Page 147 of Over the Line

My gaze goes back to my drink, mouth watering, throat so freaking dry.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I jerk my head up again, expecting it to be Lake wondering where his woman went.

It’s not.

Riggs is standing on the glass in front of me—brown eyes deep pools of chocolate, beard just long enough to give a woman ideas.

“What?” I mouth.

He holds up his gloved hand and I frown.

“I don’t need a puck,” I say, shaking my head.

I grew up with enough of them all over the house and yard and, hell, I probably have more than a few of them in my apartment even now.

Riggs can’t possibly hear me, but maybe he reads my lips because he bangs his fist against the glass and holds the puck up again.

I sigh, stand up, and hold out my hands.

I don’t know a lot about Riggs, but I’ve seen his stubborn streak.

Experienced it firsthand.

So…might as well get it over with.

He nods, makes the toss…

And the puck lands with a smack in my open palms.

I force another smile, start to shove the puck into my purse—

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Freezing, I glance up.

He nods toward the puck and I drag my brows together.

“What?” I mouth again.

He looks at his hand, pretends to flip something over.

Brows dragging together, I frown, but I mirror his miming, glance down at my hand, and—

Flip the puck over

My mouth drops open, my eyes go wide, my head jerks up—

He raises his brows in question.

I look from the puck to him, back down to the scrawled-out words on the black rubber. “I—”

But I don’t get further than that because he winks and skates off.

I stare down at the words, my belly heating because—

Holy shit, had quiet, strait-laced Riggs Ashford just writtenthat?

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