Page 110 of Dating Goals
“Because he was trying to help you.” She turns fully toward me now, eyes blazing. “He ran up twenty-one flights of stairs to make sure you weren’t murdered.”
“Twenty-one flights? Impressive cardio regimen.”
“By the time he reached the landing, you’d already…” She makes a punching motion with her fist.
“So, he was there. And didn’t even say hallo gov’na.”
“He said you handled yourself well.” Her lips twitch. “I’m quite impressed you managed without a woman stepping in to save you.”
“Hey, now.”
“Am I wrong?”
“No,” I admit, laughing despite myself. I’m no fighter. On the ice, I avoid confrontation. Off the ice, I’m the guy who apologizes when someone else steps on my foot. “Between you kung fufighting those bar goons and Elodie going full Lara Croft on an assassin, pushing him off a moving train…”
“Elodie did what?”
“I thought I told you about the train.”
“You did but…” Anika blinks rapidly. “I guess I didn’t let you tell me the details.”
“Well, I ducked a lot while Elodie did all the ninja moves.”
She bites her lip, suppressing a smile. “Not exactly James Bond material, are you?”
I hang my head. Sixteen-year-old Griffin would be so disappointed in me right now. “No, I suppose not.”
A shooting star streaks across the sky, gone before I can point it out. Wishes wasted.
“Besides,” I continue. “Fighting isn’t exactly in my skill set. I’m more of a lover than a fighter.”
Her cheeks flush beautifully.
“Griffin, I…”
“Excuse me, Mr. McGregor?” A uniformed concierge stands at the terrace entrance. “The game will resume in five minutes. Your presence is requested.”
“Of course.” I nod, not taking my eyes off Anika. “Be right there.”
The concierge retreats, leaving us alone again.
“Anika, about last night.”
She places her finger against my lips. “Go win your game, Griffin.”
“And after?”
A smile plays at her lips. “After, we talk.”
“Promise?”
Warmth blooms in my chest as she says, “And I will take the train back to Grächen with you.”
The poker room hums with quiet tension when I enter. Three faces turn toward me with barely concealed contempt. Durand, Malcolm, and the Texan, all hoping I wouldn’t return.
“McGregor.” Malcolm nods. “We thought you might have decided to quit while you were ahead.”
“And miss the chance to see your face when I win? Not a chance.” I slide into my chair, attempting to channel my inner Sean Connery but feeling more like Austin Powers.
