Love Song(43)

Fuck.

Is that what drew him to me? For some reason, that notion bothers me.

Annaliese snorts loudly. “I’d rather die than be some man’s plus-one. This day and age, it’s time for the man to be behind the woman.”

“Oh, I’d love to be behind you, Liese,” Preston declares, and she flicks up her middle finger.

I catch a blur of motion from the kitchen. Clay is grabbing a beer from the fridge. But rather than rejoin us, he leaves the bottle on the counter and wanders toward the stairs.

That instantly raises my hackles. I made it clear they can’t go roaming around the house, and while I’d like to say I trust these guys by virtue of them being friends with Annaliese, I don’t. Sadly, it’s not unheard of for guests to try to steal memorabilia from my dad and Garrett’s study. It’s happened before. And we have valuable photographs and a few framed jerseys hanging on the walls upstairs.

“I’ll be right back,” I say, cutting Annaliese off midsentence. “I don’t want Clay wandering around the house by himself. I’m gonna go get him.”

“Yeah, go get him, tiger,” Preston drawls.

I track Clay to the top of the stairs, which elicits a rush of annoyance. “What are you doing?”

He offers a sheepish look. “Sorry. I was following the trail of pictures. I wanted to see this last one.” He gestures to a frame.

I relax slightly. Heading up the stairs, I join him on the spacious landing where he’s admiring a photograph of my father and Garrett Graham in their Bruins jerseys, arms thrust up in victory as their teammates celebrate on the ice all around them. This was the first time they won the Stanley Cup together.

“It’s so sick that you’re from, like, hockey royalty,” Clay tells me, stars in his eyes.

“Honestly, I’m not much of a hockey fan,” I admit.

“Bullshit.”

“It’s true. I know everything about the game, but it’s not something I’d put on in my spare time.”

He cocks his head. “So what do you put on in your spare time?”

I shrug. “Sappy movies that make me cry or those reality TV competition shows. And I listen to a lot of podcasts.”

“Do you watch porn?”

Ew. Who asks somebody that?

“Not really,” I say.

He grins. “That’s not a no.”

I grit my teeth and take a step away. “We should go back downstairs.”

He reaches for my hand. “Wait.”

I stifle a sigh. “What?”

“You’re saying you don’t feel this thing between us? We’ve been flirting all day.”

“I mean, you’ve been flirting all day.”

His eyes flash. “So it was one-sided?”

Yes, I want to snap. My parents encouraged me to always be blunt and clear about my intentions. Don’t leave it up to the other person to guess, my dad always says. If you’re not interested, you’re not interested.

But my father is a man, and he’s never had to deal with drunk dudes whose egos get all bent out of shape when you reject them. It’s a very delicate line you have to walk as a woman.

“Let’s go downstairs,” I repeat.

I blink and both his hands are on my waist, trying to tug me closer. “I think you’re beautiful, Blake.”

“Thank you,” I mutter while swiftly stepping out of his grasp.

“Come on, one kiss.”

“No.”

“Just one—”

He’s suddenly hauled backward, releasing a startled yelp like a puppy that just got kicked.

“She said no.”

I turn to find Wyatt on the landing, his green eyes burning with anger and disgust.

Clay recovers quickly, putting on a careless smirk. “How about you don’t speak for the girl?”

“How about you don’t touch the woman when she tells you she doesn’t want you to touch her?”

“Oh, fuck off. Like you haven’t been touching her when it’s only the two of you here,” Clay sneers. “So you can hook up with her, but no one else can—”

Before he can finish, Wyatt slams him against the wall. I dart out of the way, panic flying up my throat as Clay’s back collides with the picture he was admiring. The frame slides off the wall and clatters down the staircase, stopping halfway. Wyatt doesn’t pay it any attention. He’s busy restraining Clay by the collar, his forearm pressed on the guy’s throat.

Speaking in a cold, deadly voice I’ve never heard from him, he says, “It’s time for you to get the hell out of my house.”

When Clay struggles against the hold, Wyatt jams his arm deeper into his windpipe.

“I’m sorry, what was that? You were agreeing with me that it’s time for you to go?”

Clay’s eyes start watering as he gasps for air.

“Wyatt,” I murmur, and he releases Clay in a heartbeat, as if controlled by that one soft syllable.

The other guy coughs, clutching his throat. “You’re a fucking psycho, dude.”

Macho man that he is, Clay elbows Wyatt as he stomps toward the stairs. Then he doubles down on douchery by kicking the fallen photograph and sending it skittering. The frame hadn’t broken during the initial fall. Now it does, shattering to pieces at the bottom of the staircase.