Page 27 of Hard to Handle

“Who, you?”

“No, you,” he sneers and takes a step closer.

“Not in the least.”

“No?” His eyes flicker from my eyes to my lips again. “This was a huge mistake,” he says, pretending to sound like me last night before clearing his throat. “Right back to that phrase, huh?”

“What do you mean?” I tug on my arm to no avail.

“I mean, it’s amazing how convenient it is for you to fall back on that line. You said it the last time I saw you and you said it last night.”

I did? I try to relive the moments, knowing I said it in the elevator but not remembering the time before. All I remember is trying to keep my emotions under check so Hunter Maddox had no clue I’d failed at the casual dating—er, sex situation—we’d found ourselves in. Sure, we fell into bed that first time, then verbally fought our way out of it, only to fall back into it more often than not over the course of six months.

But we weren’t dating.

You could have asked either of us and we would have confirmed that. We were benefits buddies. The call we’d make when we were in the same city, at the same time—hell, even when we weren’t we’d arrange to be. That’s how great our sexual chemistry was.

The problem? Even though we couldn’t be in the same room longer than thirty minutes without fighting—unless we were having sex—I became addicted to him. His gruff way, his cutting sense of humor, and his . . . well, his cock and fingers and oh-so-gloriously skilled tongue. But I can’t see that in him now.

“Cat got your tongue, Dekker?” he asks, and leans in so I panic he’s going to kiss me. Panic I’m here in the arena with the team nearby and Hunter is body to body with me. But I don’t move. I don’t back down. I refuse to let him feel like he has the upper hand again like last night. “Because the way I see it, this is your MO. We’d have incredible sex, you’d get up and say, ‘Shit, that was a mistake,’ and then collect your clothes or kick me out of wherever with a lame excuse about how you had somewhere to be until we’d see each other again. We were always a mistake. Every time. Until the next time that is.”

I hate that the boyish smirk and arrogance in his eyes owns my every reaction—even after all this time.

I hate that I know he’s right. If only he knew why . . . but he didn’t stop me from walking out three years ago, so he has no idea what it took to leave.

“Are you saying we weren’t a mistake?” I ask through a laugh to try and find my footing.

“’Till next time.” He releases my arm and runs his hand down the length of it.

“There will be no next time.”

“Yes, there will,” he says and begins to put skate guards over his blades.

“No, Hunter, there won’t.” I straighten my spine. “Last night was completely unprofessional of me. It was—”

“That’s never stopped you before,” he says, and I swear to God I see the moment it clicks, because his body falters in motion moments before his eyes flash up to meet mine. “And here I was thinking you’d come here to finish what we started last night. Have an early morning of brunch sex for old time’s sake before telling me what a mistake we were . . . but it’s unprofessional of you. Let me guess, you didn’t come here for that part of me . . . you only came for the other part of me. The part that would make us sleeping together unethical.”

“You’re crazy,” I mutter and wave a hand at him as I backpedal.

“It’d only be unprofessional if I happened to be the person you were here to recruit. It would only be immoral if you were sleeping with your client, because that would mean others might worry that you’re giving me preferential treatment . . .”

“You need a new agent.” It’s the closest I’m going to get to telling him the truth in this environment.

He throws his head back and laughs. “And why’s that? Why the concern all of a sudden?”

“Because Sanderson isn’t doing you any favors.”

“And how would you know what he is or isn’t doing for me? Unless of course you were asking around and trying to figure out how to woo me over to your side.”

“I’m here to check up on my clients,” I say and glance over my shoulder as the trainer walks past with Katzen following closely behind, no doubt to work on that hamstring that’s been giving him trouble. “And you’re reaching.”

“Am I?” Hunter asks as he walks up to me, our bodies back in the same position as last night in the elevator—almost touching.

I nod, not trusting my own words and hating that he’s the only man who can make me tongue-tied. The one thing my dad always emphasized to us was time and place. Never make an offer, a proposition, an anything to a potential client if the timing is off or if the place has you at a disadvantage. I walked into the arena this morning thinking I’d have a chance to talk to Hunter alone, since everyone knows he prefers his mornings solitary and his practice hard.

What I didn’t expect was to walk in on whatever was happening between him and Maysen, a beer bottle on the ice, or Hunter to have me on the ropes so to speak with his comments.

Ones I have to figure out how to maneuver.