Mister Hockey (Hellions Angels #1)(8)
“Fuck!” She punched the steering wheel like a boxer’s speed ball. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity Fuck Fuckolahhhhhhhh . . . ouch!” Her knuckles exploded in pain as the horn gave way with a wheezily annoyed toot.
Shoving the key in the ignition, she eased out of the parking lot, heading toward home.
Home. Her home. The ink hadn’t even dried on her mortgage, purchased last month as an act of independence, a sign that she could make it on her own without the support of a crappy fiancé.
Neighborhoods passed by in a blur, same with the pedestrians taking shelter under umbrellas. With her foot pressed to the accelerator, it was tempting to steer out of the city. Drive straight out of Denver, through the foothills and into the Rockies masked behind the roiling clouds. Surely a nice log cabin waited in the woods. An out-of-the-way place where she could whittle a staff from a thick branch and use it to scare away trespassers.
Except that plan would never work. She loved her bed. It was the one place that accepted her just the way she was, day or night, rain or shine. A safe refuge to binge on Parks and Recreation while wallowing in self-pity and Pepperidge Farm cookie crumbs.
She turned onto her street.
God Saw You Do That read this week’s sign out in front of Trinity Church. The pastor changed the marquee every Wednesday.
“Big deal,” she snarled, gripping the wheel. “So did Jed West.” A conga line of horrific memories paraded through her head. Namely Westy getting an eyeful of her fox-printed thong and extra fifteen pounds.
It wasn’t until she slammed into the garage and flung open the driver’s side door that she registered what was still tied around her waist. She fingered the Gore-Tex with a groan.
Talk about taking a shitty situation and drizzling a dollop of sucks-to-be-you over the top. It wasn’t enough to flash Jed her wobbly bits, she had to go and steal his rain jacket too. And if on the million—no, scratch that, billion to one—chance that the sexy look he’d given her up on the podium wasn’t a figure of her imagination, well she’d blown it now.
Face meet palm.
Chapter Four
“Houston, we have a problem.” Neve poked Jed in the ribs with a remarkably pointy elbow. “My sister stole your jacket.”
“Nah, it’s fine. I loaned it to her.” Jed finished signing his last autograph and waved goodbye to the curly haired kid and his dad, buoyed by the relief that his vision hadn’t gone awry since leaving Zachary’s. No nagging headache. No dizziness. Maybe the blurriness was nothing but a blip. “I’ll swing by her desk and grab it on the way out.”
He wouldn’t mind getting one last peek at the voluptuous librarian with the classic pinup features. Those traffic-stopping curves had been replaying in the back of his mind for the past half hour. As an unabashed ass man, he couldn’t help but notice that Breezy Angel sported a damn near perfect apple butt. He’d almost gotten wood from the tear in her suit, except the peep show had been unintended and the shame in her eyes overrode his lust.
“Yeah, about that. No. You won’t.” Neve appeared irritated. “She drove home. I just got her text.”
“She’s gone?” He patted his sweats. Shit. No pockets. No wallet. His plan was to spend the afternoon lifting at the gym, not hanging at a library. When he’d parked, he’d pulled it out from his gym bag and stuck it inside his jacket pocket. Now it had gone off to a stranger’s house who lived who the hell knows where.
“You need to understand. My sister, she was . . .” Neve turned up her palms, dismay radiating from every feature. “Flustered.”
Not the word he’d have gone with but luscious sure as hell wouldn’t fly in the current situation. “I need her address.” At least he’d secured his Land Rover key into the clip in his waistband, an old habit from when he’d trail run in the redwoods north of San Francisco Bay.
Neve stiffened at his request, but her shoulders relaxed after his explanation about how it would be easier to retrieve the jacket and wallet himself. “It’s only a couple of minutes out of my way.” He talked fast, as if verbal speed could mask his edginess. A slight frown creased his brow. He wasn’t the type to get the fucking jitters. His even-keeled temperament was a source of pride. Mental toughness wasn’t just for the rink, but the bedrock upon which he built the foundation of his life.
But fifteen minutes later, as he pulled his Land Rover up in front of the address he’d plugged into the GPS, his pulse accelerated to fifth gear.
“You have arrived at your destination,” the navigation voice intoned.
He peered through his rain-drenched windshield. Breezy Angel’s house barely qualified as a cottage, with white shutters and shingles painted a robin’s egg blue. Despite the shitty weather, the tiny place radiated a cheerful glow. Buttery light poured from the two front windows that were framed by cheerful sunflowers.
After setting the handbrake, he caught sight of his goofy half smile in the rearview mirror. He looked like a goddamn giddy teenager going to prom or some shit. Time to slow his roll. All he was here to do was grab his coat and go.
“Grab and go,” he repeated, slamming the door. “Grab and go.”
He dashed from the car to the front porch, but received no answer to his knock. Bluesy music played inside, overlaid by the sounds of muffled swearing. Someone was home at least. He knocked again, using more force. A creak of footsteps drew near followed by the unsettling sense of being scrutinized through the peep hole. He waved.