Page 64 of Hard to Handle

“Is that what this is, Dekk?” The muscle in his jaw feathers as the melody being played changes.

“What?”

“We fizzled out so I moved on, and now you’re back to exact revenge?” For fuck’s sake.

We never fizzled out.

The thought screams to a halt in the front of my mind and sits there in blinking neon lights.

We never fizzled out because if we had, those feelings I had wouldn’t have sparked to life the minute I saw him. They would have had me sneering and disgusted. But then I hear the other part about him moving on. I had tried to avoid looking up pictures of Hunter after I left him. To see how quickly and how easily I’d been replaced. How he’d moved on. I’m not naïve enough to think that I walked away and he’s pined after me all these years.

So yeah, I’m sure he moved on. But I’ve never wanted that reminder.

Hell.

“News flash. What happened three years ago is dead and over,” I say.

“Yes, I forgot. No-nonsense Kincade can move on without ever looking back.”

“God, Hunter. There are way more important things you need to be focusing on than me.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs just loud enough for me to hear, “like that hot brunette over there.”

That dig hurts.

“Just like old times, huh?” I ask, staring at him until he slowly turns and faces me, that cocky smirk that usually makes my insides simmer, instead now irritating me.

“Depends on what you mean by old times.” He reaches out to move a piece of hair off my shoulder, and I slap his hand away.

“Hockey. Party. Repeat.”

“You forgot the most important part.” He leans closer so I can smell the alcohol on his breath just above the scent of his cologne.

“Meaning?”

“Hockey. Party. Fucking. Repeat.”

“Screw you, Hunter,” I say, refusing to show that those words and his cavalier attitude are hurtful.

I toss some cash on the bar and head back to our table, needing space and distance from him and his destructive behavior. Why? Why does he keep coming to me when it clearly bothers him that I’m here? Why can’t he just go after his hot brunette on the other side of the bar and leave me the hell alone?

More importantly, why do I keep engaging?

I think the answer lies somewhere between the two of those answers.

“You jealous?” he calls after me as I step past Finch and his wife on the way to the open seat on the couch. I turn to face him, confusion no doubt etched in every line of my face, as he stares at me above the rim of his glass, his eyes challenging me as much as his words do. “You’re the one who moves from man to man, night after night.”

“Man to man? Really? It’s called entertaining clients, you ass.” I laugh at his ridiculousness and when I try to walk between him and the table in the way, I realize now that putting myself in this corner was a bad idea.

“Sleeping with clients is part of the job now? No wonder Chaddy-boy was so pissed that you dropped him to come see me,” he says, reaching out to grab my arm.

Finch and Callum both stand instantly with his name falling from their lips.

But I’m faster, my hand stinging as it connects with his cheek.

We glare at each other—his teammates and one of my clients—staring at us, gauging the situation and whatever it is that’s happening between us. Patrons on the outside of our seating area turn to watch too as the music picks up in pace.

Hunter may have a ghost of a smile on his lips but there is a host of pain in the depths of his eyes, but I’m past wanting to listen to him now. A moment passes before I see him tuck it all away and that smile falls lopsided and his snark returns.