“Oh, shoot.” I hitch my thumb over my shoulder. “Do you want me to grab him?”
“No.” She gives me a quick hug, unlocks her car. “Let him have his fun. Plus”—she smiles at me as she tugs open the driver’s side door—“I have it on good authority that Damon’s not going to be coming home tonight.”
Then, with a wink, she’s in her car.
And driving away.
THIRTY-TWO
Damon
The team is in Seattle,but I’m not with them.
I flew ahead to Vancouver, meeting with another agent—though, thankfully, in person this time instead of on the fucking phone—and then watching some scores come in.
It was one of those weird days where I had both a lot of shit to do and yet a lot of downtime.
The meeting was short.
The scores rolled in without compunction.
The emails and questions I needed to answer were easy to handle.
But as the downtime grew, so did my edginess.
I hate days like this. The moment I let my guard down, shit will hit the fan and then I’ll be spending hours putting out fires…all while talking on the fucking phone.
Now, though, I’m chilling in my hotel room, wishing that I wasn’t here, but in Seattle, invading Joey’s.
Of course, she wouldn’t actually be there.
Puck drop is in less than an hour, but instead of watching the game from a box, I’ll be well…watching itona box—the flat screen in my room.
“Lame,” I mutter, kicking off my shoes and leaning back on the bed.
Which is the exact moment my phone rings.
“Fucking hell.” I snag it from the bed, see that it’s the legal department calling, and groan.
I don’t want to deal with this shit.
And it’s definitely going to be shit.
“Dammit.” I consider hurling my phone across the room—at least if it’s broken I’ll get a reprieve from some of the calls—but it’s my job, so I resist and begrudgingly swipe my finger across the screen. As it connects, I lift it to my ear and listen for approximately three-point-three seconds before I’m ready to chuck it right out the fucking window, permanently sealed for safety or not.
“Damon, it’s Tera.”
My newly appointed head of legal sounds like she’s about to ask me for a favor I know I’m not going to like.
God dammit.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “I know. What do you need?”
She sighs—and yup, this is going to be bad.
“What?” I press.
“Hiller.”
