Page 66 of Break the Ice
She carries the bowls of cereal over and sets them down on the coffee table. Just about one of the only tables in the open-spaced apartment.
“My coffee table doubles as my dinner table,” she announces. “Hope you don’t mind. Though you’re here uninvited, so I wouldn’t care either way.”
“Hostess of the year.”
I take in the moment, fully aware of how strange it is. Something that seems to be a running theme whenever Marisse and I are concerned—this past month has been one of the fucking weirdest. Even for me.
Here I sit with dried blood on my arm, about to have a bowl of cereal with the gorgeous woman I’m addicted to but can’t stand, so I’m blackmailing her—and she’s sitting down on the other end of the coffee table as if this situation is some kind of date between lovers.
“Are you going to tell me what’s up with the gash on your arm?” she asks, spooning marshmallows and milk into her mouth.
I dig into my bowl with a shrug. “It doesn’t seem important.”
“So I can expect to be called into a meeting with execs about the PR crisis you’ve caused?”
“You always assume the worst, Sugar. It would hurt my feelings if I had any,” I say with a teasing laugh. “I doubt it’ll come up at work tomorrow.”
“Then why are you here—and don’t say round three. You’d be lying. It’s something else.”
“I already told you. It was wrong.”
“What was wrong?”
The stare she gives me from over her bowl of cereal is naked and honest. Most people would find it genuine. But I know better—Marisse knows damn well what I’m trying to say. She knows what I’m admitting was wrong. She just wants me to admit it in exact words.
“The end of round two,” I say.
She swirls her spoon in the sogging cereal as if in search of more marshmallows. “I’d rather you save it than give me that kind of half assed apology.”
“You might be more stubborn than me, Sugar. I bet your daddy had to work double-time just to make you happy.”
“It explains my high standards.”
“You have slept with me. So I’m obligated to agree.”
“Actually,” she says, raising both brows, “that would be a strike against high standards.”
“You must’ve been hell during competitions. Definition of competitive.”
“They say it takes one to know one. You should race me sometime on the rink and find out. I’ll show you how it’s done.”
Fuck, she’s so damn sexy when she mouths off.
I laugh imagining her shit-talking her competitors, crushing the nuts of any male coach who got out of hand, and shutting down any pushy media. “Keep talking, Sugar. It’s hot as hell. I’m sure you had everybody in your sport thinking you were a hard ass.”
The expression on her face glosses over into some unreadable emotion. The teasing air between us fades. “That’s how I always wanted to be.”
My stomach muscles clench, though I keep my cool. I funnel another spoon of cereal into my mouth and try not to let my suspicions take over. The same rage that had erupted inside me earlier begins creeping in.
“You weren’t always?” My voice sounds hollow. Contained.
“You know how the sports world is,” she says, sighing. “It’s a man’s world even in female sports. We make a crumb of what male athletes make, and the male execs get whatever they want. It’s a lot of things that go on behind the scenes no one ever knows about. I was grateful for my injury. Because then I had an excuse.”
“To quit…” I trail off.
She nods. “At least in sports PR, I’m part of the behind the scenes now. I’ll leave the spotlight for cocky assholes like you, Alpha.”
Her joke falls flat. Because I’m much more focused on one part. My tense, muscled shoulders push back, and I sit up straighter. “Who?”
