Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 81281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
I’m already mentally composing the follow-up email I’ll send tomorrow. Professional. Direct. The session is part of our agreement and I need him to honor it. If I can just get him back in my office—
I see him.
He’s on the sidewalk outside the hotel entrance, pacing back and forth, and my jaw drops.
I know his silhouette before my brain catches up with my eyes. The tablet slides off my knee but I catch it without looking.
Grant.
My stomach drops through the floor of the bus.
He’s thinner than I remember, or maybe it’s the way he’s standing with his shoulders forward, hands in his jacket pockets. Nine hundred miles separated us just yesterday and now here he is standing on a Los Angeles sidewalk outside the Wildfire’s hotel. The only thought that moves through me with any coherence is how he knows we’re here.
The answer arrives immediately and turns my blood cold.
He’s stalked me. The way he found my new number after I changed it. The way a card appeared at my Portland address.
The message is clear.
I can find you.
The bus pulls to a stop, the doors open and the team begins to move.
I sit for ten seconds longer than I should, watching him through the glass. He can’t see me through the tinted windows and he’s scanning the bus door, waiting for me to exit, and his patience is the most frightening thing about him. Grant has never had a short fuse. No, he’s a long-burn kind of man. He doesn’t mind waiting.
My options are to hide on the bus and hope he goes away or I can confront this issue head-on. I decide on the latter option, especially while there are plenty of witnesses around, so I exit my row and shuffle off the bus amid hulking hockey players.
When I step out, his eyes lock with mine, full of hope and yearning.
I walk up to him, keeping my tone even. “What are you doing here?”
“Livia.” He breathes it out like a prayer. “I just want to talk.”
And up close, I can see all the signs. The bloodshot eyes. The way he’s working a little harder than usual to track me. His shirt is untucked on one side, and I can smell the alcohol.
He’s inebriated.
Not falling-down drunk but enough that his usual precision is gone. I know him well when he drinks. He has no emotional management, which will make this conversation harder.
In fact, there’s no version of this conversation that goes anywhere useful tonight.
“Go home, Grant.”
“But I love you, Livvy.” His voice rises just enough that a few players glance over. “Do you understand that? I’m not just some guy sending texts, I came here because you won’t—”
“Keep your voice down,” I hiss at him with embarrassment.
“Don’t tell me to keep my voice down,” he snaps back angrily. “You always have to be in control. Everything always has to be quiet and professional and God forbid”—his voice raises to spite me—“anyone feel anything too loudly around Livia Cross.”
I wince because I’m sure everyone in a four-block radius heard that. “You’ve been drinking.”
He gives me a dopey grin. “Just a few.” He steps closer and I hold my ground because showing him I’m afraid is the one thing I won’t do.
I try for logic, knowing it’s probably futile. “The fact you’ve been drinking makes this conversation pointless. Go home and sleep it off.”
“I’m not leaving,” he replies stubbornly, chin lifted in defiance. His eyes are very bright and fixed on my face with an intensity that creeps me out. “Not until you talk to me. Really talk to me. Not this.” He gestures at me, waving his hands. “Not this version of you. I want to talk to the real one.”
No fucking clue what he’s talking about. “This is the only version you’re getting tonight.”
“So we can talk?” he asks hopefully.
“No, we can’t talk,” I snap, my anger driving away the uneasiness. “I said go home.”
His expression morphs. The pleading quality drops out of it and what’s underneath is slightly sinister.
He leans in close enough that I can smell bourbon and when he speaks, it’s low, meant only for me. “You think moving away fixed things? You think nine hundred miles and a new job and a new city and suddenly you’re someone different?” His tone is laced with warning. “You’re still mine. You know that, right? You’ve always known that. And whatever you think you’re building up there”—his eyes move briefly over my shoulder toward the hotel, toward the team—“it doesn’t change what we are.”
My blood goes cold at his proclamation. This isn’t the Grant I knew. He sounds so completely unhinged that I have to wonder what happened to him.
“We are nothing,” I say tightly. “We are over, you’re being way too weird for me to deal with, and I want you to leave me alone.”