Page 164 of A Little Crush
“Don’t thank me yet.” Jagger faces me again and cocks his head, studying me. “You’re a pretty thief, I’ll give you that much.”
“I’m not a thief.”
“Then why are you looking through my brother’s shit?”
“I told you, Ford said?—”
“Ford likes his girls curvy.” His eyes trail down my body, and he doesn’t need to vocalize the second part. Nope. He’s made his point. I’m a stick. No curves. No boobs. No butt or thick thighs. Just a boring, brittle stick. It’s probably from malnutrition while growing up, but what do I know? Not that it matters, or that I care. The opposite sex is the last thing on my mind. Even so, I can’t help but fold my arms to cover a bit of his view as he peruses me like he would a statue in a museum.
“Not gonna ask you twice,” Jagger warns. “Why are you searching through my brother’s shit?”
I bite my tongue to keep from pointing out that he did, indeed, just ask me the same question twice, and choke past the lump in my throat instead. “I was…looking for something.”
“Thief,” he repeats.
“I’m not a thief,” I snap before folding like a wet towel because let’s be honest, there’s no way I’m going to get anywhere if I’m a bitch. “Okay, yes,” I concede. “I was snooping, but the items I was snooping for belong to me, so it’s not technically stealing?—”
“And why would my brother––the wrong brother, mind you,” he clarifies, “put something that belongs to you in his underwear drawer?”
My lips press into a thin line, but I stay quiet because if my conversation exploded in my face with the nice guy of the group? What will happen when a man with soulless eyes hears my reason for being here?
I really should’ve chosen a different door.
“Technically, I didn’t think it was the wrong brother,” I mutter. “I guess I’m in the wrong…room.”
His touch is almost gentle as Jagger grabs my chin and forces me to look up, refusing to let me curl in on myself or back down now that I’m here. Front and center, and caught in his snare. Just. Like. Prey.
“Why are you here?” he demands.
“Her dad stole from her to pay off a bet,” someone announces from the doorway.
Seriously?
You’d think I was on a stage, performing for an audience with what little privacy I’ve found since sneaking into this room.
Pulling away from Jagger’s touch, I shift to one side so I can catch a glimpse of the newest culprit joining us, er, culprits. As in plural. Seems the party is moving up here. A very annoyed Ford glares back at me, and, with folded arms, Hawke follows him into the room. Tattle tail.
Apparently, he didn’t buy Jagger’s lie about us hooking up. I’m probably not Jagger’s type, either.
Surprise, surprise.
Ignoring my completely unwarranted annoyance, I push, “It wasn’t my dad’s money to give. I need it back.”
My words hang in the air as Hawke and Ford exchange glances before turning to their oldest brother. It’s like they’re letting him take the lead.
So Jagger’s the one to make the final decision.
Good to know.
I force myself to look him in the eye again, this time of my own volition. Big mistake. I’m usually pretty good at reading people. It’s not a flex. It’s a necessity. But Jagger? The man is a freaking vault. A stupidly attractive, square-jawed, dark-eyed vault. His silence makes me squirm even more because even though I was distracted by his brothers’ presence, Jagger’s attention hasn’t shifted in the slightest. Nope. He’s looking at me and only me.
“So you are a thief,” he murmurs.
“I’m not a thief!”
“Says the thief,” Jagger volleys. His expression is just as locked down as before.
It only feeds my annoyance. “Just give me my money, then go after him again to make him pay it back?—”
