“Uh, excuse me,” I sputter, choking on my own breath in the aftermath of his affectionate gesture and the confrontation with his rock-hard body. “Presumptuous much?”
“You soaked my shirt, little mermaid.” He wipes a hand down his ripped chest. “Some of us don’t like getting wet.”
I swallow, then narrow my eyes as Griffith drags his hand along the same tantalizing path it just traveled. As if he wants to bring attention to his body.
“Oh my gods, Violetta was right.”
He pauses. “About what?”
“About you. And me.” I wave at his seductive stance. “You’re trying to woo me!”
The werewolf goes still, his eyes narrowing. Then he drops his hand and grunts. “Am not.”
“Oh, so you normally fondle your perfectly sculpted pecs in the middle of the night, standing alone in your kitchen?”
“Perfectly sculpted?”
I roll my eyes. “You know how good-looking you are. Stop acting coy.”
Griffith leans forward, bracing his hands on the counter behind me, bracketing me with his arms. “Maybe I want to know how good-lookingyouthink I am.”
My whole body heats, and I raise a hand between us … then boop him on the nose. “Wooing.”
He barks a laugh, and the humor in his eyes is the most attractive thing about him. “Put a movie on. I’ll get changed. We’ll get through this storm together.”
I watch him jog out of the room, as if he’s in a hurry to get changed and come back.
And I wonder when Griffith stopped hating me.
My theory that he’s truly gotten over his animosity toward me is supported even further when he returns and immediately drapes a blanket over my lap. He also makes me a cup of chamomile tea and doesn’t object to me turning on a reality show about the crews that work on luxury yachts.
Love some drama on the sea.
From the corner of my eye, I watch him sink into the couch with his own steaming mug and try to figure the wolf out. Concentrating on the mystery of Griffith is a great distraction from the steady roll of thunder outside.
“You going to watch me this whole time? If so, I’m changing the show.”
I snort, not even pretending to be embarrassed. “You know you’re interested.”
“Only in the boats.”
I chuckle, then ask a question I can’t suppress anymore. “Where are your parents?”
He jerks at what must seem like a completely random topic shift. But the bad memories brought up by storms always revolve around my mom and dad, which led me to wonder once again about Griffith’s family situation.
He clears his throat, then waves toward the dark windows. “Home, I suspect. They live in the Of the Claw section.”
“Have they always?”
Griffith nods, gaze locked on the TV, shoulders a touch too stiff.
I keep pressing, wanting to understand what has him on edge. “I don’t think I’ve ever met them. At least, I can’t remember. Which is weird, right? Since you and Carl have been close forever.”
Plus, the town is small.
Griffith grunts. “They stick to the woods. Don’t come into town much.” When I just stare at him, Griffith sighs and continues, “They’d rather run with wolves than talk to humans. Or other mythics.”
“Huh.” I try to imagine that, having parents who cut themselves off from a large part of the community. Must have felt isolating. Especially when Griffith was too young to shift. “Do you run with them much?”
