Page 52 of Caught from Behind

Ella

“Yo, Patches!” Lake calls when Riggs walks into the bar. “Bring us another round!”

My heart skips a beat.

I haven’t seen him since this morning.

And he’s just as yummy as always.

Even when he scowls—and I don’t know if it’s because of the order from his teammate, or if it’s because of his new nickname. Shit talk amongst hockey players is relentless…and the strip of bald skin on the back of Riggs’s head is an easy target.

Thus…Patches was born at practice today.

I know it’s not my finest work, but I’m over my mess up.

Sort of.

I still can’t believe it happened, and every time I see my handiwork I’m filled with a hysterical sort of amusement. But it should grow in quickly and, well…

Riggs didn’t rage at me for fucking up his hair.

He could have.

Some might say he should have.

Instead, he was nice about it—taking my hand and snagging the clippers, turning them off and setting them on the counter. Then drawing me close and cupping my cheeks in his palms as I’d sputtered on and on with apologies.

“Oh my God. I’m so sorry. I can fix it. I promise. I can make it look okay?—”

He kissed me gently, murmured in my ear, “I don’t give a fuck about my hair. It’ll grow back, chérie. And look at the top”—he positioned me in front of him, forced me to gaze into the mirror—“it’s the shit.”

While I was processing that, he ripped the cape off, tossed it on the chair, and had kissed me long enough that I forgot all about my fuck up.

Likely because he took me home, didn’t wait for an invitation to come upstairs, then had fucked me senseless.

Then fucked me limp again when he woke me in the morning—at five fucking A.M.

The sun hadn’t even been up.

But he sure as hell had been.

Heh.

I grin.

“So,” Nova murmurs from next to me, deep into her third mule. I’m still sipping on my first for…reasons I’m pretending aren’t affecting my reasoning but have everything to do with what Riggs shared and what I want to happen when I talk my way into testing out his mattress instead of mine tonight.

“So what?” I ask casually.

“When are you going to explain?”

“Explain what?” I slap on my most innocent expression—which has Knox snorting from his position next to Lake, even though most of his focus is on a gaggle of women at the next table over.

“I second that snort,” Nova says, allowing Lake to draw her more firmly into his body. “Did you forget that we saw you two leave together the other night?”

“Nope,” I say, popping the p and taking a dainty sip of my mule when usually I would have drained the copper mug, if only to have an excuse to head up to the bar for a refill. “But I still don’t know what you might possibly want me to explain.”

Kit, who’s joined us for the first time—likely for reconnaissance purposes—chokes on a laugh and I glare at him, but only for a second.

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