Page 26 of Match Penalty

"I suppose it could be either.” I consider it from both meanings. "But either way, if you always bring an umbrella—you'll never get wet."

Maybe that's what makes me the most bitter about what happened between us. I've been so good at protecting my heart—keeping it out of the rain, out of the torrential downpour around me. JP was the first time I closed the umbrella to let the sun shine on me. I didn't see the raging storm cloud about to burst just behind him.

"But then no chance for singing in the rain," he says thoughtfully, watching me carefully.

My eyes drop to the neon green hair band on his wrist. Was he wearing it when he came in to get his key? I feel like I would have seen it. “Is that mine?”

He nods, and glances down at it. “It is.”

“Why do you still have it?” I ask.

“I’ve kept it. I wear it when I need a little extra luck.”

“Why did you need luck tonight?” My voice is careful but curious.

I want to know, but I’m scared of what his answer might reveal.

“Because I thought you’d slam the door in my face.”

“Brynn saved you,” I mutter.

Before I realize it, I step closer, sliding my fingers over the bright nylon material over his wrist. Something magnetic pulling us back together. His hand lifts slowly, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. My breath catches, and I don’t pull away.

“Thank you for dinner,” I whisper, and then suck in my lower lip, his eyes locking on my mouth. And for a moment, the world narrows to just us—no one else in existence—just him and me. Then he speaks, his voice low and rough. “Dis-moi quoi faire pour regagner ton cœur," he says in French.

“I don’t know what that means,” I murmur, my pulse hammering.

With every second, he leans in closer. He's going to kiss me.

And I already know that I'm going to let him.

“It means…” He hesitates, his eyes pinging back and forth between mine. “You’re welcome for dinner.”

The moment shatters as his phone buzzes loudly on the counter, breaking the spell.

He glances at the screen, and his expression hardens, causing me to look at it too.

Angelica.

I pull back, my heart dropping though I wish I felt nothing.

Of course. Of course, she’s still in the picture.

“Look at that. She's right on time,” I say, turning away toward the island before he can see the hurt in my eyes. “Thanks for the ideas.”

He steps closer again, “Cammy, it's not what you think. She's been helping me get back to the NHL—that's it.”

I busy myself with the left-over chopsticks and napkins that came with the to-go order, refusing to look back up at him.

But then I consider that this might be the time to get my answers. His texts were vague, and his voicemails didn't bother to explain what he was doing with her either. If I want answers, as hard as they'll be to hear, even years later, this might be my last chance to get them before I kick him out of my apartment and block his number again.

"Then who is she?" I ask.

"She's a good friend from high school who's trying to help me out. I promise, there's nothing going on between us."

A good friend from high school. I can guess what that means.

"Right, because we all have good friends from high school calling us late at night and getting us walk-on multimillion dollar contract deals with Texas and Florida, just for the hell of it. Sounds like she wants more than herbillablehours," I say, hating the way my voice seethes with jealousy.

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