Page 32 of Lessons in Heartbreak

Chapter NineGriffin

I blinked.

Then blinked again.

She’d spoken English, to be sure, but I felt like my brain was moving at a glacial pace, because there’s no way Ruby Tate would’ve asked me to do ... that.

“I’m sorry, what?” I swiped a hand over my mouth. “You want me to what?”

“Never mind, this was a terrible idea.” With a furious shake of her head, Ruby started to brush past me, headed back in the direction of the door.

Gently, I hooked my hand in the crook of her elbow and steered her back around to face me. “Easy, birdy, I don’t have nearly enough information for you to say anything of the sort.”

Her cheeks were bright pink, and she couldn’t hold eye contact, just tiny little darts up and then down, landing anywhere in the house except on my face.

“Sit,” I commanded. But like, nicely. Not in a dick-ish sort of way.

Ruby did as I asked, easing herself onto the overstuffed couch that my agent was ready to threaten me over. She propped her elbows onher thighs and sank her head into her hands, shoulders moving on a deep, rib-inhaling sigh.

God, what happened during those drinks?

Who was this strange little woman?

In the kitchen, I poured some very expensive wine into two very expensive-looking wine goblets and walked them back to the couch just as Ruby dropped her hands and studied me with big, wary eyes.

“I’ve never met anyone who looks at me like you do,” I told her, taking a seat but leaving a cushion empty in between us.

She took the wine with a slight furrow in her brow. “Like what?”

“Like you’re terrified of what I’m going to do next.”

“That’s because I am,” she said, sniffing the wine before taking a tiny sip.

“How’s the wine?”

“Drier than I expected, but I don’t mind. Dry red is about all I drink.”

I took a sip and grimaced. “Yes, I can see why. I love my alcohol to taste like ashy, wet cardboard too.”

She sighed quietly, then set the wineglass down. “I don’t think any sort of alcohol will help right now, but thank you.”

“Talk,” I instructed firmly. “I’m going to need more explanation, Ruby Tate.”

“No, it was silly and impulsive.”

“Two words I’d wager no one would ever use to describe you,” I said.

She tilted her head. “No, you’re right.”

“With the addition of this most unexpected question, am I allowed to ask about your drinks with Jimmy the hooker?”

“He’s not a—” Then she stopped, pinched her eyes shut for a moment, drawing herself upright and clenching her hands in her lap. When her eyes opened again, the decisiveness was clear and bright. “Yes, you’re allowed to ask.”

“Oh, goodie.” I took another large swallow of the wine and decided to set it down by hers, because it tasted like there was actual dirt lining my throat. “How were your drinks with our friend James? I can’t call him Jimmy anymore; it’s too easy.”

“Can I redirect your line of questioning a little?”

I swept my hand between us in a magnanimous gesture. “By all means.”

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