Page 14 of Loaded Laces (Eagles Hockey #3)

I reach for the handle of the sedan that’s just pulled to a stop at the curb?—

Only to find my fingers brushed away.

Starting, my head jerks up, focus yanked from my phone, and I glare at the man who’s similarly focused on his phone and, apparently, not noticing that this is my freaking car.

“What the hell are you doing?” I snap, brushing his fingers away.

He glances up, as though shocked that other people exist on Earth with him.

And given the brand of that suit—something I know because my boss, Jean-Michel Dubois, wears the same expensive designer—this man doesn’t likely interact with the common people.

“What are you doing?” he snaps back.

“This is my Lyft.”

I yank at the door, start to step into the opening.

But before I get there, his hand is on my arm, stopping me.

“Don’t touch me,” I growl.

He steps back, breaking contact and lifting his hands, palms out in surrender. “Fuck, woman.” A scowl that does nothing to dampen the model-esque beauty of his features.

Gorgeous face.

Sexy body that fills out that expensive suit—broad shoulders, flat stomach, thick thighs.

Too bad he’s an asshole.

Something he proves by what he says next.

“I don’t know what mental hospital you’ve just checked yourself out of, but I have a meeting I need to get to”—he nods at the car—“in my Lyft, and I don’t have time to fuck around.”

I glance at my phone screen then back up at the car.

The make and model match.

My app tells me my ride is here.

And this asshole is trying to take my car?

What’s he even going to do when it takes him to the wrong place?

Part of me is tempted to step back and let him find out.

The rest of me is outraged.

Because I have far too much experience with men being assholes and trying to take advantage of me.

“I don’t have time to ‘fuck around’”—I make air quotes—“either. I have important things to do this evening too.”

It’s a lie.

For once, I’m not working tonight.

My plans are to soak until I’m turned into a wrinkle puddle of woman in my bathtub, drink an entire bottle of Oak Ridge wine, and then pass out with a cooking show on in the background.

But this man doesn’t know that.

And, frankly, his meeting isn’t more important than my life.

I lift my phone, pointing the screen in his direction. “This is my ride. See?”

His expression hardens, but only for a moment before he leans in and seems to stare at my phone. He straightens and something strange crawls across his hazel eyes.

It almost looks like amusement.

But that can’t be right because he steps back, waves a hand toward the open door, and says, “My mistake.”

I scowl at him.

That’s right.

It’s his mistake.

Chin lifting, huff escaping, I dump my bag onto the seat and slide in, reaching for the door?—

Only to find my fingers brushed away again.

The man pokes his gorgeous head in, one dark lock of hair falling over his face, calling for female fingers to push it back. “I’ll get that for you.”

Before I can reply, he’s shutting it, stepping back.

Men.

Ugh.

I sigh and start to settle back on the leather seat.

Only I freeze, horror slicing my insides to ribbons.

Because I hear,

“Jace Henderson?”

And I realize that this isn’t my car after all.