Page 121 of Dating Goals
“No! Come on,” Griffin says. “Let’s ditch this snooze-fest. We could go to my cabin. Put on some Depeche Mode.”
For one dangerous second, I actually consider it. The cabin with its cozy fireplace…and Griffin making me laugh. Making me feel alive. But I’m on date with Drainage Thomas, unfortunately.
“I can’t,” I say firmly. “Ivy and James set this up. It would be rude.”
“Does Thomas know you secretly love The Cure?”
“Stop it.”
“Does Thomas know how brave you were in St. Moritz, helping to bring down a financial criminal?”
The memory of the poker game flashes through my mind. The tension, the danger, Griffin’s triumphant smile when he won.
“Thomas is safe,” I whisper. “He won’t leave when the lockout ends.”
Griffin’s smile falters for a fraction of a second. “Some things are worth the risk, Anika. More than one hundred million poker chips and more than my lucky Loonie.”
The front door of Ivy’s house opens, spilling warm light onto the sidewalk. I hear James calling my name.
“I need to go,” I say, stepping back from the car.
Griffin nods, understanding in his eyes. “For what it’s worth, I hope you have a terrible time with Thomas.”
A laugh escapes me. “That’s horrible.”
“I’m a horrible person.” He grins. “But I’m your horrible person if you want me.”
I roll my eyes but can’t suppress my smile. “Goodbye, Griffin.”
I cross the street but don’t go back in the house until I see the Bugatti pull away slowly, its taillights disappearing around the corner with “Don’t You Want Me” by The Human League blasting from the speakers.
I wait until Griffin’s taillights disappear completely, straining my ears until the last notes of The Human League fade into the night. Part of me hopes Griffin is circling the block, waiting for me to change my mind. The other part hopes he’s driving straight back to Grächen, because I can’t trust myself around him.
I take a deep breath of the cold evening air, savoring these final moments of freedom before returning to Thomas and his riveting theories on proper soil permeability.
Wonderful, stable, excruciatingly dull Thomas, who won’t kiss me senseless on helicopter pads or drag me into international espionage. Thomas, who won’t make me feel alive and terrified all at once. Thomas, who won’t break my heart when he flies back to Canada.
I sigh heavily, turning back toward Ivy’s house with the enthusiasm of someone approaching a root canal. Maybe I can develop a sudden migraine. Food poisoning? Spontaneous combustion?
The sound of footsteps behind me registers a split second before a large hand clamps over my mouth.
24
ANIKA
Muscle memory kicks in before my brain catches up. My father didn’t spend years drilling kung fu forms into me for nothing. I pivot, redirecting his momentum while simultaneously driving my elbow backward into a solid ribcage. Air whooshes from his lungs as he doubles over. I follow with a knee to his face that sends him staggering backward.
His partner doesn’t hesitate. He lunges, aiming a punch at my head that would have knocked me unconscious if it connected. I sidestep, catching his extended arm and send him stumbling into a row of hedges. A swift kick to the back of his knee drops him to the ground.
The first man recovers quickly, producing something from his jacket pocket. A syringe. My stomach drops. Whatever’s in that needle, I definitely don’t want it in my bloodstream.
“Why are you making this difficult?” he hisses, circling me cautiously now.
I shift my weight to the balls of my feet, keeping both men in my peripheral vision while executing a perfect spinning kick. My boot connects with his wrist, sending the syringe flying into the bushes. He curses and throws a wild punch that misses my headby centimeters. I counter with three rapid strikes. Nose. Throat. Sternum. He collapses to his knees, gasping for air.
The second man charges again. I use his momentum to flip him over my hip. His massive body slams against the sidewalk. Basic judo throw, but it works every time on overconfident men who underestimate five-foot-seven women.
I don’t wait to see if he gets up because syringe guy is coming at me now. We exchange a flurry of blows. His attack more conventional street fighting, mine the disciplined forms of Wing Chun. I parry his jab, counter with a palm strike to his nose. Something crunches. He howls, blood streaming down his face.
