Risky Play (Red Card #1)(30)

His eyes widened.

And I mentally punched myself in the face.

It just slipped!

“Tell me that was a sick joke.” He looked pale—why the hell did he look pale?

“It’s none of your fucking business,” I growled, trying to sidestep him only to have him slam me against the nearest wall and ball the front of my shirt in his hands.

“Her ex did a number on her, you asshole. Tell me you weren’t her rebound.” He shook his head. “The guy never even slept with her, said he wanted to save it for marriage and then just . . .” He let me go. “You know what? This is bullshit. Stay away from her.”

“Funny, I said the exact same thing to her last night, to stay away from you. What makes you think you’re any better than me? Huh?”

“Easy.” Jagger shrugged. “I’m not an idiot. Girls like her? They aren’t fucking one-night stands, you dick.”

I kept my face impassive.

When inside, my chest cracked a little.

It was never supposed to be a one-night stand with her.

But it had been.

And I’d left.

I didn’t have a leg to stand on.

And for the first time in months, I was finding it hard to blame her for my father’s death instead of myself.

Jagger walked out, slamming the door behind him.

And as I passed one of the mirrors and glanced up.

For the first time in my existence.

I hated what I saw.





Chapter Twenty-Six MACKENZIE

The doorbell rang.

I prayed it was a misplaced pizza or some lost fries. I needed something to make me feel better about this morning, and I imagined it would just be another strike against me if I cracked open a bottle of wine during the workday.

Plus I was making amazing headway in his bedroom.

I cringed.

That sounded wrong.

It also made my mouth tingle.

And made me wish that the kiss this morning was more than a crap seduction to get me to sign a stupid piece of paper.

Every time I thought about it, I was insulted all over again.

When I finally reached the door, I was fuming.

Two dozen roses were held in the space between me and outside. “Are you Mackenzie?”

“Yeah.”

“Here you go!”

“Who are they from?” I called to his disappearing form.

“It says on the card.” He chuckled.

Why was that funny?

I put the roses on the kitchen table and searched for the card. It was nearly hidden behind the most beautiful yellow rose I’d ever seen.

Mackenzie.

I’m sorry—Love, Jackass I burst out laughing as my eyes filled with tears. Huh. I tapped the card against my thigh, then grabbed my phone from my back pocket and typed out a text.

Me: I take it you’re jackass.

Slade: If I die today, I imagine Matt would be more than happy to put it on my tombstone for you. Think of it as your final revenge.

I smiled and typed back.

Me: Thank you. For the roses. They’re beautiful.

Slade: Thank you for not poisoning me in the near future?????

Me: See you soon!

Slade: Mack . . . .

I grinned, I liked being called Mack by him.

Me: Yes?

Slade: You’re not really going to put arsenic in my Wheaties.

Me: Good talk!

Slade: Mack . . . I’ll bring you wine.

My breath caught.

I didn’t know what to say.

Slade: Remember, I know your weaknesses—all of them.

My thighs clenched as I tried to ignore what that made me think of.

Me: We’ll see about that.

Slade: Don’t challenge a player, it won’t end well for you.

Me: Don’t piss off the woman who makes your food—it won’t end well for you . . . either.

Slade: Stops off at nearest store to get the most expensive wine available . . . happy?

Me: Cab Franc.

Slade: I’ll take your word for it . . .

Me: :)

I was grinning way too hard at my phone screen and easily forgetting all the shitty things he’d done, the way he’d treated me, because of stupid flowers and a few flirty texts.

I buried my feelings again, or at least tried, and then went back upstairs to dive into the last box.

It wasn’t labeled.

I cut it open and paused.

Trophies.

So many trophies.

Awards.

From high school and college.

And in every single picture was a smiling father holding his son close and giving a thumbs-up to the camera.

There were at least three old photo albums underneath the heavy trophies. I picked up the heaviest one, sat on his bed, and cracked it open.

My eyes widened.

They were engagement photos.

A smiling Slade holding a soccer ball up to a beautiful girl who could pass as a supermodel, she was giggling and accepting the ball like it was a ring.

I vaguely remembered the picture from the news, but I hadn’t paid much attention since I was dealing with my own stuff, and even then, I didn’t really follow sports. The next few pictures were of teammates.

In one of them he had his arm wrapped around a guy on one side and his fiancée on the other.

Slade was looking at the camera.