Page 76 of Slapshot Bride

My shoulder is tight. My left knee doesn’t feel like it’s mine. I roll it out in the car, one hand on the wheel, the other working the joint in slow circles, and I think about the leftovers in the fridge and whether Riley has eaten, and whether she will fight me on eating again tonight the way she did last Tuesday when she decided the answer to dinner was a handful of crackers and a book.

Not today though. Dinner is a must for my girl. Even if she fights, and I’m looking forward to it.

But that’s not what has me pausing.

My girl. I just called her that.

Sweet Jesus.

Well, she doesn’t know it yet. But she’s mine, and I’ve accepted it.

The drive home is longer than usual. Thirty minutes later, the gate comes into view at the top of the drive, and I clock the car immediately.

Black. European. Not a rental, and definitely not a cab. The plates are private, the kind of private that costs a small fortune. It's parked just off the gate on the narrow shoulder of the road, engine off, driver behind the wheel.

I slow down.

There’s a man at my front door.

He's standing with his back to the gate, hands easy at his sides, in a suit molded to his lean physique. Dark hair neatly slicked back, good shoes, and a relaxed posture. He turns when he hears the car.

I know who he is before he turns.

I’ve seen his face in three separate press cycles in the last two weeks. I have seen it in the news alert on Riley’s phone the afternoon she got into my car. I have heard his name in her voice, flat and clinical, like a medical diagnosis.

Preston fucking Sinclair.

My hands tighten around the steering wheel.

He has no business being here. Not at my house. Not anywhere Riley feels safe.

And he sure as fuck isn’t getting what he came here for.

I sit in the car for exactly three seconds, forcing the first wave of anger back under control. Then I pull through the gate, cut the engine, and get out.

Preston turns at the sound of my door closing.

He looks at me and smiles.

It’s one of those smiles for the media. The one with years of practice, enough to look unrehearsed, warm enough to read as genuine, and empty enough that if you are paying attention, you can see straight through the back of it.

That smile does something ugly to my temper.

“Easton Blake.” He says my name like we are old acquaintances reconnecting at an event. His hand is already extended. “Pleasure meeting you.”

Oh, I have no pleasure.

Matter of fact, my hands are itching to rough the fucker up, and toss his fancy ass out of the gates.

But I don’t do anything. I don’t take his hand. I stare back, face drained of all emotions.

When I don’t take his hand, he drops it and looks around the property.

“Quite a fine place you’ve got here.” He gestures around, then his eyes return to mine. “I must say, you’re quite a difficult man to find.”

All right. I’ve had enough of the pleasantries.

“Preston.” I deliberately leave off the Sinclair, and my voice doesn’t come out smooth.