Dear Roomie (Rookie Rebels #5) - Kate Meader Page 0,10

popped it on the counter. Hot Jerk had taken issue with her possibly missing the extra shot, which she hadn’t.

No one that good-looking should be that bad-tempered. As a pro-athlete, he had the world at his skates: looks, talent, money, and the adoration of every person in this coffee shop. But that wasn’t good enough. He had to strike a blow for entitled jerks everywhere to keep the 99% in their place.

“I didn’t refuse! I assured him I’d made the right one.”

“And then made a rude gesture.” So she had stuck her tongue out at him when he walked away, which admittedly was childish and unprofessional. “This can’t go on. We have to let you go.”

Kennedy’s heart popped into her throat. “You’re firing me?” She hadn’t even been here long enough to get the health insurance. That was her whole reason for putting up with this shit. She’d hoped to get an annual physical and have all her plumbing checked before she went traveling again.

“You’ve left me with no choice. You’re disrespectful to customers, you’re frequently tardy—”

“Twice!” Since Laura had arrived, anyway.

Laura glared at the interruption. “You don’t do your job, and your appearance, while technically within the dress code, has always been shoddy. And don’t think I haven’t noticed you giving out your dog-walking business card. Touting for customers on the clock? You can pick up your tips and final paystub on Friday.”

“Laura, surely we can talk about this.”

But Laura’s face had cemented to finality, looking like she’d just eaten a sour lemon and was considering asking for seconds. She and Reid D would have beautiful, crabby-faced children.

That was it. No talking, no finagling, no job.

Hot Jerk had gotten her fired.

4

Reid finished stretching on the sand of Riverbrook Beach and took off for a run toward the rocky outcrop about a mile off. He didn’t usually spend much time running on the beach, partly because this small band of land fronting Lake Michigan just north of Chicago barely met the definition of one. Behind him was a playground, a concession stand and shacks closed for the season. Up ahead a couple walked hand-in-hand, trying to convince themselves that a November day beside a large body of water in the Midwest was romantic. Right.

His jaw still stung where Foreman had hit him.

It had felt good, leaning into the punch, taking that beating as Foreman pounded his frustration into Reid. The hungover idiot had fallen out with his girl at the Rebels charity auction last night and was late to practice after having his ass chewed out by management.

It didn’t take much to set him off. Reid merely lit the match of that raw-nerved kindling. If it messed with Foreman’s mind and got Reid more ice time then he was prepared to suffer a little bruising.

The worst part was that Foreman tried to apologize. To Reid.

He had almost felt sorry for the guy in that moment. He was a man in love and his world—a world currently revolving around a woman—was imploding. Reid didn’t know what that felt like and hoped he never would. How could anyone focus with that kind of distraction? For a man like Foreman, so used to everything going his way, it had to be rough to suddenly find that someone didn’t want you.

Maybe Reid would lay off the Masshole for a while. Let that broken heart do its holy work.

The wind made his eyes water. He picked up the pace, overtaking the couple without a sideways glance. Not that they would automatically recognize him, but he didn’t want to risk it. Hopefully they would have turned around by the time he reached the rocks and came back.

The sound of a yapping dog, or maybe more than one as the pitches were slightly different, carried on the stiff breeze. He couldn’t see any animals but the beach was close to a wooded area, where people probably walked their dogs.

He was supposed to see Bastian tonight. Reid knew he’d been avoiding his brother. “All the better for our rivalry,” he had joked, though Bastian had frowned, taking it seriously. And maybe Reid had meant the dig. After all, that was all the Chicago sports press cared about, wasn’t it? The Durand brothers, playing hockey in the same city at last. Whoop-de-do. It was ridiculous how the journos assumed they didn’t get along when they got along fine.

Mostly fine.

No doubt Henri was responsible for putting a bug in some reporter’s ear about his sons’ rivalry since birth. Pitting them