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I’m up on my feet in an instant, dropping the bottle onto the counter, not giving a fuck when it topples over, sending beer pouring off the granite.
I haul ass out of the kitchen, down the hall, through the mudroom, and into the garage, distantly aware of Dan following me, but I skid to a stop the moment I pass through, thrown for a second before I process the scene in front of me.
Then I do.
Process it, that is.
Process Brit pressed back against her closed driver’s side door, arm outstretched, keeping a man at a distance.
No.
Not a man.
Trey.
What the actual fuck?
But I don’t stop to process that, not at fucking all. I’m moving again, sprinting over to her, shoving my body between hers and Trey’s, forcing the asshole back. “What the fuck are you doing?” I growl.
For one second, he seems confused.
And then that turns to anger. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, asshole?” he snaps.
"I’m not the one assaulting Brit in her garage.”
“No,” he says, eyes flaring with a special brand of crazy that I really don’t like. “You’re the one who divorced her.”
Well technically, I filed the papers.
But the divorce isn’t final.
Thank fuck.
“Just go, Trey,” Brit says softly.
“But I?—”
She sighs. “I told you when you came to the rink last week?—”
I stiffen, head whipping around and sending a sudden wave of dizziness through me, but I push that down, lift my brows.
She winces but doesn’t acknowledge my unspoken questions—namely, why the fuck she didn’t mention that little tidbit sooner. “It wouldn’t work out between us,” she tells Trey firmly. “Even if Stefan and I weren’t back together.”
Trey rocks back as though those words are a physical blow. “But?—”
“I believe she’s made it clear that she doesn’t want anything to do with you,” I grit out, a throb beginning in my temple. “So, get the fuck out and don’t you ever touch her or approach her again.”
“Want to tell me who the fuck is this?”
Dan’s icy cold voice has us all freezing.
I feel Brit’s lungs expand from where she’s pressed to my back, but I don’t give her a chance to answer. Mostly because that throb in my temple has expanded, is turning into a full-blown headache, but also partly because I don’t actually want Dan to have to commit murder and disappear a body on our account.
“No one important,” I say. “Trey is just leaving.”
“What’s Trey’s last name?” Dan asks silkily.
“It doesn’t matter—” Brit prevaricates, clearly picking up on the note of murder in the air.
