Rebound (Seattle Steelheads #1)(7)

Aw hell.

This guy? In a military uniform? Oh yeah. He rocked the Seattle Police blues, and the thought of him in camouflage brought impure thoughts to life in my head. Shame his bulky police belt kept me from seeing how narrow his hips were, but it did frame his ass nicely. God help me if he ever worked security at the arena; one glance at him through the glass, and I’d forget how to skate. He was just so—

All at once, the video vanished, and my ex’s smiling face appeared on the screen in the same instant his ringtone shrieked out of the speaker.

I startled, dropping my phone on the counter, and staggered back a step. As it kept ringing and vibrating on the granite, I stared at it like it was a pissed off snake.

It only took a few seconds to get my equilibrium back. I snatched the phone up and ignored the call.

What part of “You’re not to have any contact with Mr. Crowe” did Nathan not understand?

All of it, apparently. Not thirty seconds after I’d declined his call, his two-beat text tone sent a shudder through me. Oh, what fresh hell…

I glared at the screen.

Baby, we need to talk.

I wanted to puke. Well, “wanted” probably wasn’t the right word. It was higher on my list than talking to Nathan, though.

My hands weren’t steady, but with some cursing and a little help from autocorrect, I managed to write: Not interested.

That urge to throw up was even stronger as my thumb hovered over the Send button, but I made myself tap the screen anyway. The message sent. My stomach lurched. That restraining order was sounding better and better. How did I do that, anyway? And would it help? An old teammate’s ex-wife had had one against him, and he’d walked right through it. Didn’t seem like they were worth the paper they were printed on, but it was better than—

The text tone sounded again, and I swallowed bile.

Fuck. He really wasn’t going to give up, was he?

Look baby tonight was just a bump. We can fix this.

My thumbs hovered over the tiny keypad. I hated myself for not being able to tell him I didn’t want to fix it. That I’d meant it when I’d gently told him over dinner that I wanted him to move out. I hated that I couldn’t tell him there was a restraining order in his future, and he better find himself a place because I wanted him and his shit out of my house ASAP. I fucking hated that I couldn’t say or even type the words.

But I’d come as far as I could tonight. Dropping the hammer over dinner, digging in my heels in the parking lot, standing my ground until the cops came—that was it. That was all I had.

Before I could think of something to say, another message came through.

Do you want me to come over?

And with that, the vomit I’d been holding back lurched into my throat. God, I couldn’t handle him tonight. I couldn’t deal with him on the phone and I sure as shit couldn’t face him in person.

Calling on reserves I didn’t know I had, I punched the keypad three times.

N. O. Send.

Then I shut off my phone and shoved it down the counter. It went off the end and clattered on to the marble floor. I picked it up, gave the screen a cursory glance to make sure the case—which was supposed to withstand even a hockey player’s delicate touch—had protected it. It had. I tossed the phone on to the counter, then went looking for a distraction that would actually pull my attention away from Nathan.

Eventually, I grabbed my laptop, poured a triple bourbon, dropped on to the sofa, and threw myself into watching videos of the Stingers like Coach wanted me to. They’d won the Cup last year, edging us out of the semifinals before dominating the shit out of the Icebirds to clinch their third Cup in a row. I needed to watch them, find their weaknesses, and figure out how to exploit them. My concentration was still a wreck, and drinking wouldn’t help at all, but watching rival players firing the puck back and forth and into the Icebirds’ net gave me something normal to do. Something I understood and could work with. Between the booze and the videos, I was starting to calm down.

Right up until a set of high beams arced through the front window.

I froze. Oh no. He was here? He was here.

Shit. What do I do?

I glanced at the counter where I’d left my phone. Call Mercer Island PD? Face him myself? Pretend I wasn’t here?

Except…that didn’t sound like Nathan’s car. Then again, his car was still in the garage. I’d driven us to dinner, and his sister had picked him up. Maybe an Uber?

A car door slammed outside.

My heart slammed into my ribs.

Holding my breath, I craned my neck to look out the window.

And just like that, all the air rushed out of my lungs so fast my head spun. The figure coming up the walkway wasn’t Nathan.

It was that cop.

Officer Logan.

He wasn’t in his uniform anymore, but I’d have recognized his face anywhere, especially after the video ogling session my ex had so rudely interrupted.

I hurried down the hall to the front door. “Officer Logan.”

“Hey.” He met my gaze. “I tried to call, but your phone went straight to voicemail.” He slid his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I, uh, got worried. Figured I’d err on the side of caution and make sure you’re all right.”

“Oh. Shit. I totally forgot you were going to call.” I gestured over my shoulder. “I turned my phone off.”