Page 21 of Heart of Thorns

@Rhys: Jeez @Cynthia_Thorne, Did you really change your name to Cynthia Thorne?

@Cynthia_Thorne: So? None of your business, @Rhys

@Rhys: @Cynthia_Thorne, Should have changed it to Can’t Take No For An Answer.

I push Marley’s phone away. “Of course he’s still on a pedestal. Even with devil horns.”

“Do you want help fixing it?” she asks, sending me a pitiful smile.

I shake my head. “It won’t take me long. I’ll be in and out within an hour.”

“Okay, well, call me when you’re done. I’ll pick you up.”

She steps away with a half-smile on her face, and it takes me a second to register what she said.

“Pick me up? For what?

“For the game. You’re coming with.” She winks and then spins away.

“Says who?” I shout after her. “I’m not going.”

“See you in a few!” she calls over her shoulder.

I huff and turn toward the locker room. The entire walk there, I argue with myself over whether or not I want to put my foot down and refuse to go. But I’m getting a hunch that Marley’s goal for this year is to soften my hardened, thorny exterior—one I entirely blame on my secret arsonist.

The clock is ticking, and although I’m practically finished, I quickly add the last golden flecks to Thorne’s eyes before any of the guys show up for the game. If they’re anything like me, they’ll be here at least an hour before they need to be to get in the right mindset.

I lean back on the ladder, ignoring the burning pain in my knee, and make sure everything is proportionate on Thorne’s face. It should be concerning that I don’t have to pull up his photo on my phone to make sure I got everything correct. He’s the type of attractive that stays in your head after just one glimpse.

“My jaw needs to be more defined.”

I gasp and twist.

My paintbrush slips from my hand, and I grip the side of the ladder as my life flashes before me. A rush of heat whooshes down my spine, followed by tingly fear.

“Jeez.” Thorne settles the wobbly ladder.

Although I sort of hate him, I’m thankful. Falling off a ladder is the very last thing I need.

“You good?” He stares at me with those stupid warm eyes.

I bristle at his feigned kindness. “I’m fine.”

“Let me help you.” He reaches for my hand, and I stare at his palm in disgust.

After a few awkward stares from some of his teammates walking into the locker room, he slowly drops his arm. He chuckles. “You act like my palm is going to burst into flames if you touch it.”

My lips part.

Did he really just say that?

“You’re an even bigger asshole than I thought,” I say through clenched teeth.

His brow furrows. “What?”

My throat tightens. Ignoring the throbbing of my knee, I stomp down the ladder and shoulder check his hard stomach after gathering my supplies. I leave my fallen paintbrush on the floor because there is nofucking way I’m kneeling below him.

On my way out of the locker room, ignoring the stares I’m getting from his teammates, Stephen McDowell's chuckle snags my attention.

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