I laugh. It’s a short, awkward bark, more of a “Ha” than anything else, but it counts. I did it. I’m clinging to it. And I was right—Griff is teasing me. His own mouth curls at the edges, not quite a smile but the ghost of one, and I find myself wanting to see teeth. It’s natural that I’m curious about him: he’s displaying strange behaviour. Men never tease me at bars. They coax me, they catch me, they relentlessly desire me. And, even before Jean-Pierre, I never really enjoyed that. Being desired is such a dull sort of danger. I’m so used to eyes picking me apart.
But this? This is starting to feel like being with a friend, sans the added weight of hiding my recent… struggles. It’s an unobjectionable dynamic. Perhaps even a pleasant one. Maybe that’s why I tease him back. “So, are you as scary as you look?”
Through the messy fall of his hair, I see his eyebrows rise. “You admitting I’m scary?” He’s warming up to me. I do believe I like him warm.
“No. I said you look it.” I take a sip of my beer, which is indeed awful, and watch his eyes go to my throat. The action… isn’t awful. “I’m scary too, you know.”
His gaze flicks over me, not dismissively but quick, perceptive, as if he’s catalogued everything relevant in 0.25 seconds. Or maybe he already got an eyeful, checking me out from the pool table. He says, his voice dripping with scepticism, “That so?”
The cheek of it. “I may not be built like a lorry, like some people—”
“I prefer ‘brick shit-house’,” he interrupts mildly.
I refuse to laugh. “—but I’ve been told I have a terrifying aura.”
“Would be more terrifying,” Griff says, “if you didn’t talk about auras.”
“I’m beginning to see why your friend was hissing at you over there. You’re incredibly difficult.”
“Now you’ve hurt my feelings.” But he’s smiling again, that faint curve. I want to reach out and trace it with my fingers, which is such an unfamiliar feeling that it shocks me. And then, a second later, it excites me—because that feeling constitutes desire, and it’s been a long, long time since I experienced anything like it. My odd reaction to him sparks a reckless sort of hope, a wild taste of possibility in my chest.
“If I’ve hurt your feelings,” I murmur to Griff, “I’d like to apologise.” I am clinging to this hint of lust with both hands, desperate for it to grow roots, to bite deep into me, to make me myself again. Want him. Want him carelessly and carnally, and then you’ll be fixed. As if shagging him, someone, anyone, is a magic spell that will rewrite months of cold confusion.
“Bet you’re good at saying sorry.” Griff’s voice is low, slow gravel, and my pulse warms tentatively, an experimental simmer. This is wonderful. This is excellent. I feel a tiny bit like my old self, but I don’t dare examine it too closely in case this miniscule change is a sham. Quick, quick, quick; I have to be quick, before the moment passes and the idea of human contact horrifies me again.
I wet my lips and realise I’m nervous, which is hilarious and ridiculous and perhaps a little bit good. “Would you like me to show you how I apologise?”
His gaze skims over me again, but it’s slower this time, steadier, spilling sensuality over my skin. Ah. Fuck. Too much. The strangeness rears its head, sloshing a puddle of acid in my belly, whispering vicious nothings in my ear. What are you doing? You think you can have him? Ask yourself why he’d possibly be over here with you.
I crush the voice with a firm fist. Griff is here because I’m gorgeous and he wants me.
Jean-Pierre wasn’t. Jean-Pierre didn’t. Your life is just as cold and false as you are.
Well, now, subconscious. That was hardly sporting.
Griff’s slow reply drags me, blessedly, out of my own head. “I think most people would like to see how you apologise.” A pause, one that zings like sharp, intense thought, before he speaks again. “Where are you from?”
He’s not dragging me outside? Astonishing. I tell myself I’m disappointed rather than relieved. I’m making progress, here. I’m not allowed to be relieved. If I’m really getting better, I should be desperate for some dick in a back alley, like I used to be. Shouldn’t I?
“I’m from London,” I say, hoping he isn’t going to ruin my grand sexual plans by asking where I’m really from. If he does, it won’t take the strangeness to put me off him.
He doesn’t. Instead, he asks, “What do you do?”
“Why do you care?” I shoot back.
“I’m a gold digger.”
My laugh is another brittle bark, but this one comes easier. Now I’m sparking off him, my throat feels less raw. “I’ve recently come down in the world, so your timing is off.”
“My timing?” Something’s happened to his voice. It still sounds like tires creeping over gravel, but now each rumble rolls through my belly. “You came to me, golden boy.”
Golden boy?! “I don’t even know where to start with that.”
“The beginning,” he says patiently.
I splutter. I actually splutter. I haven’t spluttered since the last time I argued with my father, although this doesn’t feel like that—there’s no helpless rage, or secrets like brick walls. Just confused amusement. “Fine,” I manage. “First thing’s first: I didn’t come to you. I came to Fernley.”
“And here I am.” He’s been standing in front of me as I lean against the bar, but now he puts a hand on the shiny, sticky-ringed surface to catch someone’s attention. The action brings his arm so close to my side, I freeze.
He doesn’t notice. He’s caught the eye of the older woman who pulls pints, and he makes a sound that can only be described as a grunt, but which she seems to understand. “Got you, Griff. Just be a sec,” she says, and spins away.
I suppose when there’s only one establishment in the entire village, everyone’s a regular.
Looking back at me—but not moving that arm—he says, “Second thing?”
Oh—I’d almost forgotten that I’m in the middle of telling him off. Sort of. “I’m still on the first thing. I did come to Fernley—”
“Because?”
I ignore him. “But I was minding my business over here when you approached me.”
His lips curve. This smile goes further than the previous ones, until he looks almost rakish, and his eyes crease at the corners. “Did I?”
“Yes.” I should be irritated. I’m amused instead. Amused, and wanting him again, ever so slightly. “As for the second thing—don’t call me ‘golden boy’.”
“Why not?”
“So, so many reasons,” I say. “But the only one you need to know is that I’ll barbecue your balls.”
He studies me for a moment, like I’m a surprise, before saying, “You’re not how I thought you’d be.” There’s a little frown creasing his brow, like he’s thinking. Deeply. About me.
I should really nip that in the bud.
“Forget the drink,” I tell him, putting my own on the bar. “Let’s go.”
He hesitates, or maybe he’s just taking his time in that slow, heavy way he has. Regardless, I don’t have the patience for either—not when it comes to this, not when the thread of desire is back but could disappear at any moment.
I put my hand on his exposed forearm, which is all corded steel and fine, raised veins and crisp black hair. The contact sends an electric shock skittering over my skin. It must hit him too, because his muscles go taut under my palm while my nerves turn to water. I think I’ve miscalculated.
Then he calls, “Leave it, Moira,” and I lead him outside.
Tap here to read WORK FOR IT now!
(And yes, these heroes do become enemies. How, you say? It involves alleyway misunderstandings and bad behaviour and such. No spoilers!)