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

Chapter 12

Twelve

Jean-Michel

“Aren’t you a little old for a middle of the night walk of shame?”

At one time, hearing Angela’s voice was the best thing in my life.

My heart would skip a beat. My hands would itch to touch. And once, I would have done anything for this woman.

Today, though, it’s only the cold fingers of dread skating down my spine that I feel.

And the gnawing urge to get as far the fuck as possible away from her.

The only thing that I’m glad for? The limited street parking around Tiff’s place that means I’m now several blocks away from her apartment and Angela can’t spread her venom there.

“Angela.” I move by her, my car parked only a couple of spots down. “I’d say it’s good to see you, but unlike some people in this world, I don’t like to lie.”

She ignores the obvious dismissal and starts walking beside me. “Except when it’s convenient for you.”

“I’d ask you to explain that bullshit, considering you disappeared for two decades, but that would mean listening to you longer, and if there’s one fucking thing I can’t do, it’s that.”

Her pace falters, but only for a second.

Then her chin lifts, her shoulders straighten, and her expression turns venomous.

“Right,” I mutter. “Not going to do this.” I bleep the locks on my car, pull open my door, and climb in. “I believe that I’ve made it clear that all communications should go through my attorneys.”

“Jean-Michel?—”

I shut the door, cutting off the bullshit she’s going to try to spin, and jab at the button to turn on the engine. I don’t spare her a look as I drive off.

But I do manage to spare a minute to call my head of security, Pascal.

“What’s the problem?” he answers, sounding completely lucid despite the middle of the night phone call.

“Need you to look into something for me.”

“You know I’d do anything for you.”

“Her name is Tiffany Hernandez. She lives at?—”

“4546 Eucalyptus Drive, Apartment 3C.”

I blink. “Tell me why you know that,” I order, trying to tamp down the anger, the possessiveness him having that knowledge fills me with. But heaven help him if he touched her.

“Tell me why you know that,” he counters, his tone deadly, and there are few people in this world who scare me, who I know can fuck with me—with my life, my businesses, my future.

Pascal is one of those men.

And that’s why, despite the jealously coursing through me, I answer him.

“She’s mine.”

The silence that stretches between us is taut and filled with surprise—from his side.

Not mine.

No point in fighting it.

Not after tonight.

It was set in stone from the swipe of her phone at the grocery store.

“What’s going on with Tiff?” he asks quietly.

Back to wanting to murder this dangerous man.

“How do you know she prefers to call herself Tiff?”

Another long moment of quiet. “Know her. She’s a good girl with a good head on her shoulders and a shit past.”

“I know that.”

Or enough of it to have put the pieces together.

Silence stretches and then he sighs. “Then it begs the question, Dubois, if you know what she’s been through, why don’t you know that I know who she is?”

I get off the freeway, turn the car in the direction of my office.

There’s no point in going home—I’m awake and irritated with Pascal and I have an evening’s worth of work to catch up on.

“Just get to the point, yeah?”

“She nannies for Brit and Stefan.”

I freeze, not processing that the signal’s turned green until the car behind me honks.

I hit the gas, start forward.

Stefan Barie, son of the Gold Hockey team’s owner, Pierre Barie. A powerful man. A fair man, but one who definitely might be a thorn in my side if his son isn’t happy with my interest in Tiff.

And Brit, as in Brittany (but don’t call her that unless you want to get cup checked) Plantain, goalie for the Gold and the first female hockey player in the league. She’s nearing retirement age and has been fighting injuries for a few seasons, but she’s still a hell of a formidable force between the pipes and not someone I’d want to be facing out there on the ice.

She and Stefan fell in love, he retired, they adopted a kid, and then…they hit a rough streak. Eventually, though, they worked things out, had a happy ending times two, and their daughter is cute as fuck.

And sassy as fuck, just like her mom.

And Tiff is her nanny?

“Christ,” I mutter.

“Think of that connection before you fuck with her, yeah?”

“She’s mine,” I grit out. “No matter the connections she has.” I turn into the parking lot, grind my teeth together so fiercely that a bolt of pain shoots through my jaw. “Now, are you going to look into this for me or not?”

“Depends,” comes the faintly accented voice.

“On fucking what?” I snap.

“Oh what exactly you need me to look into regarding Tiff.”

I slide to a stop in my parking spot, mind racing back through the conversation, realizing with a growing annoyance that the bastard is right. I haven’t actually told him what the issue is.

Biting back a sigh, I explain the situation with Dave.

When I’m done, he chuckles. “How bad did you fuck the asshole up?”

“Enough,” I mutter. “And not nearly enough.” I jab at the button to turn off the ignition and yank my cell from the cradle, pinning it between my ear and shoulder. I grab my shit, pop open my door, and move to the front of the building, swiping my keycard to let myself in. “Which is why I need you to look into the asshole, work your scary security chief magic, and make sure he doesn’t so much as look in her direction again. Hell, maybe the fuckwad will realize that he’d be better off moving so that doesn’t accidentally happen. I don’t care, so long as he never breathes her air again.”

I scan my keycard at the elevator, punch the button to call the car.

“Got it,” he says.

“And if you can get someone out there tomorrow to change out her locks then I’ll owe you one.”

A dangerous marker for a dangerous man.

“Her locks aren’t good?” he asks, voice threaded with ice.

“They’re shit.”

And he proves that, yeah, he’s dangerous, but that he’s also one of the good ones by what he says next. “I’ll get someone there in the morning to change out the entire fucking door.”

The elevator doors open with a ding, and I step on.

“I’ll owe you another one if you can manage that.”

“It’s not smart owing me one favor, let alone two.”

“I pay my debts”—I hit the button that’ll take me up to my office—“always.”

“I know,” he says. “But Tiff isn’t a debt. She’s family. Which means that this one’s on the house.”

“I—”

He cuts off my protest by saying, “She has a class at eight-thirty. My boys will be there at eight.”

I flick my gaze to my watch, feel the weight of the decision I’ve just made sit heavy in my stomach.

And I’m still going to make the same damned one.

“I’ll meet them there.”

I hear the smile in his voice when he says, “Figured you might.”

The elevator doors close, and I hang up.

Then I haul my ass to my office.

I have work to do.

And it needs to be done before eight.