Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 90475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
“You want us to fuck him up?” I crack my knuckles, ready and willing.
That earns me my first real laugh from her.
“Because we will,” Chase says, jumping in. Gone is the charm from his voice. He’s all business now, ready to send a message if he has to. “Just say the word.”
Trina blinks, then lets out a surprised breath. “Tempting, but I’ll pass. Appreciate the thought though,” she says as the car weaves into traffic.
“The offer stands. Any time,” I add, then scratch my jaw. “But how’d you get his tickets for the game?”
Trina smiles like an Internet meme for the word sneaky. “He’s obsessed with hockey. You’re both his favorite players. So I swiped the VIP tix he won after I caught him cheating. I sent him out of the house, making him think I was forgiving him and just needed some time to cry alone before he came back. Instead, I packed up all my stuff and my dog so I could crash with my bestie, and on the way out I grabbed the bag of jerseys and pucks I bought—as a surprise to him—to have signed by you two. I wasn’t going to let him give any bit of gear to his new woman. And as I was about to take off, I spotted the tickets on his nightstand,” she says with a wicked glint in those green eyes. “I took them too. The pièce de résistance, as they say.”
Damn. I don’t want to like her, but…that’s just ballsy. “How’d you learn he was the biggest fuckhead in the universe?”
She straightens her shoulders, like she needs to be tough. “My dog ate the other woman’s underwear.”
Chase’s jaw drops, then he points. “Oh, shit. I saw the vet’s video. You’re the woman with the dog underwear.”
And I’m cracking up. So is Trina. We’re laughing like loons in the limo.
“Pretty sure it wasn’t dog underwear, Weston,” I correct in between breaths.
With a wince, Chase realizes his error, but then he grins. “Your dog probably doesn’t wear underwear. But if he does, that’s okay. No judgment.” He holds up his hands and looks Trina’s way. “Freedom of expression and all.”
“My dog does not wear underwear. He only has an appetite for it,” she says primly.
“But does he wear other clothes?” Chase asks.
As Trina tells him about some tartan jacket the dog has for foggy mornings, then whips out her phone to presumably show him the pics, I’m thinking about how she stole Jasper’s memorabilia and his tickets, then came to the game and slapped up a sign. And she did it all classy and shit. She didn’t reveal who he was. Just his crime. Brilliant revenge. She’s smart, and there’s nothing hotter than a woman’s brain.
I stroke my chin. Then I meet her gaze, and when there’s a break in the discussion of dog sartorial choices, I say, “What you did tonight at the game with the signs…”
Her eyes widen with worry. Like I’m about to get on her case for lambasting a straying man when I am not at all. So I quickly add, “It was a total baller move.”
She dips her face, maybe a tiny bit shy over the praise. Great. Just great. That’s sexy too—the way she’s got a bit of a shy side to go with her outgoing, badass personality.
Don’t get any ideas. Don’t start thinking about taking her out. Nope. She’s just a fan and that’s all.
I reach across the seat and offer a fist for bumping. There. She’s just a fan, not a cutie I want to take home, strip down to nothing, and lick everywhere till she’s begging for more. All night long.
She bumps back.
Not to be left out, Chase joins in, the three of us knocking together.
When Trina lets go, she leans back into her seat, but she doesn’t seem as playful as she was seconds ago. Or as saucy. Maybe she’s thinking about her jerk of an ex.
And that won’t do at all. “Trina, we’re going to help you make him regret every single second of hurting you.” I shift my gaze to my buddy. “Isn’t that right, Weston?”
Chase nods, his expression intensely serious, like he is on the ice. “We fucking are.”
Trina smiles again, and my chest feels a little strange when she does that. A little good. “I’m liking hockey more and more,” she says.
“You’ll love it by the end of the night,” Chase says, then flashes that winning smile her way again.
Oh, shit.
I know that smile.
That smile is so damn dangerous.
That’s his I like a girl smile.
And I need to shut down any more inappropriate thoughts of her, stat.
Chase’s my guy. He’s been there for me since we were kids. He was there when my dad spiraled into the bottle when I was in grade school, when Dad came home drunk and mean, then when he messed around with anyone in a skirt, till my mom—who felt terrifyingly dependent on him—finally kicked him out. Likewise, I was there for Chase when he was in college and his dad—his hero, his idol—died after a long illness.