Page 73 of Shark’s Edge

“I told your assistant we weren’t to be disturbed. I know how she likes to busybody around here when I’ve been in with you too long.”

“That was mighty presumptuous of you, no? What makes you think I want to involve you in any of this?” Damn, I was irritable.

“Because you look like shit, you already admitted you drank too much last night—which is way out of character for you—and I know how tied up in knots you’ve been about that girl. The fact that you canceled our plans with LuLu’s girls yesterday just adds icing to this mucked-up cake you’ve baked.”

Grant flopped down on the black leather sofa but arched back up just as quickly, reaching behind him. “What the . . . ?” He pulled out one of Vela’s Barbie dolls from between the cushions. She must have left it behind the last time she came to visit. “That hurt, you skinny bitch. Eat something, woman,” he said to the doll before tossing her onto the table. Then he pointed at the furniture across from him. “Come sit down and talk to me. Stop being a stubborn dick and tell me what happened. It will do you some good to get it off your chest.”

I huffed out a frustrated sigh and pushed away from my desk. “You know that bossy shit you pull with the females doesn’t work with me, right?”

“It’s good that you recognize this behavior in another, at least. Seeing how you taught me everything I know.” He watched me with a fixed stare while I came to sit down on the sofa, giving him a knock on the back of the head as I walked past.

“What was that for?” he asked, laughing while he finger-combed his hair back into place.

“This is all your fault.” I pointed at him. “The more I think about the conversation you and I had in here yesterday morning, the more I realize that.”

“Oh boy. Can’t wait to hear this logic. It’s off to a magnificent start. The wise and all-knowing Sebastian Shark not admitting fault. No way.” Grant rolled his eyes.

“I’m serious, man. I think we were sitting right here, even. I’m having the strangest sense of déjà vu.” I took a big swing of the water he’d gotten me.

“Enough with the riddles. Unless we’re reenacting the tale of the ‘Three Billy Goats Gruff’ here. You’re the Troll, if you haven’t looked in the mirror this morning. Seriously, what are you talking about?” Grant finally lost the friendly tone. It took a while to push him to his limit, but apparently he’d reached it.

“That was such a random literary reference.” I just stared at him, rubbing my throbbing forehead.

He simply shrugged in response. “Quit stalling.”

“Pia always says, when you speak something into the universe, you make it come true. We did that. You and me. Sitting right here in this office. Yesterday morning.”

“Oh. My. Fucking. God. Bas. Say what you mean. I’m going to punch you in the next minute, swear to all things that are holy.”

“She’s a virgin.” Boom. Mic drop.

He stared at me. Just stared. Opened his mouth to say something. Closed it. Then stared.

“What’s wrong, Grant? Billy goat got your tongue?” I worked the staring bit then.

“A virgin?” His eyes bugged wide. “Are you sure?”

“Well, no. I didn’t get down on my knees and check under her skirt. I mean . . . I pretty much took her word for it.”

He started quietly at first, a little chuckle in the back of his throat. I thought he was chuckling at the visual I had just painted of verifying Abbigail’s hymen remained intact. But then Grant’s eyes darted around the room, as if looking for a hidden camera to catch the practical joke on film, and then back to me, laugh building as he did so.

“I can’t imagine why you’re laughing,” I said with very little emotion.

His laughter bubbled up and over like a pot of scalded milk on a hot stovetop. He laughed and laughed, for several long minutes, complete with knee slapping, tears streaking, back stretching—the whole nine yards.

I, on the other hand, remained completely stoic. There wasn’t an iota of amusement to be found in the subject as far as I was concerned. Growing impatient, I got up from the sofa and strode back to my desk. If I could drag Grant from the room by the collar of his shirt, I would.

“Oh my God.” He finally sucked in a breath. “Oh shit. Dude.” He leaned forward, putting his head down halfway between his knees and gasping for air.

Drama queen.

“That’s hilarious. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to laugh, but you have to see the humor in that. I mean, if you’re honest with yourself, you see why that’s funny.” He finally took a look at my face, no trace of humor to be found on it, and tried to get himself under control. “Ironic at least, right? Of all the men to have to deal with a virgin? You? I mean . . . Bas. Come on . . . ”

“Shut up, Twombley.” The words were snarled more than spoken. “I’m not amused. At all. Not one little bit. It doesn’t matter anyway.” I shrugged and mindlessly shuffled papers on my desk. Never mind that I didn’t even see the words written on them. I just needed something to do with my hands.

“What does that mean? Doesn’t matter? What did you do?” He popped to his full height and strode over to my desk, looking panicked. “Please tell me you didn’t send her packing over something like this.”

“Why would you care if I did? That’s my first question. Why are you so invested? And you.” I stood quickly and reached across my desk, pointing my finger right into his chest. “You know better than anyone”—thump, thump—“that I don’t have the psychological tools to deal with a fucking virgin.” Poke. “I’ll cause that girl harm she won’t get over. She doesn’t need a bastard like me in her life.” I sucked in a breath through my nose and flopped back into my chair, rolling back slowly until it bumped into the bookcase. “Certainly not on some moony memory page of firsts in her scrapbook.”