Page 18 of The Curveball

Now, I’m faced with a dilemma. To call my family or not.

I’m leaning toward not. They’ll roll me in bubble wrap and insist I never leave their sights. My brothers are two wolves guarding their pack, and can get feral for the slightest skin tear. Big nope.

Besides, Darren and my sister-in-law Emma live in a two-bedroom townhome with two kids. I’m not sleeping in the alcove they call a playroom. My nephews would cry if I bumped their Lego sets.

Carter has a one-bedroom apartment. I’m not rushing to live in close quarters with my brother. Even if he’s rarely there. Most nights he’s on The Strip working in one of the stunt shows at Caesar’s Palace. Carter has a dream to be a stunt-double for movies, but it’s a tough business to crack.

I’m not going to add more to his plate.

My mom and Auntie Cleo would move in with me, but I’d be forced to admit I have no place to live at the moment, then it would turn into a tug-of-war over which house between them I’d be most comfortable.

But Mom has temporarily relocated to Anaheim for a court case. She works as a paralegal for a cutthroat, high-profile law firm, and the next few months will be rough. Filled with overtime pay, but rough.

Auntie Cleo is only about an hour north of here, but my brothers’ mother will one hundred percent call my mom if I show up like this, then Lucy Fox will abandon her well-deserved paycheck and come mother her adult daughter.

My father will never know because I’ll get an earful of how this reflects badly on him, but if I question how, he’ll get dramatic and the character assassination will begin.

No thanks.

I force myself to think of more pleasant things, horrified to realize those pleasant thoughts turn into Griffin’s warm hand on my face as he leaned into my car.

I close my eyes, listening to the deep, rumbly, authoritative tone outside my door. Griffin has been speaking for the last ten minutes with some guy who came in with forms to fill out for insurance, and liability, and probably a bunch of other stuff I don’t want to think about.

With hardly a word, hardly a pause to let me argue, Griffin invited the guy into the hallway where they’ve been chatting ever since.

What am I going to do now?

The door clicks, and Griffin strides back inside. He’s an eyeful. Almost tall enough he needs to tip his head to the side, shoulders broad and toned, and that goofy smile he has on his face is locked and loaded the second he sees me.

“Hey,” he says. “Never fear, all forms are handled. All you need to do is sit back and relax, and dream of me feeding you grapes from a velvet pillow.”

“I am a goddess.” Pills are talking, and I don’t even try to stop them. Or maybe it’s more Griffin has the ability to pull my voice out of my throat. Awkward or not, this guy gets me talking.

“Don’t I know it,” Griffin mutters.

I snort, ignoring the rush of heat in my cheeks. Griffin needs to be kept at a distance, and I’m failing miserably tonight. My resolve is weakened further when his playful smirk falls into something stoic.

Griffin pulls one of the sitting chairs next to the hospital bed. They haven’t prodded or poked me for over an hour, but it’s impossible to swiftly leave a hospital. He leans over his knees, eyes on the ground.

The way Griffin’s shoulders slouch, almost despondent, has me fighting the urge to run my fingers through his hair until he relaxes.

What is wrong with me? Must be the pain meds kicking in, because there is no reality where this guy who charms the socks off everyone he meets wants me stroking his scalp. In fact, there is no reality where I want to become a Griffin Marks scalp-stroker.

“Wren,” he says quietly. The sadness lining his tone does nothing to help my tingling fingers. Griffin lifts his eyes, holding my stare. I wouldn’t dream of blinking, not when he’s got me pierced in place by a single look. Griffin lifts one hand to his chin and rubs his sharp jaw for a few breaths. “First, I want to apologize again. I swear, I wasn’t texting, but my mom did send a me a message, and you know when your phone lights up it’s like your eyes are moths, and you can’t help but look?”

I smile. “Moth eyes. Got it.”

“Exactly.” Griffin sits straight in his chair. “That’s all I did. Followed the light for a few seconds, and I slammed right into you. I’m sorry.”

If I cared less like I ought to, I would accept his apology and let it die. But the way his spine is curved, the man looks like he’s carrying the weight of the world on his back. And deny it all I like, I care enough not to let him shoulder the guilt like this.

“Griffin, it’s not all your fault,” I say, waiting for him to lift his eyes again. “I didn’t even pause before I turned out onto the street. I was on autopilot, so it’s sort of a unified crash of semi-distracted driving.”

“You had your eyes on the road.”

“Did I? Or was it more like I was in a coma?”

The sexy little twist of his mouth causes a flurry deep inside my stomach.

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