Page 28 of Bound

Who—

Fucking hell.

I don’t want to do this.

Not here. Not now. Notever.

I lift my chin and glare at him, yanking my arm free and shoving at his chest.

Of course, he doesn’t fucking move.

Ugh. Hockey players.

Especially when he reaches for me again.

“Don’t you fucking touch me,” I snap, oddly pleased when he drops his hand back to his side, even as the edge of my temper doesn’t ease. “He stood me up, okay?” I take a step back, anger and embarrassment propelling me toward the door. “Only hedidn’t.” I toss up my hands and blurt out the rest of the awful truth. “Not really, anyway. Because I watched in the mirror behind the bar as he walked through the restaurant door, took one look at me?—”

Jackson’s face blanches.

“—and turned right around again and strolled on out.”

CHAPTER TEN

Jackson

“So, yeah, he hurt me,”Claire says, her voice laced with pain. “Just not how you think.”

The locker room goes quiet, awkward, and I feel like a dick, having pushed Claire to answer the question in the first place.

I just…

It never fucking crossed my mind to think that someone would stand her up—or that, worse, someone would get a look at her and not want to worship at her fucking feet.

Beautiful, sweet, quiet, but with a spine of steel, Claire deserves the world.

It’s why I’ve fought what I’m feeling, fought the urge to keep my distance, did my fucking level best to make sure I didn’t get close enough to let my bullshit hurt her.

And that fucker who was supposed to take her on a date had hurt her.

So…I’m going to kill the bastard.

She spins on her heel before I can get his full name, address, and social security number, and hurries from the room.

And…I don’t think.

I just follow her, trailing her until we’re out of earshot, letting her put some space between us and the locker room. But I catch her arm when she turns the corner and would’ve stepped into a hall with a floor that isn’t covered with skate mats.

A hall that has a floor where I can’t follow her.

“Claire,” I say, drawing her back against me.

And it’s like every ragged edge in my soul is suddenly smoothed over—sharp, broken edges are softened, sanded down, left unblemished and unmarked.

“Don’t,” she whispers.

I can’t.

Yet, I can’t stop myself.

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