Page 72 of Blindside Sinner

“They do have lettuce here.” Then I smirk and add, “It just usually comes inside of a double bacon cheeseburger.”

He laughs again, the sound rich and deep, and glances down at me as we push through the front door. “Oh, good. Healthy food. Objection overruled then.”

“You know me. Always looking out for you.”

Monroe isn’t working today, so a new waitress I don’t recognize seats us in the booth in the back corner by the jukebox. I smooth the corner of my placemat, fiddle with my fork, keep my eyes on my hands.

He’s been quiet for a few minutes and I’m starting to think this was a bad idea. We’re only here because he acted like a dick and he was sorry. It’s a pity lunch, nothing more.

But the silence is killing me.

“We should probably try to be friends,” I blurt before I can think twice. “Because if we have to go out to eat every time you are an ass to me, I’m going to weigh a thousand pounds before the season is over.”

His smile is slow, spreading across his face like daylight. “Okay. Friends. I can do that.”

“Good.”

He blows out a breath. “What made you take this job working for an ass like me?”

“I need the money for… family stuff.” I don’t want to tell him about the Bloodhound. Don’t even want to think that slimy piece of shit. “I have obligations.”

He nods. “I understand that.”

“Yeah?”

“More than you know.”

I fidget with my straw. I should probably ask about his “obligations”—that’s what a real friend would do—but I don’t want to pry. We’ve made a tentative truce, and I don’t want to ruin it by being too nosy.

Instead, I sip my lemon water and look anywhere but at him.

For now, that’ll work.

36

SLOAN

Beck has a charity gala tonight, so I’m looking forward to a quiet evening all by my lonesome. My tentative game plan is to drink homemade Moscow Mules and watchLove Islanduntil my eyes bleed, but I’m considering a last-minute audible toToo Hot to Handle,just to keep things interesting.

Before I do that, I make sure his tux is pressed and shoes are shined. Technically, dressing him is not in my job description, and he didn’t even ask me to do it, but I didn’t want him to end up wrinkled on a day where there will be a red carpet, photographers swarming like mosquitoes, and a whole mess of elbow-rubbing with the most influential and well-known people in pro hockey.

I’m standing at the counter in the kitchen mixing my drink when he walks in looking like he just stepped off the cover ofGQ.

The air whooshes out of me like he just punched me in the gut. It might be embarrassing, if he didn’t smile in a way that buried all that self-consciousness beneath an avalanche of warm squishy good feelings that don’t have a name.

“Am I good?” He smooths his hand down the vest under the jacket.

“Oh yeah. Panties will be dropping at eighty paces.”

He chuckles, then the smirk fades from his face. “You aren’t ready.”

“For my big night of TV and Stephen King?” I hold up my book. “I’m more than ready, let me tell ya.”

“Uh, no. I left something for you on your bed.”

“On my bed?” A list of possibilities flutters through my head. Fart bomb, spiders, itching powder.

“Yes, genius, on your bed. Just go look.”

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