Page 29 of The Grumpy Defenseman

I passed the rink entrance and did not look in.

The elevator dropped one floor.

The doors opened.

The garage was concrete and trapped heat under fluorescent light. My car sat three rows down, alone except for a maintenance van and a dark truck near the far wall.

I took two steps before the truck became a problem: I knew it.

Evan leaned against the driver’s side door, arms crossed, head tipped slightly down. Jeans. Plain black T-shirt. No phone in his hand. No obvious reason for being in a nearly empty parking garage at eight nineteen on a Thursday night.

My pulse did something unhelpful.

“You’re still here,” I said.

“So are you.”

“Late edits.”

“I saw your car.”

Of course he had.

“You waited in a parking garage because you saw my car?”

“I told myself I was making sure you got out safe.”

“And were you?”

“No.”

Evan took one step closer.

Not enough to crowd me. Enough to change the air.

“I shouldn’t have waited,” he said.

“Probably not.”

“I know.”

“Did that help?”

“No.”

That almost pulled a laugh out of me. It came out smaller. Less sound, more surrender.

His gaze dropped to my mouth.

“You’re staring,” I said.

“I know.”

“Again with the honesty.”

“I’m trying something.”

“That sounds dangerous.”