We came to stand, face to face, and he wrapped his broad hands, warm and strong, around my waist. He dipped his head and touched his lips to mine, the tension between us evaporating. Smiling against my mouth, he let out a low chuckle as we broke apart.

“I think I needed that,” he said. His smile faded and a frown ghosted his face. “Call me if anything happens.”

“But you’ll be on the ice.”

“Do it anyway, okay?”

“Okay.”

He leaned in, planting a soft kiss on my cheek. “See you tomorrow, beautiful.”

* * *

Since the Bulldogs weren’t playing the Falcons tonight, I didn’t actively root against them—at least, not as much. In the end, they won three to two, which was good news for Derek.

I rooted against Paul, though. Enthusiastically. He didn’t score any points, which I privately gloated about. Luke was still out with his knee injury too—an additional blessing since I didn’t have to watch him on the ice.

The light was fading as I began my walk home. I was ten minutes into my twenty-minute walk, keeping a brisk pace to generate bodily warmth in the chilly evening air. Then, from out of nowhere, Luke’s car pulled up beside me. It was like Chase’s cube van prediction come to life, only with a navy blue BMW coupe.

My stomach pitched as Luke slowed the car to an idle and rolled down the window, leaning his head out. “Bailey. Can we talk?”

The universe had just given me the biggest I-told-you-so ever.

41. whipped

CHAPTER 41

WHIPPED

Bailey

I ignored Luke, picking up my pace to a near jog. The street was lined with tiny older houses, largely rented out by students, so there weren’t any shops to duck into or other means of escape. Besides running, that is, but that probably wasn’t warranted—I was fairly certain Luke was just being annoying.

Fairly.

Not positive.

“I said can we talk?” Luke raised his voice, his tone taking on a familiar sharp edge.

“No,” I called over my shoulder. Why weren’t there any other pedestrians around? If there were witnesses, he would probably leave. Luke wasn’t prone to showing his ass to strangers. He had an image to maintain—or so he thought.

“I’ll give you a ride home,” he said, tempering his voice to appear calm. I knew this routine inside and out.

“Hard pass.”

“Come on,” he said, still easing the car down the street. “Don’t make me park and get out.”

And do what? Maybe I was wrong about him not being dangerous.

“Don’t make me scream for help,” I snapped.