Page 18 of Icing the Enemy

A harsh puff of air escapes. “Don’t pretend. You’re a conman-woman.”

She crosses her arms over her waist, looking at the ceiling. “I didn’t ask you to rescue me. Maybe it’s you who preys on the less fortunate.”

“Believe me, I’m not saving you this time. I should have given you a couple hundred dollars to get your car fixed and gone on my merry way. But no, you had to look at me with those…” My words die in my throat. She doesn’t deserve a compliment about her sky-blue eyes.

Oakley’s not in any restraints, so she stands and slams her hands on the cheap metal table. “I didn’t ask for your help. I tried to refuse it, but you had to keep on and on.”

“Let’s add thief and opportunist to your list of issues.” My frustration is at a boiling point because I genuinely liked her. I take a deep breath and ask, “Where’s Dixie?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but she’s in her kennel at home. And by the way, I left your keys in your truck. If I was stealing it, I would have driven it home.” As her voice reverberates off the walls, every muscle in my body tenses. “Are you seriously accusing me of stealing your truck?” she asks, her eyes narrowing to slits.

I take a deep breath, attempting to hide my frustration, and I weigh my next words carefully. The energy between us crackles like the static on a crank radio. If we weren’t in a police station, revenge sex may be on the table—literally.

Pushing those thoughts aside, I reply, “Yes, I am. Because you did.” My voice is steady despite the turbulence churning inside me.

She steps closer, defiance etched into her every move, and I brace myself for the storm that's about to rain down.

“Press charges. A soft man like you won’t be the one to break me.”

Soft? Is she kidding? I’m a professional hockey player. I practically get paid to fight.

She’s maddening. Our eyes lock and, in that moment, conflicting emotions stir. One thing about Oakley James is she doesn’t back down. What’s happened to her to cause this stubborn, reckless streak?

There are many reasons to press charges—she stole my truck, and she played me for a fool. Yet beneath my bubbling anger, I see a glimpse of vulnerability in her eyes that makes me think twice about what type of justice she deserves.

I break our intense staring contest, knock on the table, and open the door to leave.

She gasps, “Are you pressing charges?”

“You’ll find out soon,” I say without looking at her and close the door behind me.

The officers ask me the same question. “How long can you keep her while I think about it?”

“Twenty-four hours max,” they say in unison, but their smiling faces confuse me.

“I haven’t had any sleep. Can I think about it for a few hours?” I ask.

“Yes, but you know she’ll probably just get fined or do community service.” The officers exchange glances, weighing the situation, while I wrestle with the desire to see her held accountable and the nagging curiosity about her real motives.

“I understand,” I mutter as I leave.

My bed has never felt so good, except when the occasional woman has been in it. I mull the situation over in my head while throwing a tennis ball in the air and catching it over and over, wondering what could have changed between our kiss and the walk to our hotel room. Did one of my friends touch her inappropriately? I can’t think of anyone other than John who would do that, and he would have to be ten sheets to the wind.

Why does this car thief have such a hold on me?

There’s one person who will give it to me straight and if Oakley needs to serve jail time, Mamaw will lay it all out.

“Hey, Mamaw.”

“What a surprise. Whatcha need?”

I hesitate because Mamaw just got out of the hospital and is supposed to take it easy. “I met a girl and…”

“You’re getting married. Praise be the Lord,” she says in the strongest voice I’ve heard from her in a long time.

“No, but I really liked her until she stole my truck. It’s a long story.”

“Well, tell me. That’s why you called.”

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