Bottles & Blades (Eagles Hockey: Oak Ridge Vineyards #1)

Chapter 2

Two

Jean-Michel

This is dumb as fuck.

And potentially lawsuit-inducing.

But I can’t bring myself to care as I drag her to my truck.

“Let me go!” she snaps, yanking at my arm with surprising strength for someone so tiny.

Her wrist is slender, my fingers wrapped completely around it with plenty of room to spare, and she barely comes up to my shoulder.

“Let.” A tug. “Me.” Another. “ Go!”

I release her…to shove her into the passenger’s seat of my truck.

Her eyes flare wide with shock, but only for a second before she recovers, immediately trying to push by me.

“Move,” she snaps.

I stay put, stepping between the open door and her body, making sure she can’t escape.

She pushes my chest. Hard.

Yeah, she’s strong.

Yeah, there’s a sick part of me that likes that, that wants it.

Someone who’s kind but who won’t bend over backward to accommodate me. Someone who can withstand the important shit, the tough shit, and not break.

“ Move,” she snaps again.

I focus back on the tiny slip of woman in front of me and shake my head.

I’m probably delusional.

That woman doesn’t exist.

Her mouth drops open and I realize she thinks my head shake is me silently telling her that I’m not moving.

I start to conjure up the words to put her at ease.

But…they don’t come.

Especially, when her deep brown eyes spark up at me, a strand of dark hair falling over her forehead. “I said, move!” She shoves at me again.

“Sit still,” I order, turning her body so she’s facing forward in the seat then reaching up and snagging the end of the seatbelt, leaning over her to snap it into place.

“ Excuse —”

I slam the door, hitting the button on the key fob to engage the locks.

Won’t do to have her escaping now, will it?

I round the hood, hit the button once—convenient that it only unlocks my side—and climb into the driver’s seat.

“What the hell do you think that you’re doing right now?” she hisses.

I shove the keys in the ignition, start up the engine. “Paying you back.”

She gasps and yanks at the door handle.

“Paying you back for the groceries ,” I clarify, hitting the locks again.

Christ, she acts like I’m a serial killer.

And yeah, maybe I am acting more than a little suspicious.

But I hadn’t missed her little stunt with putting her items back, know it was because she bailed me out. I don’t know where the fuck I’ve lost my wallet or phone, but I’m not going to miss the chance to repay her for her kindness.

She falls quiet, and I can feel her glaring at me as I navigate my way onto the freeway.

But at least she stops trying to unlock her door.

Likely because launching herself from the road and tucking and rolling is risky at ten miles an hour but positively dangerous when I’m trucking along at sixty-five.

“Look,” I say, “My office is a couple minutes down the road. I’ll write you a check and drive you back to your car.” I flick my eyes to the side, smile at her, but I don’t think she finds it reassuring, considering that her glare intensifies. “You’ll be back before your ice cream melts,” I add.

A long pause. “I didn’t buy ice cream.” The words are quiet, so damned quiet.

I think of her putting items back and I clench my teeth together.

She couldn’t afford ice cream.

And she bought my lunch.

Christ.

“I’ll have you back her in less than twenty.” A beat. “I promise.”

There’s a long blip of silence and then she mutters, “Kidnapping to repay someone twenty bucks seems like overkill.”

“It was $23.26.”

She goes quiet then, and whether it’s because I corrected the amount or because I’m exiting the freeway and turning into the complex where my office is, I don’t know.

It doesn’t really matter.

“I didn’t do it to be paid back,” she says as I pull into one of the stalls near the double glass doors.

“I know.” I shift the transmission into park, engage the emergency brake, then pop open the door and start to climb out.

I pause when I realize she’s not doing the same. “You coming?”

The woman’s dark brown eyes narrow at me. “Oh, you mean that you’re not going to lock me in again?”

That tart arrows straight for my cock. “Nope.”

I hop out, slam the metal panel shut, and am rounding the hood when I hear the telltale sign of her door opening.

Good.

My next problem is that I don’t have my badge to access the building.

Luckily, I spot Scottie through the glass and he hurries over, pushing the door toward me. “Mr. Dubois,” he says, and I have to give my head of security credit. He doesn’t so much as blink an eye at the sight of me covered in dirt and oil, the byproduct of one of the tractors at the vineyard breaking down.

Of course, this is far from the first time that I’ve showed up filthy after managing some crisis at Oak Ridge.

It’s why I keep more than one change of clothes in my office here.

Running a meeting with the shareholders of my multibillion dollar company covered in dirt and grape juice doesn’t tend to go well.

His brows do go up, though, when I hold the door wide and the woman I’ve kidnapped follows me in. “Is there something I can help you with, Mr. Dubois?”

“Yes,” I say. “Can you call up to Marie and ask her to bring my checkbook down? It’s in the second drawer on the right side of my desk.”

He nods and moves behind the desk, lifting the phone there to his ear.

The woman spins in a circle, her brows lifting. “You work here?”

I’m not offended.

I’m covered in grime and my building is the definition of luxury.

The atrium overhead is beyond impressive, even by my standards—multi-storied with numerous glass walkways overlooking the lobby and enclosed by walls of windows so plenty of California sunshine can fill up the space. But it’s not cold like so many of the corporate business buildings in the area (and it doesn’t look like a dumbass adult playground, like so many of the tech operations either). It’s professional, impressive, and just a smidge intimidating.

Some might say like me.

“I own here,” I say quietly.

She stills halfway through her circle. “Y-you own?—”

“Mr. Dubois?”

I turn to my assistant. “Thank you, Marie.”

She holds out the checkbook—along with the pen I didn’t ask her to bring, but she did because there’s a reason she’s the head of my executive assistant team—then her gaze flicks down. “I could have brought the change of clothes.”

Since that seems more like she’s making a mental note rather than passing the tidbit along, I just thank her for the checkbook and say, “I’ll see you tomorrow for the Duarte meeting. Did you already send over the notes for me to review?”

“Yes.” She mentions a few more things about my schedule, but I cut her off before she really gets going.

“We can have a check-in later today if you have anything else for me.”

I know she picks up on the finality of my tone because her mouth kicks up.

But instead of going right away—because although Marie is exceptionally good at what she does (I wouldn’t hire anyone who isn’t), she also has a nose for gossip and is beyond curious—she cuts her eyes to the side, lifts her brows in question.

“That will be all, Marie. Thank you.”

Her nose wrinkles at the dismissal, but because she picks up on the extra dose of finality I’ve injected into my words, she just nods and says, “We’ll talk later today.”

The corner of my mouth tips up.

Because I don’t miss the finality in her tone either.