He'd once thought she was still in love with Ian Stone, but of course Jane wouldn't love someone who had the looks of a bowl of oatmeal and the kind of mind that imagined every great love affair meant someone had to end up weeping on the last page. Who would think up shit like that?
He pointed at the other man, the churning burn in his stomach turning to fire in his blood. "He's a pessimist, you know that, don't you, Jane? How can you think of working with someone who is...who is..."
"Kind of like you?"
That hurt. He pulled over a chair and slammed into it, turning his back on Ian Stone to focus exclusively on the librarian who was looking at him as if she wished she had a ruler or, better, one of her lethal pencils. "I'm not a pessimist, Jane."
"I'm not one either," That Asshole Author put in.
Griffin ignored him. "Jane..."
Her gray eyes were calm, and when she crossed one leg over the other, he couldn't help but notice the funky shoes, so Jane with their cork wedge and leather-and-rope straps. Over the toes was a matching bow. Ian Stone probably didn't even realize she had a most unique and arousing taste in footwear.
"He didn't appreciate you before. He won't appreciate you now," Griffin said.
"I have to work. And personal history aside, there's merit to the idea. Another success with him will recoup my reputation."
The one that Griffin had failed to improve. He put the heels of his hands to his suddenly throbbing temples. "I still say this is about your father. You're thinking if you do this, Daddy'll be happy. His seal of approval on the job makes you think you'll have his approval for yourself."
"Stop," she said. "Stop talking."
He wouldn't. She'd flapped her mouth at him plenty of times, hadn't she? "But your father's opinion is not worth the hot air it rides on, Jane. He should know how special, how special and lovable you are. Success is not a necessity to make that happen. And neither is working with Dumb-ass." His thumb jerked toward Stone.
The other man's chair scraped back. "Who are you calling Dumb-ass?" he asked, leaping to his feet.
"You." Griffin flicked him a careless glance. "Christ, man, you have to know that already. You're the one who stepped out on Jane. You're the one who lost her and then went out of your way to hurt her in the aftermath. Just another idiot who doesn't know a real treasure when he has one."
He must have touched a nerve, because The Asshole Author Ian Stone wrapped his fingers around the back of Griffin's collar and tried to yank him from his seat. Of course, he was too short and Griffin too solid to budge. Still, it added another layer of pissed-offness to what was turning into a really shitty day. Grabbing the other man's wrist, he jerked his hand free of his shirt.
The old fabric ripped. "I love this shirt," he said from between his teeth. Then he shoved out of his seat.
"Griffin," Jane said. "Calm down."
"As soon as I beat the crap out of this guy." It suddenly seemed like a great idea. A real problem-solver. He turned to confront the man and gave the classic gimme gesture.
Face going red, the author charged him like a bull.
Griffin shoved him aside, then went after him with his right. Ian Stone got a good crack at his jaw before getting punched in the face. The pretty boy stumbled back, falling into a chair.
Someone whooped, "Bar fight!" and his Party Central buddies gathered round. All that free booze he'd offered up in the past bought him a lot of goodwill. They started up a chant: "Griffin! Griffin! Griffin!"
The Asshole Author Ian Stone shook his head. Then he placed his palms on the arms of the chair, getting ready for another go. When he stood, Griffin allowed him to start a second charge. Then he swept his leg, sending the clown flat on his ass. He'd learned the move from a twenty-year-old native of Kansas City on a freezing day when practicing fight moves seemed a finer way to keep warm than huddling by the diesel-powered heaters.
The kid had later lost an eye to a Taliban bullet.
And remembering, Griffin wanted to hit someone all over again. "Get up," he said to Ian Stone, feeling his temper redoubling, shooting fire into his blood and hardening his fists into blocks of cement. "Get the hell up."