Page 46 of The Curveball
“Easy, there,” he whispers, lips close enough his minty breath blows a piece of hair off my brow.
I might as well bathe in cayenne pepper the way my skin is popping in sparks of heat.Slow the attraction, Wren. Slow it down to a molasses-spill crawl. My head fights to be logical, cautious, while my heart is a wild mustang stampeding through the desert.
Griffin sobers for a few breaths. “Hey,” he says, voice low.
I swallow stupidly loud. “Hi.”
Quickly, I clear my throat and ease back to a safe, proper distance.
“Did you say people think I’m dead?”
He scoffs, but a red flush fills his cheeks. “Like five loud ones. People are linking the Kings’ social media posts with Alice’s posts, and are trying to insist you’re alive and well. But for some it’s not enough. I will say it’s offensive that these big-mouthed Greymlins—”
“Grey . . . what?”
“Oh, that’s what I call your fans. Catchy, right?” He winks and barrels on. “Anyway, they keep insisting that I’m awful. Probably because there are the drunk rumors, but these ladies take it to a different level. They keep saying they don’t know what the big deal is with me, and I don’t hold a torch to Tyler Matheson, which is untrue. I wouldn’t let the woman I loved walk away as easily as he did.”
“Griffin.” My eyes pop. “Did you read my book?”
He tilts his head. “I told you I did.”
“You read . . . all of it?”
Griffin’s following my thought process. His cocky, smug smirk cuts across his face, and he folds his arms over his chest. “Allof it, Birdie.”
A little growl scrapes out of my throat as I drag my palm down my face. “I’m never looking you in the eye again, okay?”
“Oh, it’s not a big deal. Although Tyler made me feel rather inadequate as a man. But I guess I have a new standard to set for myself.”
I groan. “They call it fiction for a reason.”
“I guess.” Griffin shoves his hands in his pockets and looks at my bookshelf.
That’s it? He’s not going to drone on about the lack of brain power it takes to read a romance novel? Or call it drivel? Or . . . “That’s all you have to say?”
Each word comes out barbed and accusatory.
“Basically,” he says. “I wanted to tell you so you can make a video post or something. I hate thinking all these people who care about you are freaked out that you’re gone.”
He cares about my readers? I think I fall in love a bit.
Discomposed, a little off balance, I wheel around on my heel and stomp away.
“You okay, Birdie?” Griffin follows me into what he calls the kitchenette when it is definitely a full-sized kitchen. “You seem disgruntled.”
“Disgruntled?”
“You always use thesaurus words, I decided to try my hand at one.”
This guy. I plop down at the kitchen table, avoiding his eyes. “You didn’t need to come in here to tell me this. You act like you . . . like my readers matter to you.”
“They do. They matter to you, right?” He digs through one of the cupboards, grabs a plastic cup, and fills it with water from the fridge.
“Yes.” I rub my head, careful to avoid the lump, and let out a sigh of frustration. My head is spinning. This shouldn’t be the way things go. He should be losing interest, or at least absolving some of his guilt. But here he is, smiling, standing close.
“Why are you being so nice?” I blurt out before I think better of it. “I don’t know if you still feel guilty about the accident, or—”
Griffin slams his cup on the counter, startling me. His eyes aren’t laughing anymore. “I’m not being nice. Well, I am because I’m a pretty nice guy, but that’s not the point. I care about your books because I care about you. Does no one tell you how incredible it is to accomplish what you’ve accomplished?”