Page 45 of Revenge Puck

Preston grunts his agreement with that statement.

“I have a reason,” I assure him. “And it’s not because I want him back.”

Preston arches an eyebrow, waiting for me to give him the explanation.

“Is it wrong that I like seeing him squirm? After months when I could barely get a text response from him after waiting hours, it feels good to have our roles reversed.”

“What does he want, Elle?”

“Ah, well, he says,I’ll just come over if you’re not going to respond to my messages.”

“Asshole can’t take a hint.”

“I haven’t…” I pause, unable to help reading ahead.

“He hasn’t what?” Preston asks.

“He says he hasn’t been with anyone since he saw me in the arena wearing your jersey.”

“You know he’s lying, right? The prick can’t go an hour without finding someone to inflate his ego a little more.”

Before I can respond, the phone begins buzzing in my hand. Then it keeps buzzing. It’s not incoming text messages, it’s an actual phone call with Christian’s name flashing on the screen.

“I don’t think he’s ever called me before,” I remark in shock.

“May I?” Preston asks.

He wants to answer my phone? That would really tick Christian off. And since I don’t have anything to say to him, I gladly hand it over to the grumpy man.

He answers with, “What do you want?” Preston’s dark eyes hold mine through the long silence before I hear Christian’s voice. It sounds like he asks, “Who is this?”

“Who do you think it is, genius?”

“Preston? You have got to be fucking kidding me.” That response is shouted loud enough for me to hear it clearly.

“Stop bothering Elle. We’re trying to have a nice dinner.”

“Bullshit!” he grits out.

“See you on the ice tomorrow,” Preston responds before ending the call and offering the phone back to me.

“Thanks. And nice job. Not a single curse word. Well, at least on your part. I could hear what he said since he was shouting. I’m surprised he took time out of his busy schedule of dicking around to actually call me.”

“He obviously misses you and wants you back.”

“No, he doesn’t,” I assure him. “And he can’t want me back when he never had me. Not really.”

Neither of us say much through the rest of dinner. Thankfully, my phone remains silent in my purse.

Preston pays the check and then we walk outside into the mild May night.

“Thank you for a delicious dinner,” I tell him.

“You’re welcome, but I wish you didn’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you can’t wait to get home and be rid of me.”

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