Page 60 of Dream Chaser
Griffon
She disappears around the corner, ponytail bouncing, hands still flailing like the last words didn’t land right, and damn if it doesn’t make me smile. Not the smug kind. Not the “I win” kind. The real kind—the kind that’s been showing up more often lately and catching me off guard every damn time.
Wile’s still camped out on my foot like he’s claimed me, and I crouch to scratch behind his ear again. “You and I might have a problem,” I mutter. “Because if you’re Team Iz, I’m screwed.”
He lets out a dog version of a sigh and leans harder into my hand.
I get it.Same.
I stand slowly, heart now kicking harder than it should. Because the truth is, I didn’t just come here to say we needed to talk. I came here because after everything—after last night, the parade, the bus ride where she avoided my eyes, and the flight where she was just … gone—I couldn’t go another hour wondering if I imagined what last night meant.
I start toward the living room, the worn floor creaking just slightly beneath my boots. There’s a small box of tools by the fireplace, a candle flickering on the mantle, and an old pair of gloves drying by the radiator. It’s lived-in. Her. And somehow, just stepping into this space feels like more of a risk than anything I’ve done on a field.
Because if she shuts this down, I’m not sure I’ll recover. And if she doesn’t—if this is something real—I’ve got a whole different set of problems. Ones I think I might finally be ready for.
I see her trying to busy herself. Iz always seems to be set on go. Well, last night she wasn’t, so I ask her, “Tell me if I’m wrong. Unless you’re?—”
“You’re wrong,” she fires back without even looking at me, rifling through a box of kitchen stuff like she’s suddenly deeply invested in the organizational fate of spatulas.
I cross my arms. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“Doesn’t matter. Still wrong.”
I step closer. “What if I was gonna say you looked cute with bedhead when you walked away last night?”
“Then you’d still be wrong. I looked like I lost a cage match with a feral raccoon.”
I take another step. “You think I care about that?”
She lifts a hand in the air, still facing the counter. “Oh no, I’m aware you don’t care. I’m just saying, if I were looking for compliments, I’d at least expect a man to lie better.”
That makes me grin. “You think I’m lying?”
“I think you’re dangerous when you’re charming.”
“And yet,” I murmur, stepping behind her, voice low near her ear, “you still let me in.”
She freezes for half a second, just long enough to let me know she felt that, too, then turns around slowly, cocking a hip and a brow. “Don’t get cocky, Skinner.”
“Too late.” My gaze dips briefly, deliberately. “Can’t help it. It’s kind of my thing.”
She rolls her eyes, but her lips twitch like she’s fighting a smile.
I step even closer, not touching her, not yet. “Just say it, Iz,” I whisper, tilting my head. “You missed me.”
“Maybe I just missed Wile being more aware of who is a friend or who is a foe.”
“Nah, he’s a good judge of character,” I shoot back. “Knows a keeper when he sees one.”
Her smile fades just a little—still soft, but quieter. “Yeah, well … I’m not the kind of girl who wants to be kept.” She turns, giving me her back again, shoulders pulled tight. “You might wanna get back on Models ’R’ Us if you’re catching that bug going around.”
Not angry. Guarded.
I don’t move closer. Not yet. Instead, I lean one hip against the edge of the counter and keep my voice level, easy.
“Okay,” I say. “Noted. You’re not a girl who wants to be kept.”
She doesn’t turn, but I see the pause in her hands, like she’s waiting for me to react the way guys usually do—get pouty, defensive, retreat into ego.
