Alex (Cold Fury Hockey #1)(55)

Blinking a few times, I stare at Brandon as he admires the photo. His mouth turns downward and he practically whines, "Shit. Top of your head got cut off. You're tall man, really tall. Next one, if you can lean down a little … "

Brandon moves toward me, intent on roping me into another selfie. I stick my hand out in self-defense and if he doesn't stop, I'm going to hip check him into the concrete.

Luckily for him, I hear Sutton's car coming down the street, chugging and sputtering along. Because Brandon's car is in the driveway, she pulls along the curb and cuts the engine. It wheezes and whines, sputters and even coughs once before it goes silent.

Then she's out of the car and stalking across the grass toward both of us. She looks pissed and I don't know who it's directed at.

"Hey, baby," Brandon says genially, pointing at me. "Look who's here … Alex Crossman. Can you believe it? We were just getting ready to do another selfie."

Sutton slides a glance my way and the tension inside of me eases a bit because in just that brief glance, I actually see apology in her eyes.

Turning back to Brandon, Sutton is calm when she asks, "What are you doing here, Brandon?"

Sauntering up to her, completely forgetting his selfie with me, for which I'm grateful, he says in a placating tone, "I thought we could hang out … maybe you could even make your tuna casserole. I love that stuff. Then we can talk."

Sighing with fatigue, Sutton places her hands on her hips. "I told you on the phone that I had a rough day today and tonight wasn't a good time."

Interesting. They talked on the phone today?

"Yeah … but I figured we could just chill … that would be a great way to relax after a hard day," he says, giving me a sideways glance.

I'm not sure exactly what sets Sutton off, but I'm betting it might be the fact he asked her to cook dinner for him when she was clearly exhausted. Her face turns red as she walks up to him and pokes him in the chest with her finger, causing him to take a step backward as his eyes flare with surprise.

"You can't be that moronic," she seethes. "I've been in a hospital all day hoping one of my kids doesn't die because she took a lethal dose of meth, and I come home to find you waiting for me after I explicitly told you I was not in the mood to see you, and on top of that, you want me to cook you dinner, which does not sound in the slightest bit relaxing to me. It's utter ridiculousness. Now … I'm tired, I'm hungry and I'm going in my house … without you."

Brandon's jaw drops and his lips purse inward and out again, not quite sure if he should say anything. But Sutton doesn't see that because she spins away from him and starts stalking up to her house. She doesn't even spare me a glance but calls out over her shoulder, "Are you coming, Alex? We can order some Chinese. I'm starving."

Staring after her just a moment, I admire the strength still evident in her step, even though she looks like a feather could knock her over. I'm completely turned on by the steel rod that is her spine and the way she just stood up to Brandon. I resist the urge to do a football dance of victory around Brandon because I just got invited inside while he got sent packing.

"He can come in but I can't?" Brandon calls out to her pathetically.

Sutton doesn't even respond but opens her door and walks in, leaving it open for me to follow.

Turning to Brandon, I try to look sympathetic. "Sorry, dude. But word of advice: Next time a woman tells you she's tired and had a rough day, I'd try to refrain from asking her to cook for you."



       
         
       
        

Staring at me blankly, his lips purse in and out again, not quite able to formulate a response. Shrugging my shoulders, I turn away and trot up the porch steps and walk through her door, shutting it quietly behind me. I don't see her and assume she may be in her bedroom getting changed, but I hear the satisfying sound of Brandon's Audi starting up and backing out of her driveway.

"Make yourself at home," Sutton calls out from the back of the small house. "I'm going to grab a quick shower."

"Okay," I call back to her. Spying her car keys on a small table near the door, I add on, "I'm going to move your car into the driveway."

"Be gentle with her. She's an old soul," she warns me.

Snickering, I head out the door and move her bucket of rust off the street and into the safety of her driveway. I lock her doors, although I'm quite confident no one would steal it, and head back inside her house. I can hear the shower running, so I busy myself by looking around her small living room.