Page 80 of Lucky Shot

This is needed.

A dose of reality and a reminder not to get sucked in by his charm. Thank God I didn’t sleep with him. Because despite what I said, it would be harder to accept his rejection, his one-and-done notch on the bedpost, had he been inside my body.

“When I fuck you . . . and I will fuck you, it’ll be because you’re goddamn good and ready—”

Nope, not going to entertain his proclamation. It was just another spiel, after all. His words, though exciting at the time, will be forgotten over time, alongside every other promise he made me.

It’s well after dark before I make my way back to my office. Maybe I went a little longer than scheduled as a means to make up for his absence. Maybe I just needed to occupy my mind and figure out where to go next.

Life without Hardy here is a real, tangible thing. Life will go on, as it always does. The hype, media, and donations will also decline, but hopefully, the added interest from local families will remain.

Be grateful. That’s all I can be despite my chaotic thoughts.

And the one right now, as I wrap up a long day and dream of having a luxurious bath that my studio doesn’t have, is frustration.

Expectations are a tricky thing. You want to have them of someone, but once you have them, then you open yourself up to disappointment.

And that’s pretty much where I’m at when I walk into the darkened clubhouse. I know its layout by heart, so I move through the space on autopilot and have my hand on the light switch when I become keenly aware that someone else is in here.

Mr. Macias’s words from the other night come back to me. The trepidation is fleeting though when “Hey” cuts through the silence.

I yelp but then sag in relief. I know that voice.

When I flick the switch on, Hardy is there. He’s lying on the couch, baseball hat tilted down low over his face, arms crossed over his chest, and legs crossed at the ankles.

I’m pissed at him—extremely pissed at him—and yet, like a dumb female, everything about him right now calls to every part of me.

“When I fuck you. . . and I will fuck you, it’ll be because you’re goddamn good and ready and have acknowledged that want. Until then, you can remember the taste of my kiss because I promise you, that’s just a hint of just how fucking great it’s going to be.”

Right now, any promise those words held just died a slow death. Especially when he thinks he can let my kids down, and it won’t let me down.

I glare at him even though he can’t see it. And then following suit, I study him there. From what the bill of his hat doesn’t cover, his jaw is unshaven, and he looks . . . rough? Hungover? Something is up.

And while my mind might be thinking that, my lips are remembering what his felt like on mine. What his kiss tasted like. What his hands felt like.

“I didn’t show today,” he says.

“No shit. I hadn’t noticed. Neither did the two hundred-plus people who sat out there and waited for you.”

He lifts a hand. “That’s on me. My bad.”

“Well, it sure as hell isn’t on me, but you left me high and dry, which I’m beginning to think is your MO.”

He nods, his chest breathing evenly. “It is. You’re right.”

“Awesome. Now that we have that little mystery settled, why don’t you leave via whatever way you saw yourself in here without anyone noticing.”

“I’ve learned a trick or two in my time.”

“Apparently.” Irritation peppers my every word. “Look, I’m tired. I worked a full day filling in for you and all the extra kids that came for you, and I want to go home. So, you figured out a way to get in here—”

“The key is hanging on the inside wall of your office. Not very hard.”

“Then you can see yourself out.”

He says nothing in response, and I’m almost certain that he’s fallen asleep. He’s on his own. I’m done and am a foot from the door when he speaks.

“You do good work here, Lucky Shot.” He takes his time speaking, slow and deliberate. “Volunteering here may not be where I want to be right now, but I give credit when credit is due—your program is important. I never meant to demean it, you, or the people it helps.”