Page 68 of Hart Breaker

“Best hunting used to be on that land where that football stadium is built,” another pipes in.

“Hey, cool it now; he’s our MVP,” Lauren defends me.

“If we win a Super Bowl, will you let us off the hook about the field?” I ask, trying to keep a little bit of peace, but honestly, I really don’t give a fuck.

“Maybe, ’pens on how many T-shirts we can get signed,” the biggest one says, and they all chuckle.

Lauren throws her thumb over her shoulder and looks at me. “As you can tell, these bozos are out-of-towners. The locals are a hell of a lot more loyal to the team.”

“Damn, she told us. Sorry, Lauren, but this is Bills’ country. We were loyal to them before the Knights came to New York.”

“No need to draw a line; we’re not on the field. It’s obvious you men know good beer. Props for that.” I turn, look at Lauren, and nod left. “You got a minute?”

“Absolutely.”

We get far enough away from the new ed, and I start to ask a question, but she beats me to it.

“Riley is at her place, stress baking verily.”

“She stress bakes?”

“If her house is clean, yep,” she says as she looks me over. “Why the face?”

“I happen to be a stress baker myself.”

“Well, perfect. I’ll piss the both of you off around Thanksgiving, and you can both stress the hell bake out of pumpkin pies, pumpkin rolls, pumpkin freaking everything.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” I nod toward the door. “I’d asked permission to go check in, but …” I lift a shoulder.

“Enter at your own risk, Hudson. She’s had a shit day.”

When she starts wiping down the bar, I put my hand over hers, stopping her. “Is that all you’re going to give me, she’s had a rough day?”

“I never said rough. I said shit. She’s had a shit day. If she wants to talk to you about it, she will.” She holds her hands up in the air. “I am officially stepping down from our little ménage à trois.”

Nodding, I reach into my pocket, grab a wad of cash, and toss a few bills on the bar. “Grab my new friends a drink or two. See you around, Lauren.”

Standing in front of her door, I hear music playing in the background. Before I knock, though, I run my palms down the sides of my jeans and wait a few seconds for her to answer. When she doesn’t, I knock again and wait some more. After the third time that she doesn’t answer, I try the doorknob.

It’s not locked.

I push the door open and lean in to glance around. The TV screen above her roaring fireplace is on the MTV station. Her house is clean, spotless.

My stomach rumbles at the smell permeating through the air. Baked goods of all types cover her kitchen island. I’m not going to lie, there is part of me that wants to go snag one of those brownies that I can guarantee are covered with cream cheese frosting. It smells fucking awesome. When Europe’s “The Final Countdown” ends, I swear I hear soft crying coming from above.

As I open my mouth to call her name, Loverboy’s “Working for the Weekend” comes on, and Riley likes her music loud, so there’s no sense in yelling to her. I decide, Fuck it.

I head up the narrow, curved stairway that goes up the side of her kick-ass silo house, and what I see has me grabbing the handrail.

Riley May Brooks lying on her bed, feet planted on the mattress, hand holding something small and hot pink between her legs.

I should look away—I really should—but fuck if it isn’t a beautiful sight.

I take a deep breath, hoping courage fills my lungs as I turn and take two steps back down her stairway before calling out her name.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” she whimpers, and then I hear something drop on the ground before her little feet are heard crossing her floor toward me.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me, Hudson Hart. What the hell are you doing here?” she yells at me.

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