. Just to test things out, to prove that whatever I was feeling was some fluke. Or maybe to prove that it wasn’t.

And damn it, I wasn’t used to feeling this way—this protective urge to keep other people away from him, this desire to stake some unspoken claim.

I was so lost in thought that I barely registered Michael waving a hand in front of my face.

"Griffin? Earth to Griffin? I need three beers and two buckets of wings for table seventeen,” Michael said.

My gaze snapped back to reality, and I nodded, trying to shake off the tension tightening in my chest.

"Right. Sorry, got distracted for a second,” I admitted.

I could feel Ron and Steve’s eyes on me, but they didn’t say anything.

They were too busy trying to look like they weren’t being nosy. Typical wolves.

My annoyance flared up again, and I shot them a look, daring them to say something, anything.

They both cleared their throats, muttering among themselves and turning their attention back to their drinks.

Good. They could keep their opinions to themselves.

I got the drinks and wings ready, sliding them across the bar, but Michael was still watching me with a hint of a smirk.

"Got distracted, huh? Must be an important thought,” Michael said.

I raised an eyebrow. "Just making sure everything’s running smoothly, that’s all,” I lied.

He rolled his eyes, a hint of that playful spark flashing in his gaze. "Right. Sure."

The way he looked at me, like he was starting to relax and feel comfortable, only made me want to push my luck.

It’d be so easy to reach over, pull him close, feel that warmth from his hand in mine like I had that night in the cab.

A part of me wanted to corner him in the back, just to see what he’d do, if he’d blush or lean in like he had before.

But the logical side of me—barely there, granted—held me back.

And maybe that’s what kept me on edge, the fact that he was working for me now, that we had a work arrangement.

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