To him, I’m invisible. As if he deems me worthy of only looking at for a mere moment, like I’m a waste of his time. Like he hates me.
And I have no idea why.
I first met Griffin five years ago when Dom brought him home. I’d been so excited to see my brother, whom I’d missed desperately, and wanted to share basically everything that had happened during the first few months of my sophomore year of college, like that I was dropping out and hadn’t told Mom and Dad yet and wanted him to back me up when I did. Instead, he’d come home with a new friend.
Which was fine, and I’d been welcoming ... at first. After all, a friend of my brother’s is a friend of mine.
My first impression of Griffin was that he was smoking hot, all huge and muscly, with a soft smile of appreciation for my parents for letting him “tag along with Dom,” as he called it. But my impression changed, quickly and drastically. He stole Dominic’s attention the whole week while Mom and Dad treated him like a royal guest, both of which would’ve been 100 percent A-okay with me, except, almost instantly, he started glaring at me for reasons I didn’t know then and still don’t know now.
It was like he hated me on first sight, and I have no idea why.
“That’s no way to greet your favorite brother,” Dom says as he strides in without an invitation. Not that he needs one. He’s annoying, but he’s my brother, and I love him despite his overbearing nature.
“You mispronouncedonlybrother, though I’m still hoping the DNA test comes back with some good news about that.” I cross my fingers and close my eyes like I’m making a wish, but don’t bother hiding the grin that ruins the image of some hardcore sibling rivalry between us.
We love each other. We’ve just perfected shit-giving as a form of affection.
I watch him pass, and turn back, locking eyes with Griffin. His lips are curled, and his nose is wrinkled like I have body odor so bad that he can smell me from three feet away. Frowning, I glare back at him. I showered with vanilla-scented body wash after my hike, and I’m 100 percent certain I don’t stink. I probably smell delicious, and he’s some rare freak who hates vanilla.
Griffin moves to follow Dom but pauses directly in front of me. I crane my neck to look up at him, finding that he’s peering down the crooked length of his nose at me. His dark-brown eyes, with their cold depths and unfairly long lashes, scan my face and then lift to my forehead. With a hint of a smirk on his stupidly full lips, he murmurs flatly, “Cute.”
As he walks in, I furrow my brow in confusion, then raise a hand, realizing that my dorky loupes with the magnifiers are likely making every pore on my forehead look humongous. “Of course,” I utter, ripping the glasses off but folding them carefully. I shut the door, resigned to the next few minutes of interrogation at my brother’s behest.Might as well get this over with,I tell myself in what’s probably the worst cheerleader pep talk ever.
The guys have already made themselves at home on my couch—no easy feat, since the two of them take up the entirety of the three cushions, even with minimal manspreading. Delaying the inevitable, I put my work into the biometric safe, set my loupes in their cushioned case, and turn off my LED desk light.
“Come to dinner with us,” Dominic orders. He’s always bossy like that, thinking he knows what’s best for me. Unfortunately, he’s usually right.
Turning around, I shake my head dismissively. “No, thanks. Already ate.” I pat my stomach to really sell it.
Dom tilts his head, seeing right through my lie.
“Not hungry?” I try, though it’s even more obvious that I’m lying now.
“Get dressed so we can get this over with,” Griffin grunts angrily, shoving his hand through his dark-blond hair. Both he and Dom have typical hockey flow hairstyles, but where my brother keeps his trimmed short in the back, Griffin’s hair is more flipped along his neck, giving him a rougher, casual appearance, though the man is anything but carefree. He’s more care-less, in that he doesn’t care about anyone or anything. Well, except Dominic. But beyond that, Griffin is more likely to throw hands than speak words, usually seems suspicious of anyone who claims to be a fan, and has never mentioned a single interest other than hockey.
I glance down at myself, making sure that I didn’t forget to put on clothes after my shower, but I’m wearing a sweatshirt dress and slouchy socks. The casual vibe coordinates perfectly with my air-dried brunette waves and bare face. I didn’t need a fulllookto sit at home and work, but I’m glad they didn’t get here earlier when I was doing both a hair and face mask with moisturizing gloves and booties on. They would’ve teased me mercilessly and probably come up with some nickname likeLoch Ness Monsterbecause of the green goop.
My eyes return to Griffin to find him scowling at my legs, which are so freshly shaved there’s not a single pokey hair on them. And suddenly, I know what to do. “Let me get my boots.”
I step into my bedroom, slip my feet into my favorite calf-high boots, and intentionally ignore the mirror over my dresser. Back in the living room, Dominic stands. “Let’s go. I’m starving.”
“Hi, Starving. I’m Penny.”
My brother doesn’t even pretend to laugh at my classic dad joke, which is blasphemy as far as I’m concerned. At a minimum, I deservea fakehar-har, and I won’t forget the omission next time he pops off with a dad-level witticism.
Griffin snorts in derision, but not at my joke. “You arenotgoing out in that.” He points at my dress, as if there’s some confusion about what he’s referring to.
I don’t bother looking at myself again. “Yes, I am.” To my brother, I say, “Suddenly, I’m starving too. You’re right, I haven’t eaten since this morning.”
I slip my arm through Dom’s, encouraging him to move and letting him escort me toward the door.
Behind me, Griffin snaps, “Your ass is nearly hanging out. Does nobody care about that?”
At Griffin’s assertion, Dominic gives my outfit a quick glance, but he shrugs because my ass is not hanging out. Or even close to it. My sweatshirt dress is almost mid-thigh. Well, within inches of being mid-thigh, but the banded elastic hem keeps everything scooped under my butt, so there’s no chance of an accidental Marilyn blow-up peekaboo moment.
“Nope,” I throw over my shoulder. “And quit looking at my butt.”
Feeling sassy, I shake my ass in a corgi-esque wiggle, making sure he can’t help but notice. Not waiting for a reply, I urge Dominic into the hallway by confiding that I had a yogurt parfait hours ago, knowing that’ll get him moving. I’m trusting that Griffin will follow us, and a moment later, when he does, I feel a sense of triumph that’s probably discordant with the scale of the actual win, but I don’t care, because I’m unexpectedly craving a protein bowl of my own. And a bit of sweet victory.
