Grip Trilogy Box Set - Kennedy Ryan Page 0,59

looks at me like he knows my every secret.

Jade clears her throat before speaking, snapping the moment between Grip and me.

“Man, I hope you ain’t trying to bring her home to your mama.” Jade’s eyes follow the same head-to-toe journey Grip’s took over me, but derision weights her look at every stop. “You know Aunt Mittie would have a fit if you start shit with some white bitch.”

“Bitch?” I have a low give-a-fuck threshold, and she just crossed it. “You’ve called me bitch twice, and you don’t even know me. Or did we meet and I forgot you already? I see how that could happen.”

“Bristol.” Grip chuckles down at me, the warmth that probably made Jade suspicious in the first place evident in his eyes. “She does still have a gun.”

I glance from the firearm at Jade’s side to the smirk on her pretty face, feeling bold now that I know who she is and bolder still now that Grip is close enough to hide behind if necessary. He’d never let anyone hurt me. Except himself. I’m pretty sure Grip could crush me without noticing.

“Jade, ease up,” he says. “She’s Rhyson’s sister.”

“And Grip’s manager,” I add. “You and your Aunt Mittie can rest easy. There’s nothing going on between us.”

I feel Grip’s eyes on me when I say there’s nothing between us. I won’t give him the satisfaction of looking, of letting him mock the defenses I wrap around myself to guard against anything that could develop. They’ve held this long, and I have no plans of yielding any time soon.

“Your manager, huh?” Jade studies me again, as unimpressed as the first time. “I see.”

“You need to be thinking less about me and more about you. About what I said.” Grip hooks an elbow around her neck and kisses her forehead. “Come to the studio next week. Lay some tracks.”

Jade stiffens under his arm, observing him with narrowed eyes. Grip also told me their relationship wasn’t as close after that day at the playground.

“Hmmm. We’ll see.” She pulls away and walks over to grab an Oakland Raiders cap from the countertop. “I’m out. Some of us still gotta actually work to make them ends meet.”

Grip is one of the hardest working artists I know. He’s what they call a studio rat. He’s behind the board and in the booth every chance he gets. Not to mention the appearances, writing for other artists, photo shoots. Indignation rises up in me on his behalf. Before I can mount my defense, he’s diffused it with a grin aimed at his cousin.

“Whatever, J.” He tweaks her nose, his affection for her obvious and, from my perspective, inexplicable. “Just come to the studio. Maybe it’ll keep you out of trouble.”

“I am trouble,” she bounces back with a sassy grin. “I’ll think about it.” She looks to me, raising her eyebrows like she’s waiting for me to say something.

“Nice meeting you,” I offer in her expectant silence. Even in the face of rude bullshit, the manners instilled in me are flawless. She ignores my comment and brushes past me and out the door.

“I’m gonna walk J out.” Grip takes my wrist gently between his fingers. “Could you wait a second? I have questions about the email you sent last night.”

I see right through this ploy. He knows that without a good reason to stay, I’d be right behind him and on that elevator. Except I’ve been in hell all week. Working myself to the bone for longer than I can remember. There’s tightness across my shoulders, noosed around my neck, trapped in the fists balled at my side. I just want to unfurl, and as much as he makes me tense, there’s no one else I can relax with the way I can with Grip. So, against the better judgment I’ve exercised for years, I stay.

When he comes back, the two takeout bags he’s holding release tantalizing scents into the air. I’m settled onto the huge comfortable sectional taking up so much of the living room. I could fall asleep right here if I weren’t so hungry. Starvation has eroded my sense of self-preservation, and as much as I dreaded coming here to see him, I dread going home to my empty cottage even more.

“Ran into the delivery guy.” He raises the bags and gives me a measured look, like he knows I could bolt at any moment. “You hungry?”

“I could eat,” I understate while the lining of my stomach feasts on itself.

“Empanadas?” He smiles because