Page 10 of Tricky Puck

I turn around and see a man heading our way. He’s pushing forty, and the woman on his arm looks barely twenty-one, and she’s a beauty but not even close to Delaney.

“Look who we ran into,” the man says, stopping at our booth as if he’s on his way somewhere.

“Why don’t you run the other way, George,” she says.

“Holding a grudge isn’t healthy, Delaney.” He turns in my direction and looks me over, but I give him my game face, the mean version, the one that says I’d just as soon knock him into the boards rather than shake his hand. I notice his girl eying me like she’s more friendly than George. I ignore her

“Who do we have here? You going to introduce me?” George asks.

“No. Go find your table and have a nice dinner.”

“That’s no way⁠—”

I stand and step away from the booth, backing George up in the process. “Neither Delaney nor I are interested in a conversation with you right now, George.” My voice is hard, under control—if barely. I take a deep breath and tame my tone since people have turned their attention to our corner, and I need to end this before they take out their cell phones and make a big deal of it. “Please leave us alone.”

George looks up at me because I have a good six inches on him, and his smile is uncertain. “Sure. If you put it like that.” He holds onto his nameless date’s arm tighter. “Let’s go, Rita.”

Rita gives me a look over her shoulder as they leave. I’d describe her expression as wistful, but I don’t care. I shoot a glance at Delaney.

“Thank you, Link.” She holds her smirk in place. “Looks like you have another fan. Miss desperate-enough-to-date-George-the-jerk looked like she’d have jumped your bones with the slightest provocation.”

It’s obvious she wants to deflect the conversation back to me. I sit back down and study her expression. It’s not hard to spot the bravado behind the smirk.

“Who is he?”

“He’s the man who fired me, an ex-friend.”

My first instinct is to stand right back up and go after him, but I hang onto my sanity—and the edge of the table—long enough for the destructive impulse to pass. But I don’t know what to say because I know telling her I have a strong itch to knock the guy’s teeth down his throat is not the right thing. Not that I’m usually concerned about saying the right thing—hell, I’m never concerned about saying the right thing. Shit.

My policy is that I am who I am, and most women don’t seem to have a problem with me. The others can go their own way.

She tilts her head, watching me. Maybe my silence is telling. Or it could be my white-knuckle hold on the table, so I move my hand to my tumbler of whiskey and throw down a healthy gulp. Either way, she fills in the silence.

“It wasn’t George—it was his partner who tried to toy with me.” She licks her lips, and I watch when I should turn away to keep my sanity. “You were thinking about doing something violent to him, weren’t you?”

I shrug. “What if I was? You going to hold it against me?”

“No.” She laughs—which is the last thing I expect, not that I get the impression that she’s a delicate flower, but still.

She leans in. “I grew up with four alpha-male uncles who are more like older brothers—the protective kind.”

“Strangely, that fact doesn’t detract from my impression that you’re gorgeous and refreshingly irreverent.”

“Irreverent? Is that code for something?”

“You talk like the guys in the locker room.”

“That’s odd since I have no interest in locker rooms or sports.”

“None? You’ve never been to a game of any kind?”

“I’ve never been to a professional sporting event—unless you count Disney on Ice when I was five.”

Shit. I’m not sure I’ve ever met a woman with zero interest in sports—or athletes by default. Not that it seems to be dampening our connection because there’s a definite sizzle between us and not the one-sided kind.

“Then what interests you?” I ask.

“I’m a songwriter and a musician.”