Page 17 of Caught from Behind

She squeezes my arm. “I know that you were tired and you’ve been working too much, but”—a kiss to the top of my head—“I appreciate you spending the night with me.”

My heart squeezes and I drag her into a hug, holding her tight for a long moment then releasing her before the stinging in the backs of my eyes turns into something stupid and sappy. “I need peanut M&Ms,” I tell her.

She grins, nudges my foot with hers. “Brat.” But I know she’ll come back with the medicinal chocolate.

Because she’s my best friend.

I watch her making her way up the long concrete staircase.

Then my gaze goes back to Riggs.

Dammit.

I drag it away again. I want to reach for my drink—my mouth watering, my throat so freaking dry, my soul desperate for the way it’ll dull all the sharp edges of my thoughts, will make the memories easier to suppress?—

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I jerk my head up again, expecting it to be Lake wondering where his woman went.

Or Knox preparing to torment me again.

It’s not either of them.

Riggs is standing on the other side of the glass—his brown eyes deep pools of chocolate, his beard just long enough to give a woman ideas about it being dragged along her inner thighs.

It’s me. I’m the woman. It’s me.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I blink. Jesus, woman, get it together.

“What?” I mouth.

He holds up his gloved hand and I frown.

“I don’t need a puck,” I say, spotting the biscuit-shaped disc in his palm and shaking my head.

I grew up tripping over enough of those little bastards all through the house and yard and, hell, I know I have more than a few of them at my house even now that Knox has left behind like Hansel scattering his trail of breadcrumbs en route to the big bad witch.

Riggs can’t possibly have heard my reply, but maybe he reads my lips because he just shakes his head, bangs his fist against the glass, and holds the puck up again.

I sigh, stand up, and hold out my hands.

Fine. Whatever.

I don’t know a lot about Riggs, but I’ve seen his stubborn streak.

Experienced it firsthand.

So…might as well get this over with.

He nods, makes the toss…

And the puck lands with a smack in my open palms.

I force another smile, start to shove the puck into my purse?—

Tap. Tap. Tap.

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