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A strangled noise came from behind me, but I offered Tommy a wide smile. No way I’d admit Monroe and I might not be on the same page about the deadline I’d thrown out.

“Oh, good, we need to get on this right away. Okay, I’ll see you two in a couple of days.” Tommy nodded like a bobblehead, turning to walk away. “Oh, and Josh, good call bringing her in.”

FIVE

MONROE

I LIKE MY MEN THE WAY I LIKE MY DOGS. WELL TRAINED.

The second Tommy walked away, I wrapped my hand around her upper arm and hauled her through a door marked “Utility.” My shoulders hunched, nearly brushing the stocked shelves lining the closet. Of all the places we could’ve ended up in, I had to go and choose a closet built for mice.

“What the hell was that about?” I asked, the door’s click echoing. My nerves were frayed, a live wire liable to spark with one wrong move. Years of playing and coaching under pressure didn’t do shit to help me handle this.

How the hell was I here again?

Graciella’s glossy lips pulled up in a smug smile. “I think what you meant to say was thank you.”

My laugh was sharp—bitter. “Thank you? What on earth would I be thanking you for?” I flinched back when she pushed the corner of my mouth up.

“Let’s at least try to smile while you complain.” Her coffee-colored eyes danced with mirth. “You could use the practice. And you’re thanking me for saving your ass from saying something stupid.”

Saved me? That’s what she thought she’d done?

“How could you have possibly known what I was about to say?”

“Because I know the look a man makes before he’s about to say something stupid. So. I. Stepped. In.” She punctuated each word with a bright green nail to my chest, poking hard enough my pec would probably have a Graciella’s-finger-sized bruise by morning.

“Please,” I scoffed, resisting the need to rub at the sting. No way I’d let her have that satisfaction. “That doesn’t make a lick of sense.”

Coppery tang filled my mouth. I’d bitten my tongue harder than intended to avoid sticking it out at her. What about this woman made me want to revert to middle school tactics? Because I also wanted to flip her the bird every time she shot me her cocky smirk.

“See.” Her finger circled my face, nearly taking out an eye. “You just did it. All of you men get this stupid look on your stupid faces before you say something⁠—”

“Stupid,” I supplied, pinching the bridge of my nose. She needed to stop talking before I proved her point.

In for three, out for three.

Rhythmic breathing didn’t do a damned thing to lower my blood pressure.

“You need to fix this, Graciella.”

She had the balls to laugh. Full, throw-her-head-back laugh. “I did fix it, Monroe.”

She kept on talking, not giving a damn that I was barely listening. In fact, she might’ve been trying to yap me into submission, like some sort of manipulation strategy where she spoke so much I gave in to whatever she wanted. Great. I had a headache, and I was positive she was the cause.

I was a former pro athlete and a Stanley Cup-winning coach. I didn’t submit to five-foot-nothing women trying to tell me what to do…

When I tuned back in, she was still going on.

“Face it, you need me, Joshua Monroe.”

“Again, that’s not my name. And I don’t need you. So you’re going to go over to Tommy and⁠—”

She cut the distance between us, bare arms brushing against my T-shirt.

“And what, Joshua? What do you want me to do for you?” she asked, canting her head. Her eyes dipped to my mouth for a split second, and my body reacted exactly the opposite of how I wanted.

“You’re going to go tell him we’re not working together,” I bit out.