Page 11 of The Game Changer (Knights of Passion #3)

Chapter

Seven

S avannah would’ve been worried about the headlights trailing her every turn if they hadn’t been on her tail since Dylan’s driveway.

The man was protective to a fault. It was sweet.

Irritating. Maybe even a little sexy. But unnecessary.

She’d been taking care of herself since before she was technically legal.

Not because she didn’t have a family—God knew she had one—but because her mother had always been more interested in chasing soulmates than paying rent or buying groceries.

Love, according to her mom, was the answer to everything.

Bills, school lunches, broken-down cars.

Savannah had been the one hunting down actual answers. Like steady income. Or canned soup.

She turned onto the dirt driveway of her rental house and frowned. Every damn light was on. Porch light. Kitchen. Living room. Even the upstairs. She always left one or two on if she thought she’d be home late, but this looked like a crime scene staging—or a house party.

The low thump of bass pulsed beneath her tires as she shut off the engine.

“Oh, hell no.” The words scraped out of her throat in a growl. Not tonight. Not after wrangling Dylan’s hormones, her own treacherous libido, and two overly affectionate dogs.

Dylan pulled up behind her and rolled down his window, worry etched into every line of his face. “Everything okay? You throwing a party I didn’t know about?”

“Or something,” she muttered, then slapped on the fakest smile she had in her arsenal. “Thanks for seeing me home, Dylan. Night.”

He didn’t budge. Of course not. “I’ll wait until I know everything’s fine. Want me to come in? Just to check?”

She shook her head, her smile holding but her teeth grinding together. “Nah, I’ve got Carl. He’s better than a baseball bat. And it’s probably just my sister.”

As if summoned, the front door flew open with a bang that could’ve woken the dead—and half the neighborhood.

“Vannie! You’re finally home! I’ve been so bored!”

Savannah winced. Her sister’s voice had always carried like a foghorn, especially when liquor was involved. “Hey, Lucy. Keep it down, would you? Don’t need another visit from the cops.”

“You got a man with you?” Lucy leaned against the doorframe, voice slurring. “I can sleep on the porch while you two have your fun. Unless he likes to share.”

Savannah’s stomach dropped.

There stood Lucy, framed in golden porch light like some drunk goddess of bad decisions, wearing nothing but a barely there tank top, a micro-pair of panties, and what Savannah could only pray was last night’s eyeliner.

Her sister’s full breasts swayed as she wobbled, clearly several shots past tipsy.

Savannah groaned. “You’d better not be drinking my Patron.”

Lucy’s eyes went wide, guilty as a teenager caught with a joint. She ducked back inside, not so much walking as stumbling, clearly off to hide the evidence.

Savannah turned toward Dylan. “Family emergency. I’ve got this.”

He didn’t look convinced. His gaze lingered on the now-vacant doorway, where Sadie’s head had popped up in the window like a disapproving grandma. “Was your sister drunk?”

She forced a light tone. “Drunk. Crazy. In the South, we don’t always draw the line. We just give ‘em a rocking chair and let the crazy wave at traffic. This isn’t new. It’s just… Tuesday.”

Dylan still didn’t move, and it hit her harder than it should’ve—that he wasn’t laughing, or revving his engine, or looking for the eject button.

Most men had one foot on the gas the second Lucy appeared half-naked and propositioning.

Or worse, they tried to take her up on it.

Either way, Savannah ended up being the one left cleaning up the mess.

But not Dylan. He was still sitting there. Still watching her with a guarded expression, his brows low, mouth set. Protective. Concerned.

God, what did that make him?

Sweet? Foolish? A unicorn?

Since waking up in his bed that morning and seeing him half-asleep, rubbing Sadie’s belly like it was the most natural thing in the world, she hadn’t been able to stop picturing what it would feel like to roll toward him.

To kiss him. To let go of her damn principles for just one night and lose herself in that wide, steady chest and the hands that knew exactly how to soothe a creature’s panic.

But she couldn’t. She wouldn’t.

Her dreams weren’t built on men. They were built on concrete, steel fencing, training programs, and a promise to every abandoned dog she couldn’t save as a kid.

She had a mission. A facility to build. Sponsors to secure.

The kind of life her sister had never wanted and her mother had never even imagined.

Dylan Prosser was a very tempting detour. But detours cost time. Focus. And usually, a broken heart.

A loud whoop came from inside the house, followed by a crash that sounded suspiciously like a bottle meeting linoleum. Savannah flinched.

There goes the last of the Patron.

She turned back to Dylan. He looked pale, like the tequila-induced chaos was giving him PTSD.

“I’ve got it,” she said, firmer this time. “Go home. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”

She patted the door of his truck with two brisk taps. Confidence she didn’t feel pulsed in her voice, but hell if she’d show it. Not after the night she’d had.

