Page 9 of Exes and Oh Hell No

The music from Charlie’s Bar blares from the thin walls as my heeled sandals click against the asphalt, heading to the entrance.

I pull open the door, and the second I step inside, it’s like being frozen in time.

Same black barstools lined along the counter. Same wooden tables with worn red upholstered booths. Same rock music blaring from the jukebox at an obnoxious volume, despite it being a Tuesday.

The door slams shut behind me as my eyes adjust to the dim lighting.

I make my way toward the bar, mentally rehearsing my order—honey barbeque wings, potato skins, and a double vodka soda—when a familiar voice makes my stomach clench.

“Well, if it isn’t Harper Adams.”

I cringe before I turn around, my shoulders stiffening.

Todd Matthews.

I paste a fake smile on my face and whirl around.

He’s changed a lot since I last saw him that infamous night outside the hockey rink.

“Hey, Todd. Been a long time.”

He smirks, patting the paunch of his beer belly. “Yeah, put on a few pounds since college.”

His eyes drag over me before he adds, “Looks like I’m not the only one.”

Indignant rage fills me as my mouth drops open.

Excuse me!

It takes everything in me not to launch a wing plate at his head.

Sure, I’ve filled out in the past decade, but I don’t look like a washed-up ex-jock clinging to my glory days.

Grinding my teeth, I ignore him and turn toward the bartender, prepared to order and forget Todd even exists.

But a voice from my past—deep, smooth, and unmistakable—cuts through the air.

“Harper.”

I freeze.

No.

No, no, no.

A decade may have passed, but I’ll never forget that voice.

I’ve heard it in my dreams more times than I care to admit.

Slowly, I turn my head, and my stomach drops.

Ford Brooks.

Holy hell.

He looks even better than the last time I saw him on a TV screen, dominating the ice.

In person, he’s devastating. That sharp jaw, those piercing blue eyes, the way his broad shoulders fill out his T-shirt like it was tailored for him.

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