I narrow my eyes, studying him. He’s actually serious. I try to ignore the pesky pain that settles in my chest, turning away from him with a muttered, “Whatever.”
“I’ll um… I’ll see you later,” he says quietly before leaving.
My heart flies up into the back of my throat, and I spin around. “Happy?”
He returns, filling the doorway, his face stark and void of its usual cocky arrogance.
My hands ball into fists at my sides, my heart racing as the words burn the tip of my tongue. “I-I told you… I-I can’t be the other woman again.”
Happy’s dark eyes flare, his brows pulling together as he studies me for a long moment.
I throw a glance at the phone in his hand, arching a brow.
“It’s not—” He snaps his mouth shut, his broad shoulders sagging with resignation as he looks down at the device again.
“Happy?” I press.
Without looking at me again, he shakes his head. “I’ve gotta go.”
And he does go. Without so much as a second glance or a semblance of reassurance, he’s gone, the sound of the front door clicking closed, echoing through the silence of my apartment.
I’m a breathless, sweaty mess as I lay punch after punch into the pad Silas holds between us, glaring at it like it’s my mortal enemy—or, like it’s Happy Slater’s face.
“Use your shoulders!” Silas shouts.
I grunt, punching hard.
“Follow through with every punch!”
Another grunt, another punch.
“Don’t just hit the pad; hitthroughthe pad!”
I lay into the pad with a combo.
“Use the power in your core!”
Glowering up at Silas, I grunt again, only this time instead of my fists, I land a knee to the pad with such force it sends his six-foot, two-hundred-pound frame back a few unsteady steps before he manages to collect himself.
“Good job, Han,” Silas says, eyeing me dubiously as he lowers the pad, like he’s not so sure I won’t start laying into him again. “Time’s up. Go hit the showers.”
Gasping for breath, I use my teeth to release the strap on my gloves. I’m already late for work, but I had way too much aggression to get out this morning; if I’d showed up to work in the mood I was in when I woke up this morning, Brookes Devereaux wouldn’t stand a goddamn chance.
“Way to kick ass, Tyson.”
I startle from where I’m gulping my water, spinning around to see Happy standing right there, dressed in a Thunder hoodie, athletic shorts, and a backward ball cap looking unfairly attractive despite the two black eyes he’s sporting from his collision with the cross bar in last night’s game.
All I can think when I look at him is how he just up and left last night, mid-fuck, without even a semblance of an explanation. God, he told whomever he was on the damn phone with that he loved them. I was so angry after he left, I couldn’t even finish myself off. I went to bed angry and sexually frustrated, and I barely slept a wink. God help whoever gets on my wrong side today.
If what Chris Garret did to me taught me anything, it was that most men are lying sacks of shit, and that it’s best not to trust a single one of them.
I grab my gym bag from the floor and sling it over my shoulder, glaring at Happy as I push past him. But before I can get away, he grabs me, his calloused fingers circling my arm gently but with enough force that I couldn’t shake him off even if I tried.
With a sigh, I turn, offering him a bored look.
He steps up to me, eyes flitting about before boring down into mine, his voice a low rasp as he says, “Look, I promise it’s not what you’re thinking…”
I search his dark eyes, looking for the lie. It doesn’t appear to be there.
