“It’s okay, Larry, I’m just going to walk him out myself.” I pushed us both through the revolving door, with Troy’s weight practically pushing it for us, and stopped outside. I considered hailing a cab and throwing him in it…and to hell with wherever he ended up…or what kind of pictures people would get of him in the process.

But it didn’t feel right. I glanced across the street at my Honda. I’d been lucky enough to get a decent parking spot this morning since the café opened before most of the rest of the staff showed up.

“Harper, I need to get back in there. Whoever this jerk is will just keep writing shit like this,” he spit out, words garbled and balance still completely off.

“Then I suggest you tighten up your game, Hartman.”

He frowned. “You’re mean.”

I was tempted to tell him I thought he did bring his game to practice yesterday afternoon but decided against it. Wouldn’t want pretty boy here to think I was watching him. When in fact, I wasn’t only watching…I was tracing every tight feature of his face and body.

I glanced back at the building and whipped out my phone to shoot a text to Nic.

Me: Had to run. Cash drawer is all set. Night.

I was likely to regret this after the way he’d treated me the other day. And well, everything else Troy Hartman had done to me. But I couldn’t bring myself to walk away.

The man was clearly going through something I couldn’t understand.

Grace…do it for Grace.

Grace was Troy’s mother. Also one of my mother’s closest friends from when we lived in Brooklyn.

I walked us away from the clear glass building while I considered my options. When it started raining, Troy spread his arms wide and lifted his chin to the sky. “Oh good…I needed a shower.”

“Jesus,” I muttered under my breath, pulling on his arm. “Come on, I’m across the street.”

“Oh, are we going to your place?” Troy asked when I opened the passenger door. I looked at his immense body compared to the snug front seat and decided it wouldn’t work. “Back seat.”

He helped himself into the backseat of my car, spreading across the entire length.

Between the weather and the traffic, it was nearly an hour before I finally pulled up to Troy’s building. He’d mixed up the numbers on his address and I’d been circling until we found his street. No matter where you were in Brooklyn, and what time of day it was, parking was always a mission and a half.

It was still coming down hard by the time I found a spot a block away—and dragging him from building to building until he pointed to his was no walk in the park.