Page 83 of Tangled Kisses
The doubt gnaws at my gut, ugly and familiar, but another emotion barrels over it. Concern for Griffin.
My heart and hormones need to chill until I ensure my friend is safe.
“Is he okay?”
Piper shrugs, running a finger along the wood grain of the door. “Would you be? I know it’s just hair, but damn, that man was known for it.”
One of my favorite parts of him, too. Along with… well, every other part.
I shove back from my desk, my chair bumping the wall. “Where is he?”
“I’m not sure he’s up for talking. He’s pretty upset about the entire thing.”
“Where is he, Piper?”
“His cabin. Chopping wood until he stops being so damn mad. At least that’s what Dorian said.”
Fury flashes through me, my protective instinct overriding doubt. “Bitch better watch out that I don’t find her, because no one touches someone I care about without their permission.”
“Go get him, tiger.”
I drop a peck on Piper’s cheek. “That’s what friends do, right? You promise you’ll tell me if anyone ever hurts you.”
“They’d be a fool to mess with me when you’re my sister.”
I skew my mouth to the side, trying my best to appear innocent. “I know a thousand ways to kill someone and make it look like an accident. Just saying.”
“Remind me never to cross you.”
“Don’t hurt anyone I care about and we’re good.” I brush past her and into the hallway.
“Reese,” Piper calls after me. “He’s lucky to have you.”
From a distance,I can’t tell any difference.
Oh, it’s obvious Griffin is mad—the force behind each swing of the ax, the guttural grunts tearing from his chest every time the blade splits wood, the way he pitches each piece across the yard like it insulted him personally. But physically? He’s unharmed.
Thank God she didn’t take the scissors to his face or body. The thought alone makes my stomach twist.
He glances up when I step on a twig, swiping a hand across his brow. “Guess you heard.”
His voice is clipped. Harsh. Nothing like the warmth he always uses with me.
“Why don’t you take a break?” I grab him a water from the cooler and nod toward the porch.
“Fine.” He buries the ax in a stump and adjusts his hat like it’s welded in place, tugging the brim low.
By the time he stomps up the stairs and drops into the rocking chair, I’ve followed, folding my arms. “Take it off.”
His eyes narrow. “Reese?—”
“Take. It. Off.”
He hesitates, flexing his fingers on the brim. Then, slowly, he peels it away.
My breath catches. The buzz cut leaves him raw, stripped bare. And God help me, still so heartbreakingly gorgeous.
“Huh.” Not the best reaction. Totally unintentional, but it slips out anyway.
