Page 43 of Unmanageable

I feel strangely, vibrantly electric. Maybe it’s the third double-shot espresso I hammered back at the gas station a few miles back, or maybe it’s the fact that after nearly three hours of driving, we are almost there—with barely an hour or two left until we hit the heart of Philadelphia.

I’m three hundred miles away from anyone who expects me to be the ‘Shark.’ No client emergencies, no contract disputes, no late-night emails. Just me, the humid night air, and a man who is currently humming a song he doesn’t know the lyrics to.

“I’m hungry,” I announce. “And don’t give me that look. I know I had the burger at the rest stop. That was a snack. This is a crisis.”

Cash laughs. “A crisis? We ate forty-five minutes ago, Scottie. You had a double patty with extra pickles. Where do you put it all? It’s like watching a magician perform a disappearing act with a cheeseburger.”

“I have a very fast metabolism, Finnian. Don’t you dare judge a hungry woman.” I point a manicured finger at a flickering neon sign emerging from the gloom. It’s a giant, glowing pink potato holding a pitchfork. “The Rusty Spud. It’s a sign. Literally. Destiny.”

“It looks like a place where people go to get disappeared,” Cash says, eyeing the flickering light, but he’s already signaling. “The paint is peeling off the potato, Scottie. That’s usually a warning sign for the stomach, not a destination.”

“Peeling paint just means they’ve been open since the seventies. That means the grease is seasoned. It’s historical.”

The second the engine cuts out, the silence is deafening. We both just sit there for a second, the heat radiating off the rear-mounted engine, the quiet hum of the night settling around us.

“You okay?” Cash asks.

“I’m about to eat my weight in starch,” I say, a genuine smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. “I’ve never been better.”

We climb out, and I immediately stretch, my back popping in three distinct, satisfying places.

I catch Cash watching me, his eyes trailing the line of my waist where my silk blouse has come untucked from my jeans. I don’t tuck it back in. I just smirk and head for the door, feeling his eyes on me the whole way.

The inside of The Rusty Spud is a masterpiece of 1950s grime and local charm. The walls are wood-paneled and covered in faded, yellowing photos from the seventies.

“Sit anywhere, sweetie,” a woman with a name tag that says LORETTA shouts from behind the counter, not even looking up from her crossword.

We slide into a corner booth with red vinyl that has more silver duct tape than actual leather. Cash spreads the menu out, but I don’t even look at it.

I’m too busy looking at him.

The way his shoulders take up too much space in the booth. The way he looks rugged and tired and entirely too attractive. The stubble on his jawline is a little darker, a little rougher, and my fingers ache with the urge to trace it.

“Loretta!” I call out, waving a hand. “What’s the most caloric thing on the menu? And can I get it with extra cheese?”

Cash snorts, leaning back against the cracked vinyl. “My agent, ladies and gentlemen. The pinnacle of professional discipline. What happened to the woman who lectured me about the glycemic index last month?”

“That woman is back home,” I say, tapping my nails against the scarred laminate table. “This woman is on a road trip and she wants to feel something. Besides, I’m carbo-loading for your training session tomorrow.”

I lean forward, poking the table for emphasis. “Speaking of, I talked to the rink manager. We have the ice at 5:00 AM. It’s private, no cameras, no scouts. Just you, me, and a shooter I hired from the local college team.”

Cash’s smile falters just a fraction. He starts shredding a paper napkin into tiny, snowy piles. “A college kid? You really want to humiliate me on day one? I’m an All-Star, Scottie. I don’t need to be lit up by some kid who still has a meal plan.”

“It’s not about humiliation. It’s about volume. I need you taking five hundred pucks before the sun is up. We’re working on your low-block. You’ve been cheating toward your glove side since the playoffs, and Ivy noticed it too.”

“Ivy noticed?”

“She sees everything. Said you were dropping your shoulder. We fix that tomorrow, or we don’t move on to Washington. You’re going to hate me by 6:00 AM.”

“I already hate you a little bit for making me eat in a place that serves ‘Gravy Fingers’ as an appetizer,” he grumbles, but he’s smiling now, that slow, easy smile that hits me right in the sternum.

Loretta arrives with two chipped mugs of coffee. “You two look like you’re in a hurry to get a stomach ache,” she says, dropping a basket of greasy, golden biscuits.

“She’ll have the ‘Garbage Plate’ with extra meat sauce,” Cash says, pointing at me without glancing at the menu. “And I’ll have the ‘Heart-Stopper’ omelet. And a side of bacon. Thanks.”

“And the deep-fried cheesecake, please!” I shout after her as she turns. “Two of them! Don’t skimp on the chocolate.”

Cash leans his chin on his hand, watching me. “You’re a maniac. You know that? You spend all day talking about brand management and career longevity, and then you order enough sugar to kill a horse.”