Page 23 of A False Start
“Dumb name,” he says, but he gives a decisive nod, signaling that, yes indeed, he would like to adopt the dog.
My face twists up in his direction. “You named your spotted horseSpot. Who are you to talk about dumb names?”
“My dog, my name.” He doesn’t even look my way. He’s too busy staring at the dog. I wish I could see his face—his eyes—so I can figure out what’s running through his head right now. This big gruff man staring down at a small, fluffy, three-legged dog. They’re an odd pairing, that’s for sure.
It’s Mira’s turn to laugh now, shaking her head as she regards the stray dog. “Consider him yours, Griffin. He’ll need a couple more days at the clinic before you can take him.”
“Yup,” is all he says before he turns and strolls out of the clinic.
Like he just expects me to follow him.
“He’s kind of a dick, huh?” I say to Mira, rolling my eyes and expecting her to join in with my complaints.
But instead, she appears contemplative. “I don’t know. I think he’s kind of sweet, to be honest.”
I shake my head and roll my eyes at her before stomping out of the clinic toward his cocky swagger and killer ass topped off with proud broad shoulders.
Apparently, I’m the only person here who doesn’t have heart-eyes for Griffin Sinclaire and his quiet, gloomy persona.
* * *
“It’s lame.Limping like it’s broken.”
I instantly hate the man standing across from me. The way he’s dragging on a cigarette and then blowing the smoke in my general direction. The way he just referred to the horse tied up beside us asit. Not to mention the way his eyes linger on my body, the smirk, the lick across the lips. I’m fully clothed, but this fucking guy makes me feel like someone served me to him on some sort of platter.
Yeah. I hate him. I recognize his type. He’s not new or original.
Suddenly, knowing that Griffin is standing behind me like some grouchy, unflinching sentinel doesn’t seem so ridiculous. Suddenly, I’m really fucking glad.
Was the drive into the city awkward and quiet? Yes. Does Griffin listen to terrible twangy country music? Also, yes.
I tried to talk to him.
I didn’t know you wanted a dog.
Yup.
Do you even like dogs?
Well enough.
Have you had one before?
Nope.
Do you have a name in mind then?
Nope.
Are you going to name him Snowy because he’s white?
*grunts*
And that was the last of our conversation for ninety goddamn minutes.
But in this moment, with this man eyeing me and treating his racehorse like an object rather than a living being, I confess to myself that having Griffin here is a relief.
“His hind fetlock is very swollen.” I crouch by the horse’s back leg, running my hand over the joint. “Easy, fella.”
