Page 5 of What If I Hate You
That’s what I get for being in my own head.
Just get to the car, Blakely.
The footsteps continue, making all the self-defense alarms ring in my head. I don’t know what brings it out of me, maybe it’s the fact that I’m tired of being seen as the pretty lipstick with the microphone. Or maybe it’s the desire to want to prove myself to nobody but me that I am the fierce independent woman I was raised to be.
Whatever makes me do it, I don’t know, but I spin around swiftly and hurl my briefcase into the person behind me with a thud. His tall body bends at the waist as I run to my car.
“Oohmph! What the fuck?” a voice grumbles as I run in the opposite direction. A second later, the same voice calls, “Rivers?”
Oh no.
Oh God.
Who did I hit?
Please tell me I didn’t just whack my boss.
I lift my eyes from the handle of my car door to find none other than Barrett Cunningham hugging my briefcase to his broad chest. His nostrils flared, his lips curled, and his eyes bulging.
I stand tall next to my car. “What the hell, Barrett?”
His face is a freezing cold mask of disbelief, but it dissolves into something startlingly boyish when he realizes what hit him. Maybe it’s the sight of the little gold bear charm dangling from my keychain that gives it away. He stands with almost comical slowness, holding my briefcase like it contains a ticking bomb.
"Satisfied?" he manages, voice pitched low and steady, but there’s a wheeze in it.
Nice.
He lobs the bag back at me, neat and easy, like tossing a puck to a fan. I catch it because I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of scrambling.
"Next time," I pant, "I’ll aim higher." I can’t decide if I want to stand here and stare him down or wither into the driver’s seat and pray for the pavement to swallow me whole as I drive away. “What are you doing here anyway?” I ask, annoyed but slightly proud of myself for whacking him one. Had I known it was him behind me maybe I would’ve tried even harder.
He limps closer, that slow rolling gait I’ve watched a million times on the ice, but this close, he fills up all the air between us. For a moment, neither of us say anything. The stadium lights turn his black hair blue at the tips. He’s chewing the inside of his cheek.
“I could ask you the same thing.”
I huff, shoving the briefcase strap onto my shoulder. "It’s called work and last time I checked, being a pro athlete didn’t come with stalker privileges."
His laugh is a low, hard scrape. “You think I was following you?” He glances pointedly at the dingey parking lot and then gestures with his head toward the small SUV in the corner. “To answer your ridiculously intrusive question—again—that’s me over there. I was just walking to my car. There was no need to go all Black Widow on me for fuck’s sake.”
My brows furrow.
“Your car?”
“Yeah.” He nods with a roll of his eyes. “You know, the piece of steel on four wheels that we use to get from point A to point B?”
I cock my head, annoyed. “I know what a car is, Cunningham. But why are you parked out here when I’m sure you have your own space in the player’s lot? Or why not have a driver do the work for you?”
His jaw works back and forth, a struggle I can see play out under the glare of the lights. “Maybe I prefer being alone.” He shrugs but there’s something almost sheepish about it. I’m dying to press him for more answers, but also I’m tired as hell. And do I really care?
No.
The man’s an asshole.
“Suit yourself.” I jab my car alarm button, delighted when my Hyundai chirps so shrilly it echoes off the concrete. “Maybe next time lead with ‘hi’ instead of lurking in the shadows like Jason Voorhees.”
Barrett Cunningham is a towering figure. The top of his head nearly brushes the frame of the security lamp. His broad shoulders fill out his suit, emphasizing his height and muscular build. He leans down, his face adorned with a seemingly permanent scowl. As he gets closer, I catch the scent of his cologne, a mix of musk and sandalwood and dammit, I don’t hate it.
“Noted. I’ll file that in my ‘Rivers is easily startled’ folder.”
