Page 17 of A False Start
His eyes shift down to where I stand beside him. “Young enough for rose-colored glasses, eh?”
I arch a brow and cross my arms. I don’t think anyone has ever accused me of wearing rose-colored glasses in my life. The young bit? Well…he must have had a real fucking shame spiral when he put the pieces together about who I am. But rose-colored glasses? I almost laugh. I’ve lived with shit-colored glasses most of my life, until Ichoseto take them off and stoplettingthings happen to me.
“Old enough to choose the color of glasses I wear. Thanks.”Dick.
I turn to make the no-name dog his breakfast and cocktail of medication.
“Why don’t you t-talk tohimthat way?” The motion of him turning away catches my eye.
“Him?”
He hesitates, and I swear his cheeks pick up a little color. “Barbie Doll Boy.”
I laugh, measuring out a syringe of anti-inflammatories. “You mean Ken Doll?”
“Whatever.” His fingers press through the cage.
“You can let him out.” I mix the small serving of wet food and pills together, hoping he’s the type of dog that won’t pick them up and spit them out. “And I don’t know what you mean.”
“He shouldn’t say shit like that to you.” God, he’s so vague. I’m pretty certain he means the riding comment, which was so fucking cringey. But I refuse to agree with him. My pride won’t let me.
“Thanks for the input. I’ll keep that in mind on our next date,” I add, because fuck this guy for telling me what to do.Especiallywith our history. I have one big brother, and I don’t need another.
I slide the bowl across the floor toward the waggling rat-like dog that Griffin just freed from the crate, and he dives straight in. Poor thing has got to be starving, but we can only start with small meals.
When I stand back up, Griffin’s eyes are fixed on the bowl and the quiet grunting noises coming from the dog. “He doesn’t deserve a next date.”
My eyes narrow at him. “Drop it, okay? I didn’t ask for your opinion. You gave me your opinion of me two years ago and that was quite enough, thanks. Accident? Mistake? Whatever. I heard you loud and clear.” I rub clammy hands over my scrubs before crossing them over my body like a shield.I just want to live a normal life—a job, a husband, a herd of happy kids—so that’s why.
“Just looking out for my friend’s little sister.”
I bark out a disbelieving laugh.The fucking gall.“Is that what you did that night in the bathroom? Looked out for me?”
“That was different.”
“Why?”
He grunts. “Didn’t know who you were.”
I click my tongue, disappointed in what a chickenshit the guy who grabbed me and owned me is being right now. “Pussy.”
“Nadia.” His tone is a warning, but I’ve heard worse. Griffin Sinclaire does a lot of things to me, but scaring me isn’t one of them. “I’m thirty-five years old. You’re barely legal. We c—shouldn’t even be talking about this. You need to forget it.”
I roll my eyes.Barely legal.What is this, a porno?
When you’ve lived through the shit I have, age is just a number on a birth certificate. I feel like I’ve lived a few lives. Reinvented me. When you’ve seen what I’ve seen, what the hell do you have in common with normal, happy people your own age?
I pack away the food and medications, silently eyeing the small dog limping around the bowl clumsily, sniffing and searching for more.
When I finish, I catch Griffin’s dark eyes tracing my body. They drop to my lips and the hair on my arms immediately stands up. It unnerves me how attuned to him my body is.
In an attempt to recover, I plaster a practiced smirk on my lips. “Thanks for the input. I don’t think I will. Forget about it, that is. I actually enjoy replaying that night in my head.”
His jaw clenches, that one muscle jumping as his arms cross before him. He looks so fucking grumpy, I almost laugh. “Don’t be a brat.”
Everything about his body language is tightly wound, feral almost. Except his eyes when he hit that word.Brat.Those are pure scorching smolder.
And they tell a completely different story.