He frowned. “I’ll wait until you’re inside.”

And just like that, something warm bloomed in her chest. A flicker of safety. Of being seen.

“Who said chivalry was dead in the South?” she teased, flashing a grin. “Ain’t you just a regular gentleman.”

She turned, hips swaying more than necessary, half out of gratitude, half out of habit. Left the dogs in the car with the windows cracked because if Lucy had found the Patron, there was no telling what kind of war zone waited inside.

Tomorrow would come fast.

But for now? Tonight was just damage control.

S avannah stepped into the small rental house and nearly tripped over a pizza box.

She paused on the threshold, breath catching as her gaze swept the disaster zone that used to be her living room.

Not that she prided herself on Martha Stewart-level housekeeping—hell, with a rotating cast of rescue dogs, most days she was lucky if she vacuumed more than once a week—but this?

This was a war zone. Grease-stained pizza boxes littered the floor.

Clothes—hers and definitely not hers—were tossed over every available surface.

A bra hung from the corner of the television like a drunken flag of surrender.

She exhaled sharply and crossed the room to shut off the stereo, silencing the thumping bass that rattled her windowpanes.

Lucy spun around, stumbling over a half-eaten slice of pepperoni and nearly going down. “Hey! Why’d you do that? I love that song.”

Savannah arched a brow, one hand planted on her hip. “You love every song, Luce. When did you get here? I thought you were still in Charlotte with Ricky.”

Lucy’s lower lip jutted out, and she flopped dramatically onto the couch, the cushions bouncing beneath her slight frame.

“Ricky’s a dick. All he wanted to do was hang out at the bar and flirt with skanks while pretending to be some tortured artist with his stupid band.

Expected me to sling drinks to drunk assholes while he played for tips until he got ‘discovered.’” She curled her fingers into air quotes, her voice laced with disdain.

Savannah didn’t respond, just started cleaning—an automatic survival response when her sister was in town. “Let me guess. Drummer?”

“Bass guitarist.” Lucy’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “Had amazing fingers, Vannie. Magic fingers. Until I found those same fingers up some girl’s skirt behind the bar while I was wiping down tables.”

Savannah winced. “So… you dumped him?”

Lucy shrugged, a wicked smile tugging at her lips. “After I slept with the drummer. That really pissed Ricky off. I think the band broke up over it. Whatever. They sucked anyway.”

And just like that, she bounded up, arms thrown wide, and tackled Savannah into an off-balance hug that nearly sent both of them tumbling into a pile of takeout containers.

Savannah disentangled herself with the patience of a saint and guided her sister back to the couch, where she plopped down and promptly grabbed the remote.

Savannah scanned the mess—glass cups scattered like confetti, takeout bags spilling onto the floor, and a suspicious puddle she didn’t want to investigate.

How many glasses had Lucy used in one night?

She wasn’t even sure she owned that many.

She took a deep, calming breath. Then another.

“So,” she said cautiously, “what’s the plan?”

Lucy blinked at her, mascara smudged beneath one eye. “Plan?”

“Yes. Plan. As in—how long are you staying? What’s next? A job, maybe?”

The reaction was instant. Lucy reared back as if physically struck. “A job? I’m heartbroken, Vannie, and you want me to wait tables again? God, that’s so mean.”

Savannah didn’t flinch. She just arched a brow and subtly plucked the neck of her Patron tequila bottle from where it was jammed between couch cushions, tucking it under her arm like contraband as she carried an armload of glasses into the galley kitchen.

“I’m just saying,” she called over her shoulder, “that keeping busy helps. It gives you something else to focus on besides the jackass who cheated on you.”

“He’s not a jackass,” Lucy pouted, trailing behind her like a surly teenager with a half-drunk beer clutched in one hand. “He’s misunderstood.”

Savannah bit back a groan and started dumping glasses in the sink. “Please tell me he’s not going to show up here, begging for you back. Because I won’t have him in this house, Lucy. Not after what you just told me. I mean it.”

Tears welled in her sister’s eyes, fast and theatrical. “I can’t believe you want me to be alone and miserable! You hate me!”

She whirled and ran down the hall in a blur of eyeliner and tears, slamming the door to Savannah’s bedroom with the force of a toddler tantrum.

Savannah closed her eyes. Counted to five.

Nope. Still pissed.

She glanced down at the now-silent tequila bottle in her hands, then out toward the living room where Carl lay sprawled on the floor, snoring loudly, unbothered by the chaos of women or broken hearts.

She should’ve stayed at Dylan’s. Taken him up on that offer to crash at his place. Hell, even Sadie would’ve been preferable to this.

A snoring dog, a shredded couch, and a guy with puppy eyes? Way easier than a full-blown Lucy-level hurricane.

Maybe next time, she wouldn’t be so quick to run from the safe option.