Page 32 of Worth the Risk

“How little is little? Did he touch you?” I can see the momma bear in her come out.

“He had my arm, but—”

“Oh my God. How scary!”

“I could have handled myself.” It’s the same lie I told myself as I stared at the ceiling last night while very creepy variations of how the situation could have played out kept me up. “But Grayson forgot to pay and was coming back in and saw us . . . and, of course, he—”

“Stepped in to save the day?”

“I wouldn’t be quite that dramatic, but yeah.”

“I told you he was hero material.”

“Don’t, Rissa—”

“Gold. Mine. Marketing,” she says, emphasizing each word.

I glare at her. “He was a jerk.”

“Because he saved you?”

“No because . . .” Because he found out I was going to use him to save the magazine and was pissed? Because he demanded a thank-you? Both make me look like the ass. Again.

“Because why?”

“It’s the attention thing. He doesn’t want any part of it.”

“Then make him want it. It’s your butt on the line here. I’d think that would be enough motivation for you.”

“Easier said than done,” I murmur.

“Isn’t everything?”

“Sunnyville native, Grayson Malone, has been credited with rescuing a woman Friday night. Here on a work assignment, Sidney Thorton, daughter of media tycoon Frank Thorton, was cornered in the darkened alley behind Hooligan’s pub by an armed thug. Without thought to his own safety, Malone came to her aid, disarming the assailant and ushering Ms. Thorton to safety.

This isn’t Mr. Malone’s first brush with being a hero. He’s been credited with piloting rescue flights in the past but has neither confirmed nor denied these claims.

As a medevac pilot for Mercy-Life, Malone—”

“That’s enough.”

“C’mon. I want to read more about how my baby brother saved a woman from an armed thug,” Grant says as he peers at me over the newspaper.

“He wasn’t armed.”

“No shit, Sherlock. Or else you would have reported him.”

“And I’m far from being a fucking hero.”

“That isn’t what this says.” When he starts to read aloud again, I rip the newspaper from his hands, throw it on the table in front of him, and walk to the kitchen for a beer.

“I said that’s enough.” I’m pissed. Irritated. Why in the hell would she offer up that story?

“Testy. Testy.”

“Knock it off, will you?” He knows how to get under my skin and is doing a damn fine job of it. I grab a beer from the fridge and look out back to where Luke is playing in the fort we’d built out of sheets and two-by-fours.

“Let me see. Hot woman. You to the rescue. Why are you here being so pissy when you could be with her, getting laid?”