“Noah.” The ice in my tone is clear.
“You should know who you’re getting into bed with,” he tells me, dipping his chin curtly. He’s never looked more like a cop to me than he does at this moment. “Don’t give me that look. I swore I’d protect you three all of those years ago, when you were new nurses taking on violent patients twice your size. I don’t draw the line for that outside of this hospital.”
I stare at him, albeit a bit softer now. This is my business, and it’s not his job to be vetting my potential boyfriends, but it’s nice that he genuinely cares about my well-being. I would be a bit of a hypocrite to ask himnotto do something that I’ve already asked him to do for me. Break the rules for me once, Noah, but if you do it again, I’ll be mad at you.
I have to let it go.
“I appreciate this, Noah,” I say, passing the folder back to him. “But I’m fine. Really. I’m not going into this expecting to marry this guy. He’s a professional hockey player. This is just some fun.”
He arches a brow, reaches down, and grabs my wrist. When he brings my hand up between us, he smacks that folder right back into my palm.
“That’s neither here nor there, is it?” he asks. “I care about you protecting yourselfwhileyou’re having your fun. Like you said, he’s a professional hockey player. I’m sure he’s good at laying on the charm. Just read what’s in there, alright? That’s who he really is. That’s all I ask.”
I let out a long sigh. I don’t think there’s a way out of this. If I refuse to take it, it’ll be on my doorstep by the morning,anyway. I glower up at him, which makes him smile like he always does when he knows he’s getting his way.
“Fine.”
Unless it says that Carter kills puppies for sport in this folder, or he left a trail of bodies behind him in California, I don’t think anything will surprise me. I know who Carter is well enough. I’ve been forced to get to know him ever since our paths crossed in that bar.
He’s not a bad person. He just has a bad temper.
“Take care of yourself, Dolly,” Noah says.
I smack him on the shoulder and round his squad car. I don’t look back, but I feel his eyes on me all the way to my vehicle. Only when I’m pulling out of my spot does he get back inside the car. He pulls out ahead of me, leaving the hospital entirely before I even put my vehicle into reverse.
So, he was here just to deliver this lovely package to me directly. It now sits in my passenger’s seat like a ticking time bomb, daring me to open it. I’m not afraid of what it says. I don’t think Carter is capable of anything entirely too horrid, but I am a bit weary over the fact that Noah felt the need to hand-deliver whatever he found to me.
Why?
By the time I’m home and on my couch with a glass of red wine and a pizza on the way, I’m tearing open the folder. Inside is a thick stack of white paper, which doesn’t bode well for Carter. People who are well-behaved typically aren’t this well situated with the police.
Assaults. Lots of them.
Charges. Lots of them.
I’m shocked that a repeat offender with this big of a rap sheet hasn’t done some serious time. Based on all the police reports and the rest of the information in this file, he gets off on technicalities more often than not.
Whitney’s words ring in my head. The system does its thing again. Because he’s rich. Or because he’s famous.
Although I understand what Noah was trying to do here, and why he might have been nervous, there is a glaring fact staring up at me when I sort through all this documentation. I can’t ignore it.
A lot of this is from when Carter was young. Before he was in the professional league. Bar fights, fights during college, fights over Ariana Forkerro—who I’m assuming is his sister. She’s listed in here a few times, and she provided a statement each and every time to defend him. There are only two incidents that have happened in the last four years. One in California last summer, and the one fromIcebox.
I am not concerned about who Carter was when he was twenty-two and full of testosterone, fighting to make a name for himself in the hockey world. Men are immature well into their thirties. I expect nothing less from a boy in his early twenties. Who I know now and who he was then are entirely different people.
I take a sip of my wine and tap my fingers against the goblet, looking at the array of papers surrounding me. That cheeky grin stares up at me from a mug shot that is far too handsome to be real.
Noah has a point, though. He didn’t say it outright, but it was loud and clear. Carter has a history. He was throwing punches in his early twenties, and probably even prior, and he is still throwing punches now. His career isn’t even enough of a stake to get him to stop. It’s a part of him he can’t seem to grow out of.
What Noah doesn’t know is I’m not actually dating this man. Carter isn’t my boyfriend. I’m not in bed with him. Even if I was, I don’t think he’d be one to ever hurt a woman. Not when he goes to such great lengths to protect them. The guyscolded me for agreeing to walk down an alley with him, for heaven’s sake.
What I see is concerning, but it’s not the loaded gun that Noah expected it to be. It’s just confirmation of what I already knew. The hot head with anger issues has always been a hot head with anger issues.
I scour the papers for hours. I read through them again over pizza. Not once is it mentioned that he was in a domestic dispute with a partner, with his sister, or with any other woman. All charges were derived from violent incidents. Someone hit his friend. Someone shoved his sister. There is not a single report in these pages that hints he is dangerous for me to be around.
He’s dangerous to men who are dangerous to others. That’s about it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
