I wince. “I’m just saying. It’s weird, right?”
“There are a couple million soldiers in the American military. So no, it doesn’t mean anything.”
His voice is firm, final, and I don’t want to push the topic.
I glance around for a distraction. “And this trophy?” I ask.
He grins, his shoulders relaxing. “That one is all me. James Norris Trophy for the best defenseman.”
“Way to go.” I smile, folding my arms over my chest and ambling back toward the kitchen. The smell of food—garlic, olive oil,something warm and savory—sizzles through the space, and I’m suddenly starving.
“Ohh, I love this song,” he says. “Turn it up.”
He starts to dance, right there in the kitchen, loose and unashamed. His shoulders are rolling, hips moving to the beat, and I bark out a laugh. I turn the music up, and his moves get bigger, more dramatic, like he’s performing just for me.
He locks me in his mischievous gaze and shimmies toward me. “Come on, dance with me.”
I cross my arms. “You’re ridiculous.”
His grin widens. “And you love it.”
My heart does a somersault at the four-letter word, but I mask it with a scoff. “You wish.”
He laughs, holding out his hands, and I reluctantly take them. I let him pull me closer, my feet moving along to the rhythm, falling into sync with his.
His hands are warm and steady at my waist. My palms are resting against his chest, his heartbeat thudding under my fingertips.
With no warning, he tilts me dramatically toward the floor, and I burst out laughing, clutching his shoulders.
“Show off,” I accuse between giggles.
“That’s what years of balance training will earn you,” he says proudly, holding me there a second longer than necessary before hoisting me back up. “Get used to it. This is how I roll.”
I’m still giggling when he pulls me into his chest, my cheek pressed against his, both of us breathless and grinning like idiots.
Honestly? I wouldn’t mind getting used to this.
21
Harper
I’m hustling to my doorway, about to leave for work, when my phone rings.
“Hello?” I say, tucking the phone between my neck and shoulder as I pull my shoes on, one hand already reaching for my bag.
Silence.
“Hello,” I say again, drawing out the syllables this time.
Someone is breathing at the other end of the line. Slow. Deliberate.
And it’s not the first time I’ve received a call like this. I’ve hung up on a few these past few weeks—this tactic has Victor written all over it. Another one of his intimidation techniques.
Well, nice try. It doesn’t work on me.
“You don’t scare me,” I growl into the phone, my voice steady even though my pulse is hammering behind my ears. “If anything, it makes me want to go after you even more. I took you down once, remember? I can do it again.”
And then I hang up.
