Page 28 of Luck of the Draw

“That bitch is crazy,” he said.

“Watch your mouth,” I said, even as my stomach sank. Because it didn’t require much imagination to figure out who he meant.

He gestured to the empty parking spot. “I think you got honeypotted, my man. She went home with you last night because she wanted your jersey. Her friend was waiting for her in a getaway car and everything. Now, that bit—woman isreallycrazy. Blond lady drove out of here like a bat out of hell, then came to a full stop not thirty feet down the road before zooming off again.”

Well, shit. She hadn’t just left—she’d made a getaway worthy of a bank robber. The kind of bank robber who’d probably get caught, but even so, the message was pretty clear.

If she’d wanted to leave, I would have dropped her off at home.

Hell, if she’d wanted to sneak out this morning, I would have understood.

But this?

No. This I don’t get. Because there was no way she’d faked the way she looked at me, full of warmth and sincerity and desire, any more than she’d faked anything else.

Except…she’d been upset in the shower, and I hadn’t known why. This had to be the reason. She’d already decided to leave.

Tyrell ambled over and patted me on the back. “Stay strong. I’ve seen other women coming in and out of your place. You won’t have any trouble finding a new piece. But Iamsorry you lost your lucky jersey. That’s a tough break. Do you want to shoot some hoops?”

“Not right now, but thanks, buddy,” I said, mostly because I was at a loss for words. I also didn’t feel like explaining to a teenager why a woman stomping on your heart in stilettos felt worse than losing a piece of fabric. He’d find out the hard way, as likely as not.

I headed back inside because what the hell else was I supposed to do? Chase down Sam’s car? Because surely she was the blond lady Tyrell had described.

I found Deeandra’s note in the kitchen, sitting on the counter where I’d been inside her. Had she done that on purpose? Or had she been drawn to it without realizing why?

I felt a pulse of longing as I read through it again, and that feeling pissed me off enough that I balled up the note and threw it across the room.

For a few minutes, I paced the apartment, feeling a rush of pent-up energy, like I had the night Marisa had left, then I headed down to the gym—one of the only perks of this place—and worked until I was sweating and my muscles hurt. In the gym, I got no less than five texts from my family—three from my mom, who wasn’t thrilled at being hung up on when she couldn’t feasibly drive over and ambush me, and two from my sister.

Mom said you met a girl.

What the hell? Holding out on me, bro?

I stopped what I was doing for long enough to answer.

Looks like I got ghosted. Not ready to talk about it. Never would be preferable. Tell Mom I’m fine, but I’m going off the grid for the rest of the day.

Then I shut off my phone, because I wasn’t sure I could take my little sister feeling sorry for me. Again.

It wasn’t until I got back to my room to change that I found the shoes, those sexy-as-hell stilettos.

A laugh hammered out of me, even though it was more sad than funny that I really had been left with Cinderella’s shoes.

She’d want those back, or rather Sam’s cousin would. She’d told me this morning that they were loaners. There’d been a flash of vulnerability in her eyes, like she’d thought the magic between us might shrivel if I knew they weren’t her everyday shoes.

“I don’t normally dress like that, Dylan,” she’d said to me, her tone as serious as if she were telling a seven-year-old kid Santa wasn’t real.

“I should hope not,” I’d teased. “It would be pretty strange to wear an evening gown to the grocery store. Believe it or not, I don’t wear an all-black look every day. Some days I wear white too. Actually, don’t tell my nonna, but my favorite shirt is green. Worse, it’s a Celtics jersey. She thinks the little leprechaun is a demon.”

She laughed at that, but not because I was joking. I was pretty sure she knew I was serious. “I don’t believe you own such a thing. Proof or it didn’t happen.”

So I’d headed over to the closet and thrown the Celtics T-shirt to her.

She’d caught it and held it to her chest, the green bringing out the highlights in her hair and the green flecks in her brown eyes. Then I’d captured her to my chest and rolled her on top of me, eliciting a squeal.

“This is how I like you best. Wrapped up in my sheets. Or in my T-shirt.” And because I loved the way she laughed when I teased her, I’d added, “But the shoes don’t hurt.”

Shit.

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