“You can send in the sales associate.”
“If I could’ve found any sales person to send in, I wouldn’t have come in here myself to stop someone from beating up a woman in the dressing room.”
“Wouldn’t you?”
Those green eyes snap to mine.
If I were at work and he was one of my players, I’d stare right back at him until he blinked.
But I’m not at work.
My lungs are still working to catch up on all of the air I missed while I was stuck in the dress on top of how someone has now also ripped a scab off of my heart.
My arm hangs uselessly at my side.
And seeing Duncan again hurts, dammit.
I duck my head and squeeze my eyes shut, and then I swallow the dregs that are left of my pride. “Yes, I’d like my bra, please.”
I don’t know what I did to today to make it hate me, but it was clearly something.
As soon as I figure out what, I’m never doing it again.
2
Duncan Lavoie, aka a hockey player who didn’t have saving his secret ex-girlfriend on his bingo card today
I’d sayit’s nice to see that Addie hasn’t changed a bit, but I’m too busy being pissed that I’m thinking about Addie at all.
Thinking about Addie existing.
Thinking about Addie being in the dress shop I had to stop at this morning on an errand for my niece.
Thinking about how I yanked too hard and hurt her shoulderagainand how much I don’t want that guilt in my life once more.
Thinking about arguing with her about helping her get to a doctor.
Thinking about how I’m going to make this right for someone who never wants my help. Who never wantedme. At least not enough to admit in public that we were dating.
I stifle a growl of frustration.
Were wedating? Were we?
We were definitely about more than just sex. For several months, we talked. We cooked for each other. We passed out on our couches watching TV together when we were both too tiredafter long days of coaching or conditioning to put the energy into getting naked.
But we weren’t enough to do anything in public together.
“I can make it from here,” she says as I pull into the players’ parking lot at Duggan Field, which is the first thing she’s said to me since we got into my vehicle. “Thank you for your help.”
I’m not fucking stopping at the far end of the parking lot to let her walk to the door when she’s in this condition, so I ignore her hint to stop and drop her. “My pleasure.”
My pleasure.
Pulling her out of that dress and then actively avoiding staring at her mostly naked body while I helped her back into her clothes was notmy pleasure.
It wasmy torture.
Botticelli couldn’t do her curves justice. Her luscious ass and full breasts. Collarbones that could cut glass and biceps that saytry me. The long legs with the thick muscles that I can’t look at without remembering how they feel wrapped around my hips, regardless of how long it’s been since we were together.
