He rubs his chin and leans back. His phone rings, so he takes it out and answers it.
Okay, rude, but we aren’t exactly besties.
“Hi … yeah, I made it … good, did you get them? You liked them? Good,” he says, and then looks up at me. “I’ll call you when I get done here. I don’t know. Ten minutes.”
Jesus.
He hangs up.
“Natalie?” I ask, for god knows what reason.
His eyes narrow as he takes me in, and he places the phone on the table.
“All right, first, I think you meant to saymy girl, notour girl, and two, I?—”
“It’s actually second,” I interrupt.
“What?”
“Well, you said first and then made a statement, so your follow-up would be second, not two. Unless you said one, she’s not my girl” —excuse me while I mentally punch him—“and two, then made your?—”
“I don’t care,” he cuts me off.
Noted.
“Are you in love with Natalie or not?” he asks. “If you are, then I suggest you back off and let her be. Do you want to hurt her?”
Well, this was not the conversation I was expecting. Also, who the fuck is this guy? Is this how he presents himself to Natalie?
Not fucking okay. Not one bit.
I fold my arms and lean onto the table in front of me.
“Doyouwant to hurt her?” I ask.
“Can I get you two anything to drink?” our waitress asks.
Griffin smirks at her and winks.
Oh, hell no.
Natalie is not marrying this guy. No fucking way. I’m not letting it happen.
As he’s flirting with the waitress, his phone buzzes on the table, and a text drops down.
My love
Baby, I miss you.
I look at the text, and then I look at him. Is that Natalie?
The waitress leaves, and I lean back.
“Come on, man,” Griffin goes on. “Admit defeat. I got the girl, and you didn’t.”
“First of all, she’s not a fucking prize.”
If I weren’t so pissed, I’d laugh, because nowhere in my life did I think I’d ever use that line outside of romance novels.
