Page 76 of Blindside Sinner

“What did you? She's your boss, remember?”

I shrug, my skin itching with discomfort. “To be fair, she was drunk when we met. She seemed… charming. Charmingly reckless, at least.”

He nods. “Do you wish you hadn't met her yet?”

I don’t know that I’m sure of the answer anymore. Not so long ago, it would’ve been a firmHell no.But lately… I don’t know.

“Daily, but I'm still here.”

The stoplight’s changed, so we can go, but the car sits idle as he continues to stare at me. “Yes,” he murmurs in a voice rich with unspoken meaning. “You are.”

It’s one more tense, pregnant second before he rockets the car toward home.

38

SLOAN

Breakfast is on the table already when I come down in the morning. Beck is seated with a steaming mug of coffee in front of him.

He looks up at me and smiles, which is rare enough that I pinch myself quickly to make sure I’m not dreaming. “Good morning.”

“Uh, good morning,” I mumble back.

“I have an omelet in the oven for you.”

“You have a—? Oh. Thank you.” I can feel his gaze on me as I pull on a mitt to take the plate from the oven and then walk to the table.

He stands and offers me the seat he just vacated. “You want coffee, juice, water…?”

“Juice. Thank you.”

He saunters into the kitchen to pour a drink before returning and sinking into the seat at my left.

I glance down at my plate. The omelet is light and fluffy, stocked with perfectly cooked vegetables and seasoning that only a real cook would put in. I cut myself a bite and chew. “Holy—Beck, this is so good.”

“Thanks.” He smiles the bashful smile—the one with his eyes downcast and one corner of his lip pulled between his teeth.

I shovel another bite in. “When you retire from hockey, you could open a restaurant.”

By the time I’m finished eating and the plates are cleared and rinsed and in the dishwasher, it’s time to get him to practice. “You want to stay today and watch drills?”

I almost always stay, but seldom watch. I like hockey fine enough, but I usually spend the time on the phone with Monroe or Cassie. Sometimes, I read books.

But things right now feel… different. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

He stares at me for a second before he nods. “Me, too.”

As we’re almost out the door, my phone rings with an unknown Seattle number. I’m almost afraid to take it. On the other hand, calling isn’t really the Bloodhound’s style. His style is more “show up outside your window at midnight.”

“Hello?”

“Good morning. Is this Sloan Reeves?” The woman on the other end of the phone has a voice that reminds me of Fran Drescher in that show where she watched some rich guy’s kids—nasally with a harsh New York accent.

“Yes, it is. May I ask who’s calling?”

“This is Mindy Farber. I work with the Seattle Youth Sports Foundation and I was calling to let you know you won the auction date with Dr. Christian Haines, an award-winning surgeon and one of Seattle’s most eligible bachelors.” She sounds like she’s reading from a script. Her voice is flat and without enthusiasm, although the accent hasn’t wavered.

I frown. “I’m sorry, I think you’ve got the wrong information. I didn’t bid on anything last night.”

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