Oh. My. Gods. - Weebly

“Hey, how is my being part of that bet,” he asks, “any worse than
you making that deal with Stella?”
I clamp my jaw and don’t say a word.
“I’m sorry, Phoebe, that wasn’t how I wanted to start.”
I reach for my other foot, leaning away from him.
“I’m not going to let you shut me out,” he says, reaching for his
toes. “You have the right to be mad, but I have the right to explain
myself.”
I exhale deeply into my stretch. “I don’t have to listen.”
“No, you don’t have to.” He leans out over his left leg, stretching
his quads. “But you will.”
He’s right. Purely driven by curiosity I at least want to hear whatever
lame excuse he’s come up with. Then I can file it away under
too-stupid-to-believe and move on with my life.
My time is too precious to waste on the likes of Griffin Blake.
“It started out as a bet,” he has the nerve to admit. “Not my bet,
but a bet nonetheless.”
I give him a look that says I know this much already.
“That’s why I agreed to meet you that Sunday.”
“Thanks,” I say. “Glad to know I’m such a prize you need extra
motivation just to go for a run—”
“I’m sorry, all right.” He reaches so abruptly for his right foot I’m
surprised he doesn’t tear a tendon. “How many times do I have to
say it?”
“About a million more times would be a good start.”
He sits back, giving up all pretense of stretching. “It started out
as a bet,” he bites out, “but it didn’t end up that way.”
What a load of hooey.
215