Page 113 of Caught from Behind

She lifts her head from my chest and smiles lasciviously. “And you’re my dirty-mouthed knight in said armor who will save me with orgasms?”

“With orgasms and apple fritters.”

Her laughter—it’s the best feeling in the fucking world.

But it doesn’t last long, the sad creeping back in.

I lean down, the distance further than normal because of my skates, and press my forehead to hers. “Want to play hooky and go hang out at your spot? I’ll blow off Knox and the old man. You reschedule your afternoon appointments.” I wink. “Then we’ll make some trouble.”

I want the worry that’s been eating at her about Kit, about me, to disappear.

But I also get it’s not that simple, so I’ll do what I can to distract her.

And the smile she gives me in response to my teasing words…

Well, I’ve accomplished that for a bit.

“I have a full highlight with my client, Cassie,” she says. “She’s getting married this weekend, so I can’t blow her off.”

I tap her on the nose. “Then we’ll make trouble later.”

Her smile grows. “That sounds like a plan. Well…I should go.” She glances over my shoulder and I watch as her expression changes. Mischief to protective. “Want me to take the old man with me?” she asks, voice lifting enough to be heard by my dad who’s coming up behind her. “I can touch up those grays, give him a fresh new cut to attract the ladies. Maybe then he won’t be so grumpy.”

My dad’s laughter reaches my ears a second later, rough and a little rusty from disuse. “I don’t think there’s much that can help this mug,” he says, scrubbing a hand over his face. “But if you want to dull your scissors on this mop”—he fusses with his hair—“then I won’t stop you.”

Shock has me rocking back on my heels.

Ella slips her hand into mine and squeezes, getting it in a millisecond, understanding exactly how fucking monumental this shit is.

Laughter? Self-deprecation? Offering himself up as Ella’s haircut sacrificial lamb?

Obviously, she wouldn’t fuck up his hair—especially since she’s retired her clippers—but…

That my dad is going along with it? That he’s putting himself in a vulnerable position and?—

I don’t know this person.

Or maybe…I thought he didn’t exist any longer.

“Ella!”

Heart pounding, I manage to pull it together as Evie runs down the hall. She’s a spitting image of her mom, Ivy, aside from the brightness of her hair and the sweetness of her personality.

Ivy’s hard, all barbed wired and crocodile-filled moats.

Evie is…sunshine on a cool spring morning.

Ella intercepts her with a hug, and they start talking about bows.

“She reminds me of your mother,” my dad says quietly.

“Evie?” I ask. Her mom is our head trainer and the lead ass-kicker of the Sierra’s player development department.

A.K.A. the director of high performance.

Which basically means that she gets us all in fighting shape…and then kicks our asses all over again, just for good measure.

“No,” my dad says. “Ella.”

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