Page 14 of Ripple Effect, Vol. 4

Jörgen frowns and his gaze flicks to Rip in a silent exchange that makes me think he’s as unsure of this babysitting gig as I am.

“I’m ... I thought you ... You look like the guy from that show. He’s cool. I like the show.” Tucking my hands behind my back, I turn to Rip. “Can I talk to you one sec?”

With a grip of my arm, he gives Jörgen a sharp nod and ushers me into his office. “Don’t fight me on this. I killed a major player in the game, Dylan. Rook is Dorian’s brother, which means he’ll be out for revenge. Jörgen’s going to make sure no one does anything stupid, like taking you away from me again.”

“It’s just that ... well, he’s huge. And frightening. I mean, does the guy know English? He looks at me like I’m speaking Vulcan.”

I can tell Rip’s trying not to laugh when his cheek flinches. “He speaks English.”

“Can you trust him?”

“I trust no one. But if I did, I’d trust him.”

“That makes no sense. And if you thought that’d put me at ease, it doesn’t.”

“I took a bullet for the man. To him, that’s a big deal. Yes, he’s trustworthy.” He strokes my cheek and plants a kiss on my forehead. “He won’t lay a hand on you. Believe me, I’ve seen him at the club. He’s not a touchy feely guy.”

“Technically, he doesn’t have to touch if he uses a knife.”

Rip clears his throat and straightens his stance, and when I follow the path of his gaze, it lands on Everest, standing at the door, completely filling the frame of it. “I won’t be long.” Another quick kiss, this one on the lips, and Rip slips into a black leather coat, steps past me, patting Jörgen on the shoulder when he exits the office.

It takes every ounce of energy not to fidget as my eyes wander everywhere else in the office except for the massive mountain man eyeing me like a statue.

I scratch the back of my head and place a hand on my hip. “Want a beer, Jörgen?” Christ, maybe alcohol will loosen him up so he’s not so … stiff.

His lack of reaction is unnerving.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” I say, squeezing between him and the doorframe. I’m like a tiny mouse beside this guy.

His footsteps shadow mine toward the kitchen where I pull two beers from the fridge, setting them out on the table.

From a drawer, I grab a bottle opener and pop both caps. “You won’t tell Rip, right?”

He quirks a brow and crosses his arms over his chest.

Rolling my shoulders, I remind myself that he apparently won’t lay a hand on me, so I lift the bottle to my lips and kick back a long swig. If nothing else, maybe I need to loosen the hell up. When I slam the bottle down on the table, it’s already quarter gone. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “I’ll tell him you drank it.”

A flicker of something dances across his face, and I think I’ve just seen this guy smile. He falls into the chair across from me and kicks back a long swill of the beer. Like, really long. My eyes widen as he polishes it off in one sip.

“Holy shit. I think we’re gonna need more beer.” I nab another one from the fridge, feeling like I’m tossing goldfish crackers to a big ass grizzly bear or something. At least the guy might talk after a few of them.

Thankfully he takes this one slower, since I didn’t intend to go through all of Ripley’s beers.

“So Rip tells me you’re not much of a ladies’ man. I bet he’s wrong. You got a girl, don’t you?” My brain is trying to infuse some humanity into a rock, and women are always easy to talk about, since I’m one of their kind.

His face is like stone, doesn’t even roll his eyes to let me know I’m getting on his nerves.

“Look, I’m going to level with you, Jörgen. I’m sure you’re a big fucking teddy bear underneath all that … Viking … mountain shit, but you’re making me nervous. And if there’s one thing I hate, it’s being nervous in front of a guy.”

He studies me for a moment, and I think he’s going to flick his fingers and send me flying across the room like the Hulk, but he shrugs instead. Not exactly conversation, but I’ve dealt with Chanel half conscious on pills so charades has become my forte.

“Take a sip if you are, in fact, a Viking.”

When he does, I can’t tell if he’s taking my directive seriously or ignoring me for a sip of his beer.

“Are you from Norway?”

His stony face stares back at me.