“Starving,” I say, just as Snapper barks out a, “No!”
Anastacia giggles, and leads me into the dining room, where dishes full of food are spread out on the table, along with a bottle of wine and dirty dishes. They must have eaten already.
“This is not going to be a repeating event!” Snapper shouts behind me, but I ignore him. I have more important things to focus on.
“Let me get you a plate,” Anastacia says. “Take a seat. I’ll be right back.”
I drop into the chair and watch as she walks through the archway and into the kitchen. I barely hear Snapper and that guy talking in the other room because I’m laser-focused on Anastacia and what she’s doing.
When she comes back into the room, I swear my veins light up, warming my body from the inside like a glow stick. If she says I turned neon pink, I wouldn’t be surprised.
My eyes stay glued to her. Fuck, she is beautiful.
“How hungry are you?” she asks once she reaches the table.
“Starving.”
She laughs. “You said that.”
“So starving,” I repeat like an idiot.
Her head shakes as she piles food onto the plate, emptying the dishes that are on the table. Snapper may get pissed, but oh well. I’ll buy him a whole new chicken to replace what I’m going to eat. Hell, I’ll get him a damn chicken farm, just so I can sit here and eat with this angel.
She puts the plate in front of me, then takes the seat across from me.
“Are you going to eat?” she asks with a bright smile.
“Yes,” I say, but I don’t move.
She laughs again, her cheeks turning more pink by the second. “When?”
“When what?”
“When are you going to eat?”
“Oh, right.” I blink a few times, then grab my knife and fork, and start to eat. Her gaze is on me the entire time, and I learn that I like it as much as looking at her.
Okay, slightly less.
A lot less. Looking at her is way better than her looking at me.
I’m nothing special.
But her…
She’s an angel. That’s it. I’ve got nothing else. Nothing crazy or creative. Just an angel. Plain and simple. But that’s good enough for me. Not everyone gets something as special as an angel.
“So, is Grizz your club name?” she asks, resting her chin on her fist, her elbow propped on the table.
I cut into the juicy chicken, stab it, then scoop up some spaghetti.
“Yeah, but it’s been my nickname since I was born.”
“Oh?”
“My name’s Griswold, and that’s embarrassing as hell. Grizz sounds cool.”
“It’s not embarrassing,” she says seriously.
