“Yeah.” He nods. “I got that, Jordan.”
He holds that annoying, unfazed expression, his eyes bright with entertainment. Tate Ward is so handsome that it makes me sick.
“Sometimes,” I tell him, “I really want to punch you in the throat.”
His eyebrows lift in mild surprise, like I told him I got a parking ticket. “You think you could reach?”
My jaw drops. “Was that a short joke?”
“It wasn’t a joke.”
The unwelcome urge to laugh sneaks up my throat and I clampmy lips shut so I don’t give in to this childish game we’re playing. He isn’t funny. “I’m five-four. I’m not short.”
He’s at least a foot taller than me, though.CouldI actually reach? Of course I could—oh. He’s smiling like he knows he’s gotten to me.
“You seem tense today, Jordan.”
“I’m not tense.” I’m so tense, now that he’s here. “I feel great.”
His eyes narrow, that stupid fucking smile on his dumb mouth. “Hmm.”
“I do.”
I sound defensive. My face is going red, so I mutter something about checking on his order and whirl around, heading to the kitchen.
“Don’t be fooled by Tate Ward’s dashing good looks, though,” I read out loud from the magazine article about him as he eats his sandwich. I bought it weeks ago and kept it tucked under the bar for exactly this purpose. “This single dad is the most well-respected man in professional hockey, beloved by players, fans, and fellow coaches. Even the parents at his daughter’s school sing his praises, regaling this interviewer with stories of his involvement in school events and generosity with his time, money, and attention.” I hold a finger up. “Excuse me a moment.”
I turn around and pretend to convulse, making a wretching noise, before turning back and politely wiping at my mouth.
“Do you normally read out loud,” he asks, “or is that just a treat for me?”
“During the hour I spent with hockey’s most eligible bachelor,” I continue, ignoring him,“all praises and compliments were politely rebuffed with a gentle change in conversation to the charities withwhich Coach Ward is involved.Wow.” I look up. He’s rubbing the bridge of his nose like he does when he’s just about had enough of me, and my heart sings. “How honorable of you.”
I flip back to the cover and pretend to admire the handsome picture of him, sitting on a stool in a t-shirt and jeans, looking like a model. “And what aflatteringcover photo.”
He lets out the world’s quietest sigh, looking around.
“Admit it.” I narrow my eyes at him with a conspiratorial look. “This was the first picture they took, wasn’t it? You got it in one.”
“May I have the bill, please?”
“You can end this,” I tell him, printing the bill out and dropping it on the counter in front of him. “Stop coming to my bar and stop checking up on me. It’s been, what? Three years?”
Since he started with the Storm.
“Three and a half.” His eyes meet mine and there’s a dip in my stomach. “Talk to your father,” he says simply.
Laugh out fucking loud. There’s an ice cube’s chance in hell of that happening. I was done with Ross Sheridan ten years ago, the day he skipped my mother’s funeral.
“Maybe I will.” I won’t. “Maybe I’ll march into his office, give him a big hug, and join the Storm organization so that one day, he can pass it down to me.” I gasp. “Maybe we can run it together, the two of us. Wouldn’t that be fun?”
Deep in my chest, it still hurts to joke about. I know I’m not meant for that world. But still, it hurts.
Tate doesn’t laugh, though. He doesn’t even smile. “I hope you do go see your dad, Jordan,” he pulls his wallet out and takes out a few bills, “because I have better things to do than babysit you.”
His eyes flash with something sharp, and victory surges through me. Got him. Fuckinggothim. I got Tate Ward’s unending patience to slip.
He stands, slips his jacket on, and I frown down at the bills he set on the receipt. It’s too much money.
