And him, bitterly keeping me from it. He could’ve made a copy, transferred the information to the cloud, and had it forever. He could’ve asked me for it in the first place, and I would’ve handed it over. I never minded him using my ideas or even taking credit for them. But under his intimidating glare, I know his refusal isn’t about ownership of the ideas or worries that he can’t survive without them.

It’s about keeping me from what’s mine—the one thing I have left to claim. A game of keep away with me, squirreling around after it while he holds it just out of reach. It’s about hurting me.

As if I haven’t hurt enough.

“You are such a child,” I breathe, smiling through the simmering anger. “Thanks for assuring me I’m better off without you or Sunny’s.”

His jaw tightens as his lips clamp together. “Get out of my store.”

“Your store? Doesn’t look like it.”

Practically seething, he points toward the entrance as if I don’t know where it is in his store and stares me down as my feet inch backward.

I don’t breathe again until escaping the final double doors. The cool March air hits me first, followed by sunlight, as I step wearily onto the pavement and search the parking lot for The Beast’s distinctive red and white panels. I feel genuinely winded by my encounter with Ashe, angry at him and myself for thinking this could’ve turned out any other way. Even my fingers tremble with irritation as I chalk this excursion up to yet another foolhardy move by Marnie fucking Strange, and add my Trapper Keeper to the long list of things Marnie lost in the accident.

But then, my eyes land on the truck and zoom in on Grady Tripp. He leans against the passenger door, waiting for me with a devilish smile.

The sun catches on the plastic and flickers in my eyes, forcing a gasp as I realize what he’s holding. Grady Tripp has commandeered my notebook.

23. Grady

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Grady

The look on Marina’s face when she sees me holding her notebook is something I’ll remember forever. Her distress vanishes into surprise and then gasping relief and appreciation—she can’t fucking believe it. I bet whatever he said to her, the stunted prick, convinced her that she’d never see it again, that it’d be his to steal forever, holding a piece of her captive.

That’s what men like him do. They take.

She makes her way to me, barely looking both ways before crossing and slowed only by the pinch still in her hip. Then, like she’s crossing a difficult finish line, she lunges forward, latching onto my neck and crushing the thick notebook between us.

“Thank you,” she whispers against my neck. “Thank you.”