Page 140 of Dream Chaser
“You see Boone?” Syd asks, like she hasn’t already been tracking his every move since he walked in.
“He looks good,” Riley admits, smirking into her cup. “So does Hart. Even in that dumb beanie.”
“It’s the arms.” Harper nudges her. “You’re always talking about his arms.”
Lo tilts her head. “Grimes trimmed his beard. I didn’t think I cared, but apparently my hormones disagree.”
“You’re all shameless,” I mutter, because someone has to say it.
Syd doesn’t even blink. “And yet you’re the one who practically swooned when Skinner walked in.”
“I did not swoon.”
“You made a noise,” London notes.
“It was a cough.”
“It was a look-at-my-man noise,” Riley adds. “We know because we’ve all made it.”
They’re not wrong, and I don’t have the energy—or the willpower—to argue.
I glance over my shoulder, sensing him, which is freaking insane, I know that, but it is what it is. He’s already at the bar, flanked by the guys, laughing at something Hart said. And yeah … okay, he looks stupid hot. Like … unfair levels of hotness. Backward cap, that smug smile, and the shirt that does all that Skinner asks of his shirts—clings to his hot as hell body.
“Okay, maybe I like him,” I admit quietly.
“Is this … growth?” Lo giggles.
Mags grins. “No, this is surrender. Total, beautiful surrender.”
“Do we celebrate?” Ava asks. “Or stage an intervention?”
“Both,” Riley says, lifting her drink. “To the girls who got dragged kicking and screaming into love.”
I roll my eyes, but I clink, anyway.
He gives me that look that makes me stupid happy, because regardless of what he’s been through, Griffon Skinner seems to not only seek but find that place where happiness lives, and I admire that about him.
“Yeah, I think I like him a lot,” I admit.
“Like or …?” Mags says.
“Definitelyor.” I smile as I leave my girls and head toward my guy.
He turns and leans against the bar as I approach, looking me up and down, as I do the same.
“Hey.” I smile.
His big hand grips my waist and pulls me toward him, and he leans down and kisses my forehead.
“You have the wingspan of a 747,” I murmur, grinning as my palms flatten against his chest. “And the manners of a golden retriever.”
He chuckles low and warm, like he’s savoring the way I fit against him, his fingers slipping just beneath the hem of my shirt, touching skin. “You love it,” he says, voice teasing, but there’s something deeper threading through it—like he missed me more than he’s letting on.
I lean back just enough to meet his eyes. “I tolerate it,” I say, even though my pulse is dancing like mad. “Barely.”
His gaze drops to my lips, then trails lower slowly, deliberately. “That so?”
I nod, smug and entirely full of it. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
