Page 13 of Ain’t Pucking Sorry (2-Hour Quickies #8)

Reese

Massimo’s voice is low but sharp when he drops the file onto my desk. “This is ridiculous, Reese. Jax couldn’t have done all this.”

“Case is closed. I thought you had agreed with me, but now it feels you don’t trust me.”

He rakes a hand through his hair, pacing once before turning back. “Two days, we’ve gone in circles, and you still haven’t told me a real motive.”

I bite back the sigh building in my chest. The mayor’s been calling every hour, the festival committee wants updates, I’ve barely slept. “How many times do I need to say the same in different ways? Sometimes teenagers act out. It doesn’t always make sense to adults.”

“You really don’t need to be condescending, Reese.” His mouth curves into something that’s not quite a smile. “It’s just… not Jax. Not a kid who takes care of his blind grandma like he does.”

I push back from my desk and stand, because sitting feels too small when he’s looking at me like that—like I’m the one on trial. “I get it. You’ve gotten close to the grandmas. But we have evidence.”

His brows lift. “Evidence isn’t always the whole story.”

My pulse ticks up. “In my experience, it usually is.”

He lets out a short laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “There it is. Your experience.”

I blink. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you expect me to nod along because you’ve been doing this longer.” He takes a step closer, and I feel it everywhere. “And if I don’t? You act like I’m out of line.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” His gaze sweeps over me, softer for half a second before hardening again. “From day one, you’ve had me pegged—the charming hockey player. Good for a grin, good in a crisis, maybe good in bed, but not someone you actually trust to have a brain. To have your back.”

The hit lands like a body blow. I can feel the heat rising up my neck. “That’s not true. I deputized you—”

“Because Clara suggested it,” he cuts in. “Because you needed an extra body. Not because you believe I could bring any intelligence or depth to the table.”

“I do believe—”

“You don’t,” he says, and it’s quieter now, which makes it worse. “If you did, you’d at least listen when I tell you this doesn’t fit.”

I cross my arms, partly to keep from shoving him back. “I have listened. But the facts—”

“The facts are tidy,” he snaps. “Too tidy. And you’re swallowing them because it ties a bow on this thing and gets the mayor off your back.”

The words burn, because part of me wonders if he’s right. But what cuts deeper is the next thing out of his mouth.

“You’d rather be wrong than look unsure. Maybe you never got that with me you didn’t need to be perfect.”

That one freezes me.

He sees it, but doesn’t stop. “You don’t trust anyone enough to let them help you carry the weight. And maybe that’s because too many people have tried to tell you you’re not capable and you always have to prove them wrong.”

I swallow hard, forcing my voice to stay even. “You don’t get to psychoanalyze me after two weeks, Tucci.”

His jaw flexes. “And you don’t get to decide I’m all charm and no substance because that’s easier than letting me be your partner. A real partner.”

The breath leaves my lungs. “Massimo…” I try to soften, to rewind us, but he shakes his head.

I press my fingers to my temples. "Why are you pushing this so hard?"

"Because I care about the truth." He steps closer. "And because I care about you."

Something in my chest tightens. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't make this personal."

"It is personal," he says. "For all of us."

"No." I shake my head. "This is my job. My responsibility. And I'm doing it the best way I know how. And obviously it’s not good enough for you either."

“So everything I say will have to be filtered by the scars others have left on you? He pauses. “I thought you were different.” His voice isn’t sharp now—it’s worse. It’s quiet. “I thought you saw me. But you only see what everyone else does. Maybe you only see what you expect to see.”

The silence stretches.

He studies me for a long moment, then nods once. "Fine. I'll be out of your way, Sheriff."

"Where are you going?" I ask as he heads for the door.

"Dayton. PR event with the team tomorrow." He doesn't look back.

"You can't just leave."

"You deputized me temporarily," he reminds me. "And since you've solved the case, you don't need me anymore, right?"

The door closes behind him with a quiet click that somehow feels more final than a slam would have.

I sink back into my chair, my heart pounding in my ears.

We didn’t mean to hit each other where it hurts. But we did. And now I can’t stop hearing the words we didn’t take back.