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I felt the ball of anger—that never quite went away—in my stomach grow. “We aren’t talking about me.”
She raised her eyebrows. “At least Trey has an excuse.”
I frowned at her, even while the puppies continued to kiss me. “He’s got no excuse.”
“He and Ivan are enemies. What were you trying to prove?”
It was like her words threw dry logs onto the fire in my stomach, feeding the flames, allowing them to grow. “Prove?” I asked, ready to tell her exactly why I threw down with Smythe. My mouth was open—but nothing came out.
I couldn’t do it.
“Fighting just to fight is dumb. All Smythe did was bump into you. Did you really need to lose your mind over that?” From her face, her words—even her haughty actions—she was pissed. At me.
“You’ve got it all figured out, Geneviève, don’t you?” I said, sounding more sarcastic than I had intended.
She glared over her mug at me, not replying. Then she looked at Trey and said, “Message me when you want me to pick up the puppies.” Without so much as a glance, she stormed passed me.
“I want the boys to see the puppies. When’s a good time for you tomorrow?” I asked, trying like hell to get a hold on my feelings.
“Make arrangements with Trey.”
“They want to see you again, too,” I added in a hushed voice.
She twisted around and glanced at me. “That’s not a great idea. Make arrangements with Trey.”
