Page 13 of Justice for Puck Bunnies

“Don’t mention it.”

“I . . . Er, what?”

“Literally don’t mention it. I’ll admit I was hoping to flirt with you when I came over, but now that we’re here it feels wrong. So, don’t mention last week. Please?”

“I’m sorry if I was inappropriate.”

“You weren’t. I was. In fact, I should go.”

“No, wait. Izzy—”

I’m already on my feet before he can react. I grab my purse and head for the door.

“Wait,” he says again and chases after me. He snags my arm before I can make it to the door.

“Where’d you just go?” he asks for the second time. “Where are you going?”

“Home, I guess.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why?”

“Exactly what the question implies.”

“Do you always talk in circles?”

“I don’t need to with most people. Tell me what’s actually going on.”

I glance at him, then the half-eaten burger, and then my former seat across the bar, and the empty room spins in my head. By the time I’m back to him, tears are welling up in my eyes.

Vin doesn’t question it; he springs into action. He tosses a few twenties on the bar top and ushers me out the door.

Chapter Three

Vin

What the fuck am I doing?

Isabelle Sutton—that Isabelle Sutton—is sitting in our living room, sinking into Trick’s overstuffed couch and fiddling with a half-filled wine glass from my only bottle of white. Her phone is charging in the kitchen, so she doesn’t have a distraction. It’d be rude for me to use my own to save myself.

After I convinced her to follow me home, I had the entire car ride to panic. I didn’t have her number, so there was no way to withdraw the offer. I did text Trick and Mason at least. They’re in some preseason briefing because Mason’s new and Trick is an alternate captain. They probably have their phones off.

Well, maybe not Mason. He’s been texting someone all week, but he refuses to tell us who—which means it’s probably the woman sitting in our living room.

There’s a lot of danger in her mere presence here. All week, Brad’s been pushing himself and us harder than I’ve ever seen. The preseason doesn’t explain it. The only difference between last week and this is the woman who followed me home.

“Can I get you anything else?” I ask and shift awkwardly on my feet. I don’t know where to go. I don’t want her to assume I brought her back because she’s a bunny. Do I sit next to her on the couch? There’s no other furniture in the room aside from the coffee table and an enormous wall-mounted TV.

“I’m fine, thank you,” she replies and sets the untouched wine glass on the thick oak coffee table.

Maybe I should get a chair from the dining room. I can’t sit on the floor.

My sisters raised me as much as my mother did, but they never prepared me for this. Every option seems risky. Risks shouldn’t be taken haphazardly.

Except when it comes to Izzy Sutton, apparently.

I wish Trick were here. He’d be able to handle it.

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