Page 70 of Cherry Picking

I want to cross the couch to comfort him with a touch, but I resist the urge because this clearly takes a toll on him to admit out loud.

“Then what happened?”

“He came home.” He works through a heavy swallow. “I threw his phone at the wall and shattered it. Didn’t even have to say what it was about. He knew.”

“Why—why would they do that to you?”

“Don’t know. I never asked because I didn’t want an explanation. Ziggy was always hooking up with somebody. Girlfriends of friends, exes of exes—the lines never applied to him. Figured he might as well fuck my fiancée, too, I guess. We didn’t talk for a long time after that, not until my dad’s stroke.”

“And Ophelia?”

“I broke off all contact the second I found out. Blocked her number. Called off the wedding. She was devastated, or so I hear.” He winds a hand around the back of his neck, grimacing. “She came to the fucking game tonight. Third time she’s turned up since Ziggy passed. I don’t know why she won’t just leave it alone.”

“Now I really am sorry I ate her pie,” I reply, smiling as the wrinkle in his brow slowly smooths out. “That’s genuinely one of the most awful things I’ve heard. And I’ve heard a lot of bad shit in my time.”

“You would, wouldn’t you? During your career as a vampire.”

“Death care professional,” I correct.

“Mmm.” He sets the glass down and scoots closer, close enough to playfully tug a loose strand of my hair. “I’m really sorry, Evie. I’m a mess.”

“Have you ever thought about talking to someone?”

He gives me a puzzled look. “I’m talking to you.”

“I mean like a professional.”

“A therapist?”

“Well, yeah. Someone who can help you work through all these mixed-up feelings. Grief and betrayal. Infidelity and aggression.”

“Aggression?”

“I mean, you take your frustrations out on the ice, right? Like that day with the Detroit guy. I’ve seen you play when you’re angry, and it astounds me a little—how good you are at hitting things.”

“Playing angry is good for me sometimes,” he deflects, but there’s no conviction behind it. “We won tonight.”

“I know.”

His head tilts. “Yeah?”

“I checked the score about two seconds after I walked into this apartment tonight. Sue me.”

“Okay.” He laughs. “Do you know any good lawyers?”

“Maybe Grant is still around. Should I go check?”

I pretend to get up from the couch, but he catches my wrist and pulls me gently back down. I land across his lap, and his hand winds over my hip, thumb moving in one slow pass.

“That guy is a lawyer?”

“Yep, Hazel’s coworker.”

He swipes his tongue across his lower lip. “Do you like him?”

“I—” It would be easy to lie. To make Grant into more than he is, watch Briggs squirm about it. But he’s had a bad enough night without me inventing a rival. “He’s funny and charming. But . . . I don’t know.”

His hand tightens where it sits. “You don’t know, huh?”