Risky Play (Red Card #1)(44)

“I refuse to be your mother.” I smirked.

“Got one of those.”

I shifted in my seat a bit as he pointed his spoon in my direction and said, “Game on.”

“Good luck finding someone to play with,” I said in a sweet voice.

“Looks like I already did. And she’s days away from throwing in the towel, and I can’t wait for the minute that happens—when you realize that he isn’t what you want . . . that he won’t make you scream the way I did—that he never could.”

I ignored him for five straight days after that conversation.

And for five straight days.

He asked me to stay for dinner.

For five straight days I wondered if his kiss still tasted the same.

Five days of avoiding the media firestorm of the fight that broke out at the restaurant and the questions regarding Slade’s interest in me, as well as Jagger’s. Five days of wondering if he was right about Jagger. I knew in my soul, there was really only one way to find out.





Chapter Thirty-Three

SLADE

I woke up extra early to make sure I didn’t make an ass out of myself and ruin her surprise.

She seemed so focused on making sure I was fed that I figured food must be important in her life—like wine. It was at least worth a shot.

I mentally braced myself and then physically grabbed the countertop and repeated out loud, “Don’t be a dick.”

I’d spent five days trying like hell, and every time I saw Danny I tried a little bit harder. If he could make it through, I could make it through. But I still had my moments, hell, I had a lot of moments. It helped that she stayed for dinner but I think that was only because she didn’t trust me to clean up after myself, considering the way she found the house on that first day. It also helped that I had no choice but to play nice with Jagger every day this last week.

I’d like to think we created a cease-fire.

And then I’d see him texting and lose my shit all over again.

I was ready to throw his phone into the trash.

Pathetic, but every time I thought about them I defaulted back into jackass territory, and while I still had chest pain when I thought of my father’s death, a small part of me understood that she wasn’t the reason his heart stopped.

I just needed to get over the fact that instead of talking with him, I was balls deep inside her—but it had been different.

It wasn’t meant to be a one-night stand.

It wasn’t.

No matter how many times I tried to convince myself it was.

And the simple fact was that it wasn’t fair to want her so badly that I was willing to commit murder just so Jagger wouldn’t know how good she actually tasted.

I ran my hands through my hair and checked the baked French toast one last time. In a moment of weakness I’d actually called my mom for the recipe, only to have her burst into tears because it had been Dad’s favorite.

So emotionally, I was already spent—meaning I needed to try extra hard not to stick my foot in my mouth. This week had been a mixture of heaven and hell. Heaven because I finally felt like I was dealing with my shit—I had an elementary school kid to thank for that. And hell because I was still dealing with my shit while trying to not beat the shit out of anyone who looked at Mack wrong, and prove to her that friendship wasn’t all that was on the table.

The front door opened. I leaned against the counter. Stood. Leaned again. Hell, at this rate I was going to be waiting with a red rose clenched between my teeth.

“What smells so good?” Mack’s footsteps sounded down the hall, and then she was facing me. Her hair was in a high ponytail, her simple white T-shirt and boyfriend jeans looked so adorable with her gray Converse that I almost forgot about breakfast and just picked her up into my arms so I could feel her.

“Slade?” She waved a hand in front of my face.

“I like you in Converse best, I think,” I finally answered. “And white. You should wear white all the time.”

She smiled. “Thank you?”

“Welcome.” I beamed. “Now, sit and I’ll share a secret family recipe with you, but”—I grabbed a fork and pointed it at her—“you can’t share the recipe, alright? Or I have to kill you so Grandma Rodriguez’s ghost doesn’t haunt you like it does Uncle Jose—he still screams at night.”

“Seriously?” she said with heavy sarcasm. “What did he do?”

“Posted it on a cooking blog.” I shrugged. “Went to bed and woke up screaming an hour later. Every night, same time, same scream, just ask my aunt. One night we found a rolling pin in his sheets.”

“So? Anyone could have grabbed one from the kitchen.”

“Theirs had just broken—they needed to buy a new one.”

“Oh, so your grandma’s ghost is like Santa, that’s sweet.” She took the coffee I handed her and sipped slowly while I stared at her in disbelief. “What?”

“Sweet?” I started pulling out the French toast. “There’s nothing sweet about a ghost that gives a grown man night terrors.”

“But at least now he has a rolling pin.” She nodded triumphantly. “Right?”

I shook my head. “A ghost is a ghost. Just don’t share it, and you’ll never have to worry about smelling Bengay when you’re trying to fall asleep.”