Page 42 of Holding Penalty

The capybara turns her head to me. It feels like she’s sizing me up with her shiny black eyes.

“No comment, huh? I’ll try to take it as a compliment.”

I don’t know if I should be worried that I find myself talking to Cheesecake more and more when she comes to visit.

“Alright, girl, time to go home.” I grab my keys and shoo her out while I leave to pick up Piper.

Cheesecake knows her way back to her herd. The vet’s told me it’s fine to just put her out, that she’ll mosey back to where she needs to be. My house sits near perimeter fencing for the ranch, and I park my truck right outside it.

She stands next to the walkway, keeping her head pointed at my car, until I finally see her turn and saunter away in the rearview mirror as I start down the road into the city.

I find street parking near the building where Piper is living now. I don’t like that she has to crash on her sister’s couch. I’d gladly pay for her to get her own apartment, but I know there’s no way she’d let me. She’s too proud.

Her sister’s building isn’t a high-end place, and doesn’t have a doorman or anything like that, so I just punch in the entry code Piper sent me and walk up to the third floor. When I approach her apartment, there’s a man standing in front of her door.

Instantly, tension spreads through me, pulling my muscles tight. My first thought is that it’s him—her ex. When I see he’s holding a bouquet of flowers, my brow tugs even lower. Is that what this fucker thinks, that he can win her back with flowers and an apology after what he did?

But after a couple seconds, I notice that the man is wearing a uniform and holding a clipboard, like he’s making a delivery. There’s still a buzz of suspicion in my chest, but at least I’m able to unclench my fists.

“You need something?” I ask, my voice too gruff.

“Just making a delivery,” he says breezily. He shows me his clipboard and nods to the numbers affixed on the door. “Room A302.”

That asshole Crew couldn’t even bring his own apology flowers? He should’ve crawled over on his hands and knees through broken glass in the streets and groveled at her doorstep over what he did. Instead, he ordered a delivery service.

I bet he tipped like shit, too.

“This is my wife’s place,” I say. I roughly wrap my hand around the bouquet, not caring that I’m crushing some petals and cracking some stems, and take it from him. “I’ll give it to her.”

The delivery guy looks caught off guard for a second, but that’s replaced by a flash of recognition in his eyes and a startling of his expression.

“Wait, holy shit, you’re not Nash Miller, are you?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

“Fuckin’ A, man!” he exclaims. “I’m so excited for this season after how you guys were playing at the end of last year. I know this is annoying, but can I get an autograph?”

I should probably be glad that he’s not noticing how odd it is that I’m visiting my supposed wife at her apartment in a budget-friendly building. He pulls out an unused sheet of paper from his clipboard, and I sign the back of it, making no effort not to further damage the flowers as I shift them to my left hand.

“Good luck this season, Mr. Miller!” he says with a wide smile as he walks toward the elevator. “Go Gators!”

I lift my chin to him and then knock.

She opens the door, and my heart stutters. The shade of red on her lips punches the air out of me and sends a bolt of electricity right between my legs.

Her hair is done up in a gorgeous knot, and the sight of her smooth, creamy neck fully exposed almost makes me want to stagger back. How the fuck am I going to spend the whole evening with her next to me and not have my hands all over her?

Fake, fake, fake, I repeat the word in my head.

Her radiant green eyes dip to the bouquet in my hand. “Nash, you brought me flowers?”

The thought of going to a flower store, taking my time picking an arrangement that I think she’d like, and then handing them to her at her door flashes in my mind. I enjoy the thought far too much. A happy feeling pulses at the back of my head, until Piper reaches out and grabs the message card sitting in the bouquet.

She reads, “I’m sorry. I haven’t stopped loving you, and I never will. Crew.”

Anything approximating happiness evaporates from me. My stomach curls tight, and my teeth press together.

“I got to your door at the same time as the delivery guy bringing these,” I explain.