Brad stood in front of me, still dressed in a suit and tie from work, with an enormous bouquet of red roses in his hand. I didn’t like roses, a detail Brad either didn’t remember or decided to ignore.
“Hi, Caroline,” he whispered. He fixed his eyes on me, and his smile grew. “You look beautiful.”
This wasn’t going to be easy. We had spent four years together. Fun years, at least at the beginning. I just didn’t love him. I had told him as much before I left, and seeing me with Niklas would hurt him again. He’d probably try to hurt me back.
I smiled a little. “Thank you.”
He leaned forward for a kiss, but I stepped aside.
“Don’t,” I said, a little harsher than I meant to. He recovered quickly and stepped inside.
“Can I give you these?” he asked, handing me the bouquet.
I sighed. What the hell was the right move here?
“Thanks,” I said, taking the flowers.
“I’ve missed you,” he said. “You left some things back at my place. Jewelry. You can come get it after dinner.”
He wanted me to come home with him, and he was trying to lure me there. Always with an agenda, never just coming out and saying it.
Brad cleared his throat and shut the door behind him.
“Let’s go see your parents,” he said, holding out his hand for me to take it.
No discussion or questions. Nothing about the break I had made with him months ago. Not even,how was your trip?In a matter of minutes, he had just reinserted himself into my life. Or, rather, he was trying to.
I looked down at his hand and shook my head. His eyes grew wider, as if this were the last thing he’d imagined I would do. Which said a lot about our former relationship, none of it good.
“No, Brad,” I said, deliberately raising my voice. “We’re not going to see my parents. My mother was mistaken when—”
Brad was no longer paying attention to me. His eyes drifted up, over my shoulder, and he stared. I didn’t need to look. I recognized the weight of his footsteps. Niklas stopped behind me, his body skimming mine, his heat pulsing through my clothes. His breath caressed my neck, and his hand slipped around my waist.
But I knew better than to call these gestures affection, at least in this situation. Niklas had sized up his opponent and carefully chosen his play, all in the few moments it had taken him to walk up the dated suburban hallway. He knew competition when he saw it, and as he had mentioned earlier, he worked well under pressure.
I frowned. I wanted to handle this myself. But Niklas had his own agenda.
“You must be Brad,” he said, offering his hand. “Niklas.”
In his bid for the upper hand, Niklas had bet that this was Brad that he faced. He had even chosen his position carefully: on my right side, so he could shake hands and keep his arm around me.
I looked up at Niklas and saw a hint of a smile on his face as his guess was confirmed. He kept his gaze steady, focused on Brad, refusing to acknowledge the roses in my hand. He looked relaxed, even amused by the situation. He was good, really good. Even I would have believed the act if he weren’t holding onto me so tightly.
For the first time in my memory, Brad opened his mouth, but nothing came out. After a beat, he shut his mouth but continued to stare at Niklas. His brow furrowed briefly, probably making his own calculations. Then something flashed through his eyes. He shook Niklas’s hand. “I didn’t catch your last name.”
I stiffened. A hint of recognition. That’s what I had just seen in his eyes—Brad was trying to remember where he had seen Niklas before. He had only a passing interest in hockey, certainly not enough to recognize players’ faces. It was more likely that Brad remembered Niklas from the string of front-page stories covering the abuse accusations.
Back in Stockholm, seeing the photos had hit me hard, even after I knew him. If the photos had been my first impression of Niklas? I might not have given him a chance.
Niklas’s fingers dug into my side, but his face betrayed none of his emotion. “Niklas Almquist.”
Brad had graduated at the top of his law school class for a reason. He didn’t forget names or other details easily. I caught another flash in his eyes as he made the connection. Then he had the nerve to smile. In that moment, all of my murky feelings for Brad gelled into a single assessment: This was a game for Brad, too, but the prize had nothing to do with our relationship. The prize was winning itself, without regard for who he hurt along the way. Including me.
“Niklas Almquist,” Brad repeated, his voice smooth and easy now. “I thought I recognized something about you.”
Every muscle in my body tensed, on alert for the sly insults waiting on his smiling lips. I knew this man too well. He would go for Niklas where it hurt the most. I shifted to somehow warn Niklas, but he was a step ahead of me. His hand stroked my side, easing my back against his powerful body.
Brad continued his pursuit. “I’m surprised you’re still here in Detroit. It must be tough getting cut from the Red Wings,” he said. “But then again, a reputation like that is hard to shake.”
