You’d think I’d be used to the stares. I’m not. No matter how many times I walk into some store or restaurant or bar with my brother and Griffin, the stares get me every time.
I get it. They’re huge and draw more than their fair share of attention on their own. But together? There are people swooning, ones in awe, others who cower, and occasionally, fans who recognize them and want autographs.
Put the two guys together with lil ol’ me sandwiched in the middle like the tiniest of Vienna sausages in their huge hot dog buns? A whole different kind of curiosity overtakes people, and I can see the lewd questions written on their faces. The questions that make me want to yell,That one’s my brother and that one hates me, but I don’t bother. I don’t owe strangers an explanation for why two walking, talking, real-life demigods are hanging out with an average plain Jane.
Okay, I’mnotthat humble.
I know I’m cute, if you consider an hourglass shape with a few extra minutes and a face without a single sharp angle to be cute. I’m what’s affectionately calledslim thick, and while once upon a time a skating coach told me I needed to lose weight, my body type is having amoment. Not that I care what’s in vogue. This is who I am, and I rock what I’ve got to the best of my abilities, which, on the ice or with choreography, is pretty damn good.
In real life? Not so much.
Still, I hold my head high, swish my hips a bit more, and carry my bowl to the table we always sit at. Per my life and karma, however, I promptly spill a handful of shredded lettuce onto the table’s surface. “Shit,” I mutter, sweeping up the evidence of my blunder with my hand before grabbing the rest with a napkin.
“Here,” a gruff voice says.
I wish it were Dominic. Nope, it’s just Griffin, holding out his hand for my lettuce-filled napkin.
“It’s fine. I’ve got it,” I argue, balling up the paper and pointedly ignoring the couple of pieces of lettuce that fall to the floor at my feet. I try to step around him, intending on throwing my own trash away like the strong, independent woman I am, but Griffin grabs my wrist in a big, calloused paw of a hand. His touch is gentler than I would’veexpected, but still insistent. I can’t remember the last time he actually touched me. Usually, he keeps a solid three-foot distance, like it’s a league rule, and barely looks at me unless it’s to see how his barbed comments land.
“Give it here,” he demands, plucking the paper from my hand, which has opened unconsciously. Oddly graceful for a monster his size, he strides across the dining area, not bumping into a single table or chair the way I likely would’ve done, and deposits the napkin in the trash can.
When he turns back, I’m still standing stock-still, staring at him in shock.He touched me and the world didn’t immediately explode.It seems like a small win for mankind, but an even larger one for me. Like not only did I poke at him with my dress (sc0re) but, surprisingly, by making a mess (another score). I make a mental tally mark in my column—Penny: 2; Griffin: big fat goose egg.
I smile triumphantly as I sit. Our usual table is one of those booth-on-one-side, chairs-on-the-other type deals, and Dominic takes his place next to me on the booth, while Griffin sits across from me. I used to wonder why he didn’t sit across from Dominic instead of me, since Dom’s his friend, and once I asked him. He grumbled about their knees bumping since their legs are so long, which made sense, but something about it seemed like a convenient lie. I decided it was probably another way my protective brother keeps everyone away from me, by bookending my existence with his friend.
Maybe that’s why Griffin hates me so much? Because Dom’s always forcing him to hang out with me like some sort of de facto second brother to a younger, annoying—I mean, awesome!—little sister. Maybe?
“Ready for the game?” I ask once we’ve all had a few bites.
Hockey is a safe topic that’ll have the guys talking for hours. I don’t mind it either. I grew up with hockey and love it almost as much as Dom does. Though maybe not as much as Dad, who could easily be described as a superfan of the sport, which means he’s deeply proud ofhis pro son. And pretty happy about his hockey cheerleader daughter, too, though our uniforms aren’t his favorite.
“Yeah,” Dominic says. “The Beavers are known for their defense more than their offense, so we’re going to be hammering Beavers all night long. Right, Honey?” He ends with a chuckle, as if the bad pun isn’t cringeworthy all on its own.
“That’s my hope. Nifty wrist shots all night,” Griffin deadpans in the worst lie to ever be told. He’s a beast on the ice, more violence than finesse, and enjoys every clock-ticking second of it. The attitude carries over off the ice, too, only with slightly less fighting. Very slightly less.
Dom laughs at Griffin’s joke, and I listen while the two of them dissect the likely action they’ll see tomorrow. After a bit, Dom asks me, “What’d you do today?”
I freeze, a too-big bite of chicken and rice halfway to my open mouth. “Huh?” Lowering the fork, I answer, “Oh, I hiked up Devil’s Hill to witness a proposal. The ring was gorg! An heirloom solitaire I reset into a high-profile cathedral setting with tiny hidden birthstones for the bride and groom.” I wiggle happily, remembering Elaina’s wide, joy-filled eyes as she looked at the ring I’d made with my own two hands.
“You hiked Devil’s Hill by yourself?” Griffin barks.
Surprised that’s what he got out of my sweet love story for the day, I scoff. “Yeah, and I lived to tell the tale, as evidenced by my being here.” I dramatically wave a hand at myself as if to remind him of my presence, alive and well. “I also got myself dressed, made my own breakfast, and drove my car to the trailhead and back, because I’m a full-grown adult who can take care of herself,” I add snidely.
“Devil’s Hill is a beginner trail, right?” Dominic asks, seeming confused about Griffin’s concern over my hike.
“Yeah, easy-peasy lemon squeezy, so don’t worry-purry over it. I only slipped off a rock once, but it was no biggie. I’m fine,” I confess, laughing at my own misfortune. What else am I gonna do? It happens too often to be embarrassed by it, and despite my ass being a bit sore earlier, after a hot shower, it’s fine.
“You fell?” Dom asks, looking me up and down like I’ve somehow hidden a broken leg or arm. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,Dad. Again, I’m fine,” I drawl in annoyance. “Did you hear the part about the ring? Another happy couple!” I’m trying to get the focus back on the good stuff, so I add, “They want me to design their wedding bands too.” I clap quietly in delight, both for the opportunity and the guaranteed paycheck.
Being a small-business owner isn’t easy, but I stay busy with custom commissions and fill any downtime with redesigns of heirloom pieces I find, which tend to sell quickly on my website. I’m doing well—great, to be honest—but that doesn’t mean I don’t stress over every order and want to pack every blank date on my calendar. I’ve still got the hustle mentality that helped me get PLDesigns off the ground, and that mindset is what will help me reach the next level of success for my little baby of a business.
“Congratulations,” Griffin says, sounding only slightly less pissed off. “But next time you’re gonna traipse up Devil’s Hill, text me and I’ll go with you to save you from yourself.” He blinks like he’s only now realizing that he’s volunteered to spend time with me, and then adds, “Or Dom. Just don’t go out into the wilderness alone like that.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s hardly wild, and I wasn’t alone. There were at least a dozen other people up there enjoying the beautiful weather. Even a nice guy who helped me up when I fell and walked back down the hill with me.” I purposefully don’t mention that he was white-haired and old enough to be my grandfather, and that we walked down with his wife, who took my business card with a promise to call about me redoing some of her jewelry pieces for their children and grandchildren.
“What guy?”
