The Bully (Calamity Montana #4)(60)

“That’s private. Hand it over.”

I shook my head, turning sideways to keep her from getting the diary. “What happened to your dad? After that day when my dad confronted him and—”

“Fired him?”

“Yeah.” I nodded. “What happened to his business?”

“There was no business. He gave it up. He decided that it wasn’t worth dealing with asshole customers like the Starks.” She sneered. “So he sold all of his equipment and went to work for a competitor. He finally had to quit a few years ago. It was too hard on his knees, doing work meant for younger men.”

“He’s retired?”

“He’s fifty-three, Cal.” She scoffed. “Retirement at that age requires money. No, he’s not retired. He works for a printing company in Arizona, operating one of their presses.”

I studied her face and the flush of her cheeks. “I’m sorry. About that day.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Okay, you’re right. I’m not sorry. I’d do it again.”

“Because you’re a liar.”

“No, because my father is a sick bastard. He stared at you, and I didn’t like the gleam in his eyes. I lied to protect you. I lied because you’re—”

Mine.

She’d always been mine.

“I’m what?” She planted her hands on her hips, waiting for me to finish my sentence. When I didn’t, she made another snatch for the diary but I wasn’t giving it up.

“Why did you sleep with me? In Charlotte?”

Nellie ignored the questions, swiping for the journal again. “Give that back.”

“Tell me.”

“Give me that diary.” She stepped closer, reaching for it as I shifted it from one hand to the other. Her fingertips brushed the spine so I raised it high, pressing it against the camper’s ceiling. “You asshole! Knock it off.”

“No.” I kept it high and out of her reach, even as she tried to jump for it. “Why did you come to my room in Charlotte?”

“That diary is none of your fucking business.” She leapt for it again, and when she didn’t even come close, she smacked me in the stomach. “Damn it, Cal.”

“Answer the question and I’ll give it back.” Maybe. “Why did you fuck me in Charlotte?”

“How could you steal that from me? It was never intended for you.” She stared up at me, and the hurt on her face almost made me cave. But I needed to know the truth about Charlotte.

“Nell.” I dropped my arm. “Please.”

She heard the desperation in my voice and didn’t reach for the diary. Her chest heaved. “Because you fucked me over. Because you fucked my family over. And I was so fucking tired of you always winning. I wanted to win. I wanted to show you I wasn’t that insecure girl anymore. And I figured if there was a time for revenge, it was that night.”

My team—I—had just lost the AFC Championship. Pierce had flown to Charlotte to watch the game. Nellie had tagged along too since she’d lived there once and wanted to visit for nostalgia’s sake. They’d used the tickets I’d gotten for Pierce, and when she’d showed up in my seats, she’d been wearing the other team’s jersey.

After the loss, the coaches and my teammates had flown home to Tennessee. But I’d requested an exception from policy to stay and spend time with Pierce. We’d been at the same hotel. Nellie had been too. I hadn’t been good company, so after Pierce and I’d had a room service dinner in my suite and a couple of drinks from the mini bar, he’d given me some space.

I’d been wallowing when a knock had come at the door.

Nellie had stood in the hallway, still wearing that fucking jersey.

“So you came to my room to gloat?” When she looked to her feet, I took her chin, tilting her face until our eyes locked.

“Yes,” she said. “I knew you were at a low point. And I wanted to be mean like you were mean.”

I’d opened the door and let her into the room, fully expecting her to rub salt on my gaping wounds. To revel in my failures. To remind me that the reason we’d lost the game was because I’d thrown an interception in the first quarter and the team hadn’t gained the momentum needed to recover from my fuckup.

“But . . . you weren’t mean.”

She swallowed hard. “Because you looked sad. You looked heartbroken. You looked like the boy who’d kissed me once. The one who’d put so much pressure on himself. The one who took responsibility for a loss that should have been shared with a team, not carried alone.”

My heart squeezed.

God, she was a good woman. So fucking good. Too damn good for me.

I’d kissed her that night. When she’d told me she was sorry for the loss, I’d been so surprised that I’d just . . . kissed her. Then she’d let me tear that jersey from her body.

We’d spent the night in a tangle of desperation, until the next morning when I’d woken up and she’d already been gone, back to her hotel room, and we’d pretended it had never happened.

“After we started fucking, were you with anyone?” It was the question I’d refused to let myself ask for four years.

“That’s none of your business.” She frowned. “It’s not like we’re in a committed relationship.”