I can already tell this hour is going to suck.
What is it that Gen-Z says when they dread something?
Big yikes.
Is she even Gen-Z? What’s the generation after Gen-Z? I don’t have a fucking clue.
I take a deep breath and exhale slowly, trying to soften the permanent scowl that’s etched on my face and loosen the tension in my shoulders. I paste what I think is an easy smile on my face. It’s the kind of expression I’m more used to wearing when I’m at home, tinkering with the house, or working at the distillery with my family—not facing a twelve-year-old girl who looks like she’s one wrong move away from bolting.
I cross the room, my boots thudding heavily against the floor, until I’m standing right in front of her. The way I’m towering over her probably comes off more intimidating than I intend, but what am I supposed to do? The girl barely clears four feet tall. I can’t exactly crouch down to her level without looking ridiculous and likely throwing out my back.
At least she isn’t the girl I scared two weeks ago when I first met Malachi.
That would have been my luck.
Maybe we should be sitting...
“Hey,” I say, hoping it comes out nice and soft but instead it comes out as a very loud growl.
She jumps even though she’s looking right at me and moves backward until her back is pressed against the wall, palmsdigging into the cement like she’s going to claw her way out of here.
Great. Five seconds in, and I’ve already fucked this up.
I clear my throat and try again. “Hey.”
Still too gravely.
“Hey?”
A little better but way too deep and quiet now.
I rub my jaw, seeing if that’ll help loosen things up and give it a final try. “Hi.”
Much higher pitched and a bit squeaky. Now I just sound like I’ve inhaled helium. That one hurts my throat, and I end up coughing out-loudly.
She bends her head to the side then starts giggling uncontrollably while clutching her chest. “Was that difficult for you, big guy?”
I chuckle and smile, the first genuine smile I’ve felt in a long time. Maybe things won’t be so bad being paired up with this little child.
“Does the big, bad, monster struggle at using his soft words? Are you not used to intimidating people with your height and scary tattoos? You know what they say, big guy little di-”
“I get it,” I put a hand up, stopping her before she can continue her childish roast of me.
She smiles and studies me curiously. “I’m Jenni Sutton. You must be my new big, Colt Marshall.”
“I am.”
“Well, you’re definitely not like my last one.”
“Who was that?”
“Leslie.”
“What was she like?”
“Leslie was he, and I don’t know. He signed in every day then snuck out the back to smoke cigarettes with his friends.”
What the hell is wrong with these people?
