Page 25 of Lucky Puck

“I’m right here,” Sabien says, waving his hands. “Leave her alone, Romeo. You just had a fucking concussion, and you look more like Frankenstein with those stitches than a leading man.”

I squelch a laugh because he’s so wrong. Brody’s stitches only enhance his leading man looks with a touch of rugged-chic.

“When am I getting this ring off—” Brody says, and I cover his mouth with my hand before I think through how the feel of his mouth against my palm will electrify all my dormant sexy hormones. I remove it fast like I’ve touched a hot iron. Not far off on the scorch meter.

“Shhh.” I nod my head to the front seat. He waits patiently for an answer.

I owe him that, so I whisper, “We found the showgirl.”

His eyebrows go up, and I don’t miss the twinkle of amusement in his eyes.

Sabien leans in. “What did you do to her?”

Brody suppresses a smile, and I roll my eyes.

“Seriously, she’s returning the wallet and… she needs her ring back. It was meant for her fiancée—her real fiancée.”

“Her… fiancée.” Brody goes pale. “I swear I had no idea⁠—”

“She said she was playing games—which I don’t want to hear any details about—and she took your wallet as collateral because she couldn’t get the ring off your finger when you… passed out.”

“About that,” Brody’s eyes darken.

“She admits she gave you something, but swears it was harmless.”

“That explains why my headache was extra—before the concussion.”

“What about his clothes?” Sabien wants to know, and I tell them the rest.

“Bigelow is waiting with her until we get back, and he made an appointment with the jeweler so we can get the ring off your finger and put this all behind us.”

I bite my lip, worried about the headache, whether it’s from a so-called harmless drug or his concussion, because Brody looks pale.

“You feeling okay?” He asks me. And he’s serious.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Even if I am worried, I’m not admitting that to this kid. I need to maintain control.

“You passed out earlier, and I thought maybe you were still feeling a little lightheaded.”

“Look who’s talking.” Avoiding his eyes, I straighten my already straight skirt. “Thank you for your concern, but I’m fine.” I let off the stern pedal for a bit because maybe I am a little lightheaded.

But not for the reasons he’s thinking. Especially since he’s surprised me with his genuine empathy. Or seemingly genuine empathy. I remind myself he’s a player of world-class proportions. He’d put James Bond to shame⁠—

The unmistakable and disproportionately loud ring of my phone interrupts my unnecessary and embarrassingly teeny-bopper-ish analysis of Brody’s sincerity.

Fumbling with my bag in my rush to retrieve the phone, I barely notice—or care at this point—that it’s Jett calling.

“Hi, boss—” Brody and Sabien watch me with interest, and I look away from them, even knowing it’s impossible to have a private conversation with all of us sharing the back seat, no matter how spacious it seemed a minute ago.

“Before you launch into your excuses why you didn’t answer my calls,” Jett says, “let me tell you I get it. You’ve been busy. Which brings me to my first question—how is Brody? And don’t whitewash it for me. Give me the god’s honest truth.”

He’s loud enough so there’s no hope that Brody and Sabien didn’t hear him. Thank God the glass partition between us and Stubby is closed.

I dart an apologetic look at Brody because I’m going to do as my boss asks and tell him the unvarnished truth—about the injury at least.

“He has a concussion, a minor cut between his eyebrow and temple with a dozen stitches. We’re on our way to the Venetian for the fan event. Stubby—I mean Stubichuk from the NHL—wouldn’t let Brody out of it, which pisses me off because the doctor insisted⁠—”

“I get the picture. But I agree with Stubby. How did you know that’s what everyone in the business calls him behind closed doors? Never mind. Brody can’t get out on this kind of event unless he’s hospitalized.”