As my brother passes me, I chirp out, “No mercy, Dom!” He flashes me a cocky grin as he turns to skate onto the ice backward, mouthingno mercy hereas he thumps his chest. He’s such an arrogant bastard, and though I can’t roll my eyes at his antics when I’m on the ice, he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
“Griffin Mahoney!”
I flip my attention back to the monster entering the rink. With there being a solid foot of difference between our heights, Griffin always towers over me, but when he comes toward me with an extra couple of inches from his skates and several inches wider from the shoulder pads, I feel tiny. But the quick side-eye he shoots my way has me feeling ten-feet tall and bulletproof because the fire in that look is new.
Not cold. Not annoyed. Not dismissive. Nope, I might not be a body language pro who can decipher men with pinpoint accuracy, but that look was ... something I don’t have a name or label for. And while I’m considering buying one of the fancy thermal label makers to organize my work at home, I probably shouldn’t make a cute pink tag that says “Honey” on it because ... it’s stillGriffin.
And he hates me. Right?
Except that look wasn’t one of hate, right? Maybe a day with me has led him to succumb to my considerable charms. And I don’t mean my boobs, which are great but were covered in a T-shirt yesterday for our Tour de Pawn. I mean maybe, after years of trying and a few more years of saying,Fuck it, he’s finally decided to like me. Or at least, not hate me, which is nearly the same thing in my book.
Are we becoming friends?
The idea doesn’t seem as preposterous as it did a few short days ago.
“Good luck, Griffin!” I cheer, happy to have made some progress with the brute.
He flinches, and I swear I see his chest rise sharply like he sucked in a breath. It takes me a second to realize my mistake and correct myself. “I mean, good luck, Honey!”
I can’t help but grin at the progress we’ve made. Three measly days ago, he was glaring at me like he wished I hadn’t invaded the pregame dinner at Pro-Bowl. Now, we’re on a first-name basis, and I even used his nickname, which sounds dangerously close to an endearment. Maybe by the next time we see each other, he’ll actually call me Penny without it sounding like a curse word. It’s a new goal, I decide.
I don’t get to plot that out any further than deciding the colors of the friendship bracelet I’m going to make him—obviously Hawks black and gold—because it’s time for the players to warm up and for the cheerleaders to either get up to our stage area for game-time performances or to put on skates to join the crew that clears the ice during breaks. Cheerleaders rotate between the roles, taking turns either performing or doing shovel skates, and tonight I’m headed up to dance for the whole game.
“I hate you, you know that, right?” Layla whispers once we’re clear of the ice and the crowd and can be ourselves for a moment instead of our cheer-sonas.
I jerk my eyes her way. “What? We’re besties. Like this, you and me.” I cross my fingers and immediately drop my pom, of course kicking it straight into a security guard’s booted foot. Making a soundof suffering, I mutter an apology as I quickly bend down to grab it, never missing a step.
“You hang out with two of the hottest guys on the team all the time. Eating dinner with them, going to the gym with them, sitting on the couch to watchBachelor Islandwith them.” Between the blissed-out smile, lovestruck eyes, and awestruck tone, she makes it sound like I’ve got a MFM throuple going down on the regular.
A laugh escapes hard and loud at her very wrong assumptions. “First of all, they don’t watchBachelor Island. Second of all, one of those hot guys”—I pause to stick my tongue out and gag—“is my brother. And the other one is like a brother. That’s all kinds of ick.”
She tilts her head, her brows fighting their Botox to furrow as she stares at me.
“What?”
“I’ll give you that Dom is your brother. But Honey? He doesn’t look at you like any brother I know. He looks at you like he wants to devour you. Did you hear that grunt he let out when you called himGriffin?” Her eyes roll back, her lashes fluttering. “God, I bet that man is a beast in bed.”
“La la la la la,” I intone, covering my ears with my poms. “Seriously, I wouldn’t know. Now or ever. And if you find out, please don’t tell me. I don’t want to sit across the table from him at Pro-Bowl and pretend I don’t know that he sweats like a wildebeest when he has sex.”
She purses her lips like she’s imagining that. And totally unprompted and unwanted, a vision pops into my mind—of Griffin hovering over me, his teeth gritted, his neck muscles popping out, and his eyes locked onto mine as he thrusts into me deep and hard. There’s not a bead of sweat in sight, just pure, raw sex appeal. I shake my head, wishing I could unsee that image because it is dangerous ... and stupid ... and pointless.
We’re barely becoming friends, like on the tippy-tappy fine line between forced acquaintanceship and friendship. So there’s zeroneed, likenegativeneed, for me to have even one little dirty thought about Griffin.
“Of the two of us, I think you’re the one more likely to get that answer.”
“Huh?” I almost missed what Layla said, but in the time it takes me to question her, what she’s implying registers, and I act quickly to correct her. “Don’t. Be. Ridiculous.”
“Okay. If you say so.” There’s a glint in her eyes that says her words and her thoughts on this don’t match up at all.
I’m not the one who’d get that answer. Griffin is barely starting to tolerate me. The last few days are probably like an allergy shot, exposing him to the thing that irritates him the most in the hopes that he’ll start to be a little less reactive to it. That’s all. What Layla has mistaken for a desire to devour me is merely not outright loathing.
There was that moment at the door where you thought he might kiss you.
The whisper in my mind sounds like the devil trying to confuse me. I did think that. For one blink of an eye. And then I remembered who he is and who I am, and how much he hates me. Add in the way he virtually bolted down the hall like he couldn’t get away from me fast enough, and I was obviously misreading all the signs. It wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened. Just the worst person to have it happen with.
Oh God! What if he thought Iwantedhim to kiss me?
Maybe I was unintentionally sending signals, and that’s why he skedaddled? That’d be just my bad luck. Hell, he probably told Dom that I threw myself at him like a standard-issue puck bunny and he had to let me down easy since me and him are an absolute no-way-not-happening thing. I bet they laughed and laughed at pitiful Penny.
