Page 72 of Knotted Laces

Grumpyas hell.

But I prefer easy smiles and quiet energy.

That sends a blip of alarm pulsing through me, but, just like I’ve been doing since Mother Nature decided I needed a few days of hot sex and even hotter hockey player, I push it down and focus.

“You think I wouldn’t know when someone’s poking around in my accounts?” The question is dry, laced with amusement.

I frown.

We’re supposed to be untraceable, invisible, silently observing.

That Jean-Michel noticed either tells me that we’ve fucked up…or more likely, that he’s just that good.

I lift a shoulder, allow it to fall in a halfhearted shrug. “Right.”

“Why are you here?”

I study him, wonder how much bullshit I can spin while not affecting Cam’s position on the team.

Jean-Michel’s face tells me not much.

“I can’t say.”

His face clouds.

So, I hurry to add, “But Icansay that if I were a certain owner of varied businesses from wine to sports, an owner who’s been looked into and cleared of anything to do with an ongoing investigation, I’d make sure that my security detail was beefed up and?—”

My gaze trails to the side where a man who’s definitelynota silver fox—and has none of the allure of one Jean-Michel Dubois—is walking into the arena, briefcase in hand and a severeexpression on his face. I watch as he scans a badge at the arena door, yanks it open like he’s ready to unleash the fury within him on whoever gets in his way.

Jesus.

That asshole must be a gem to work with.

“—staying on task to protect meandthe people I care about,” I finish, turning back to Jean-Michel.

He tilts his head to the side. “And is that theonlyreason you cornered me at my place of business?”

“One of them,” I say with another shrug.

He flicks his eyebrows up in question.

“I chose this place specifically over your other businesses.”

Those eyebrows shoot higher.

“Because”—I lean back against Cam’s car—”I’m dating one of your players.”

If there’s another flicker of surprise in the other man’s eyes, it’s just that—a flicker, there and gone in the next instant. Then his gaze slides to the side, and he says, “Jackson.”

Not a question.

“I will neither confirm nor deny,” I say silkily.

His lips quirk, just the slightest bit, and I feel that like a brush of fingers between my thighs.

Dangerous man.

The door to the arena slams shut and he swivels at the sound, face implacable, but I don’t miss that his eyes are troubled.

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