“Old enough to be married with two kids. Just admit you like him for more than just a friend.”
I grunted. “I’m not admitting anything.” I twirled the bottle between my fingers. “But I should apologize.”
He studied me a moment longer before clamping his hand down on my shoulder. “Probably. Might want to sharpen up your charm and give him some time to cool off. Call him back tomorrow. You’ll know when it’s the right time.”
I knew it was sound advice I should probably heed. But as we sat a while longer, neither of us commented on the situation as we watched the baseball game. My phone buzzed with a message I was eager to accept.
“What’s going on?” Jonas asked.
Grinning, I stood and looked down at him. “I got my sign in the form of his address.”
He groaned as he stood. “You know stalking is a crime, right?”
I clapped him on the shoulder. “Stop worrying. I’m not stalking. I’m apologizing.”
Half an hour later, we pulled up to an old brick building. It was almost dark as the streetlights came on. Decker finally found a spot to park a block away, and as we walked back up the street, I surveyed the surrounding houses. They were all in need of some serious work. Is this all he could afford?
Decker elbowed me. “What’s the plan?”
“We go in.”
He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and grabbed my arm. “Go in? I thought we were only locating the place. You’re supposed to be waiting for the right time to call him. Not show up out of the blue.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re an NHL goalie, for god’s sake. Have you gone soft? Maybe we’ve protected you too much.”
“You’re playing with fire, Hughes. You’re not in Kansas anymore.”
I squinted at his comment. “What the fuck are you talking about, Kansas? Does Coach know you’ve taken too many pucks to the head?”
Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he looked down at me with concern. He was a six-foot-seven wall of muscle, yet he was hesitant to go in. “You can wait out here, Decker.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face. “No, no. Just go do what you have to do so we can leave. If we’re lucky, we’ll get out before he calls the cops on you.”
Shaking my head, I pulled out my phone to check the apartment number. When we entered the building, I looked around. “No lift?”
“Not here,” he said, heading for the stairs. “Let’s go, Princess. It’s leg day.”
Climbing four flights of stairs in the muggy heat made me miss London. Knocking on the door, we waited for him to answer. But when it opened, it wasn’t Luca. It was another man who looked back and forth between us. “Can I help you?”
“Yes. I’m looking for Luca.”
His brow furrowed, the smile changing into a scowl. “What do you want with him?”
Glancing over his shoulder, I tried to see inside the apartment. “It’s personal.”
He mirrored my stance and planted his feet, blocking the doorway. “He’s not here.”
Trying not to look so ominous, I remembered what Becker said about New Yorkers. “Okay. When do you expect him?”
He sized us up before clenching his jaw. “Does he owe you money? If you goons work for a loan shark, or the Irish mob, you can fuck off before I call the cops.”
Scowling, I looked down at my designer clothes. I could see where he might think that, and he obviously didn’t recognize us. Tattoos and a few bruises from our workout yesterday presented a certain way, but not the mob. It was comical. “I can be an enforcer, but…”
Stepping back, he slammed the door and engaged multiple locks. “Get the fuck out of here. I’m calling the cops.”
“But we’re not…that’s not what…” I trailed off.
“I don’t give a shit who you are,” he yelled through the door. “I’m calling now.”
