Page 25 of Sin Bin

“How sweet of you,” I mutter. “What, are you going to toss my body out in Connecticut orsomething?”

His lips curl up in a wicked grin. “Nah, Zo, I was thinking more along the lines of the JerseyTurnpike.”

My heart stutters at the humor in his tone, even as I outwardly scoff. “Always a gentleman, Mr.Beaumont.”

“Gentleman? Me?” He lifts his ball cap, teasing me with the promise of seeing his eyes, before resettling the hat over his head, brim pulled low. “I think you’ve got the wrong hockeyplayer.”

“I’ve certainly got the wrongsomething, that’sforsure.”

“Already regretting having me as aclient?”

“I won’t if you promise tobehave.”

He reaches down and wraps his fingers around my purse strap. “I’m not the best trained pup in thelitter.”

I roll my eyes at his metaphor, but feel a grin nevertheless pulling at my lips. “I’d venture to say that you’re the one still peeing in yourcrate.”

“I have a lot tolearn.”

“That’s anunderstatement.”

With a quick tug, he pulls the purse from my grasp. “Good thing you’re the type of woman for thejob,eh?”

Damn you, heart, stop pounding like that. Swallowing past my nerves, I ask, “What kind of womanisthat?”

His teeth flash white with a grin. “A badass. Now, do you want breakfastornot?”

He thinks I’m abadass.

I shouldn’t find that as thrilling as I do. I’m supposed to hate him. Really hate him. But our quick banter reminds me of our friendship back in Detroit, and as much as I should tell him to drive straight to Manhattan, I find myself weakening. Just a little.Maybe.

Then again, breakfast means making pleasant conversation with him, something that neither of us has done exceptionally well with each other since reuniting in Mr. Collins’s office. Since then, my days have been spent doing damage control by calling the publications that Andre has ignored like the plague for the last few months. Some places, likeSports Illustrated,were amenable to opening the doors again. Some places, likeGQ, hung up on me after I mentionedAndre’sname.

With twenty-one days left, I’m quickly realizing that the damage Andre has done to his reputation might not be fixed within the course of a month. Not without a whole lot of groveling and heartfeltapologies.

Since neither groveling nor heartfelt apologies are his thing, we’re left with oneoption:Fame.

Hopefully, today’sgig will help on that front. What am I saying? Weneedit to help in every way that matters. Breakfast will probably do us some good—we can talk business, stuff like that.Onlybusiness.

The sound of the trunk slamming breaks me from my thoughts. “You good with that?”Andreasks.

“Am I goodwithwhat?”

“IHOP.”

I haven’t been to an IHOP in years. “Is there onecloseby?”

He claps his hand over the driver’s door, and even though I can’t see his eyes, I know he’s giving me anare-you-seriousexpression. “Right up the road. We can grab some pancakes and some of those home fries you like so much, and then hit thehighway.”

At that opportune moment, my stomach lets loose an unmistakable growl, and I swear; even though I can’tseehim, I practically hear him grin invictory.

“Get in the car, Zoe,” he murmurs. “You know youwantto.”

I get inthecar.

Within twenty minutes, we’re seated at a booth in the back of the restaurant, which I suppose doesn’t really matter, because we are one of only two parties. The group at the other table is definitely wasted. They howl as they eat, utensils flaring through the air, laughter cracking out like ahyena’sbark.

Andre and I, on the other hand, seem to have lost whatever mojo we had outside of my house and sit across from each other in nearsilence.

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