Sam pushes off the bar to greet me, and I smack the hand he holds out before we bump shoulders. “Wasn’t sure we’d see you tonight. Heard you got your hands full with your niece and her wicked right hook.”
I love it when the Boston comes out of Sam. We usually only see it when he gets fired up about a call or when he’s chirping our opponent.
I shift to his other side so he’s not speaking toward my ear with hearing loss. “She’s at a friend’s house under supervision.”
“No grounding? I thought you’d be stricter as a guardian,” Sam muses.
“It was self-defense, and she got a week.” I grab the glass that the bartender slides over to me, my usual beer on tap. I take a swig. “How’d you hear about this anyway?”
“How I hear about everything else. My wife.”
I glance around the bar, looking for Heather. “Where is she?”
“The sitter was running late, but she’ll be here.” Sam’s hands land on my shoulder. “Damn, I thought he got nowhere with her.”
I follow his gaze to the front door, to Max walking in with a woman—the one I can’t evict from my mind.
Heads turn as he leads Isla to this side of the room. Her hair flows down past her chest, the color popping against her plain black crop top beneath a thick gray cardigan sweater. That damn naval ring taunts me again, drawing my attention to a place my eyes have no business straying.
“Ah, fuck.” I hear Sam’s words distantly while my gaze remains on Isla walking towards us. “You like her.”
“I don’t.”
Sam narrows his eyes in disbelief.
“Fine,” I admit. “She’s gorgeous but she makes me want to rip out my hair. And no, I don’t like seeing her with Maxbe—”
“Because you want her for yourself,” Sam cuts in, his voice low enough to be drowned out by the din of noise in the bar.
“It’s not a good idea.”
“Wes, it’s been five years since your divorce, and I’ve never seen you look at a woman like this. Stop letting life happen to you, dude. Do something.”
Isla looks my way, and it’s game over. Her blue eyes, rimmed in black, pop even more tonight. It’s torture being this close to her, watching her beside someone else.
Maybe Sam is right. I can’t keep doing this to myself.
I lose my window to reply when Max reaches us. “Y’all remember Isla?”
“Despite my best efforts to forget,” I mutter, keeping my gaze on her, daring her to react. I’ve become so desperate for her attention that I’ll accept any, even if it’s not the kind I crave.
She scoffs, red lips twisting into a half-smirk. “Yeah, well, we can’t always be successful or it would become meaningless.”
Max throws an arm around her shoulders. “You’re such an ice queen. I dig it.”
Isla’s jaw tightens and her hand balls into a fist, but she doesn’t shove Max away like I expect her to, like she had when they first met at the rink weeks ago. She continues to glare at me, rosebud lips pursed, nostrils flared, eyes the color of a frozen lake.
The sick sense of satisfaction from her paying more attention to me than her date should concern me. But I cling to it as I fight the zip of anger from seeing his arm over her shoulders.
“Let’s get a drink,” he says.
She picks up Max’s arm, removing it from her shoulder. “A drink sounds good.”
“We’ll be back,” Max croons with a devious, knowing grin that makes my blood boil.
Sam snorts.
“Don’t fucking say it,” I snap, which breaks his laughter wide open.
