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“This place is a hellhole,” she mutters under her breath.
“Eight flights is good exercise.”
“I’d rather have an elevator. I can work out in my bedroom.”
“I’ll help you.”
“Right.”
I don’t even have to see her face to know she’s rolling her eyes. She stops in front of her door and turns to me. “My brother thinks we’re dating.”
“Looks like you’re the beauty and he’s the brains.”
She punches me in the gut, and it kinda hurts and it’s kinda sexy.
“Don’t even say it.”
“What?”
“That I look good upset.”
“You want me to lie now?”
“It’s cliché.”
“For a reason. Your cheeks are flushed. Your eyes are bright. You’re breathing faster than normal. Basically you looked turned on.” I take a step closer until my thigh is practically wedged between her legs. “Maybe you are.”
The door opens before she can respond, making her fall backward. Over her head, I see a scowling Mick Murphy.
Chapter Twelve
LAUREN
Griff sets up in the kitchen, opening cabinets and pulling out pans and utensils like he owns the place. Mick watches it all with sullen dislike.
“What did you do today?”
He remains silent.
“Having a hard time finding a job, huh?” Griff says as he heats up the frying pan.
“What do you know?” Mick juts his chin out.
“I know that hiring managers will overlook an assault charge easier than a theft one because if you’re stealing from someone else, you’ll be stealing from them. Doesn’t matter if you’re applying for a job to deliver a ten dollar meal or selling securities. Actually I take that back. The higher the value of the item you’re selling, the more they’d be willing to overlook your crimes.”
“So I just need to get to Wall Street trader level and all’s good.”
“Yep, but getting there is the problem. In order to sit for the Series E license, you have to have a clean record. In other words, you have to start your life of crime after you’re on the tradingfloor, not before.” Griff dumps the steaks onto the hot pan. Mick drifts closer.
“So what now? My life is over? You sending me to boot camp or something?”
“Do I look like a guy who’d send you to military school?”
“Yes,” both Mick and I say.
“You too?” Griff shoots me a wounded, accusatory look.
“Yes.”
