RISKY PLAY (RED CARD #1) BY RACHEL VAN DYKEN Page 0,42

30 thing a year ago and almost burned down his house trying to find a Snickers?”

Jagger grinned wide and then looked up from his screen. “I have a confession to make.”

“What?”

“I ate the Snickers the day before.”

I laughed. “Does he know?”

“Hell no!” Jagger joined in the laughter. “He’d have my ass! He searched for three hours and flipped over his couch into that massive fireplace with nothing but hunger and brute strength. No. I told him it was probably in the living room.”

“Ah, so the cause of the fire, all . . .” I pointed at him.

“Take it to your grave, Slade.”

I chuckled. “Let’s at least try not to let the kids see blood, alright?”

“Or us comparing dicks, because not only is that shit weird but people go to prison for it.”

“Yeah, smart-ass, I’ll . . . attempt to not kill you. You’re lucky my anger is more directed at Alton right now. Fucking Alton. I hate him.”

“I think he knows,” Jagger said. “And if he forgets, he can just look in the mirror and remember who gave him the bruise.”

“You helped.”

“Because of Mackenzie.”

Not because of you. I knew where the rest of that was going.

“He never deserved her in the first place. I could never quite figure out why they were together, and when things went . . . badly, it made sense.”

“So you and Mack . . .” I cleared my throat.

“It’s getting late.” He shrugged. “We have practice.” He turned around and started walking down the street toward his car.

“Is that your answer? Ignore the question?”

“You need to ask!” he called back.

“Are you dating her?” I hated the way that sentence tasted. Full of bitterness and longing.

“That was a question.” He laughed and just got into his car. While I stood on the street and watched him take off. While I wondered if I’d lost her the minute I accused her of stalking me and forcing me into marriage.

I cringed.

A fucking van full of flowers.

Ten vans.

Shit, at this rate I was going to need to plant an entire garden for her and buy a flower shop just to stay on her good side or at least, possibly, get another chance to taste her mouth.

I sighed and made the slow trek back to my car, feeling more depressed with each step.

How was I supposed to win her if I wasn’t even allowed to play the game?

Chapter Thirty

MACKENZIE

“Hey, Dad.” I kissed his soft cheek and made my way past him into the enormous home he and my mom shared on Lake Washington. The marble floor seemed to swirl and come alive beneath my feet as I flipped on a light in the hall and walked into the kitchen to grab my favorite wine and my favorite wineglass to go with it.

Dad followed me, as was tradition when I stopped by late at night.

Wordlessly, he grabbed his glass and sat on the barstool opposite where I was standing. “What’s going on?”

I took a deep breath, then took a drink of the dry red before speaking. It tingled against my lips and breathed life into my parched soul. “Alton was at the restaurant with you tonight.”

“Are you asking me?”

“No, I know he was.”

“Potential buyer, but I left early to make it home for Mom’s and my show . . .” My parents were obsessed with The Voice, as in, they refused to be distracted and would save it until they could watch it together, full volume, one bottle of wine, a cheese board. It was basically a weekly holiday and excuse to drink. “Why? What happened? Did he talk to you?”

“Yeah.” I cringed. “One sec.” Two more small sips. “He sort of insulted me, in a very inappropriate way in front of my . . . er . . . date? And in front of the man I currently work for.”

Dad sucked in a breath. “What did he say?”

I felt my face flush. “Let’s just agree it was horrible and I almost cried.”

“Honey . . .” He reached out. I took his hand and squeezed.

“So,” I continued, using him for support, “my employer punched him in the face, and when he wouldn’t stop saying cruel things, my date punched him in the side of the head. The police came . . .”

Dad released my hand. “What sort of punks handle things with a fistfight?”

“Ones trying to defend my honor and stand up for me. Something Alton wouldn’t do in a million years.”

Dad’s face softened. “He’s just not the fighting type, honey.