Page 33 of Playing Her Game

Lenzin: *Landed?*

I type back fast.

*Flight canceled. Staying near O’Hare tonight. All good. Talk tomorrow.*

Then I put the phone down.

Not how I pictured my first night in Chicago—stranded at Reznik’s lake house in a blizzard. But he saw a problem and handled it. Simple. Clean.

Exhausted, I change into sleep clothes, set an alarm, and turn off the light.

CHAPTER 6

MEAL PREP

Reznik

I've got chicken breasts in the oven, rice simmering on the stove, and enough vegetables chopped to feed a small army. My nosy-as-fuck best friend, Gabe, is on speakerphone, the volume turned down low so I don't disturb my guest.

"I don't have a fucking hero complex, G, and this is not your concern."

"As your best friend, your emotional health is my concern."

I snort, sliding another container across the counter and reaching for the next one.

"My emotional health? This is you, not me. G, I have no problem having a conversation with a woman about my lifestyle and schedule, and no time for a relationship."

"Maybe she doesn't want a relationship either."

I scoop rice into a container, level it with the back of a spoon, and move to take the chicken out of the oven.

"Maybe. But I'm not interested in complications. If a woman wants something casual, fine. I'm an adult. I can have that conversation."

"And if she wants the same freedom you do?"

"Then we're on the same page."

"And if she doesn't like you having other options?"

I set the spoon down and look at my phone.

"Then we're not compatible. I'm not about to get involved with a woman who wants a little something on the side but expects me to be exclusively hers. If she wants to keep her options open, that's her business. She doesn't get to have a problem with me doing the same."

Gabe laughs. "Jesus Christ, Rez. You make everything sound like a fucking contract."

"Because I'm not interested in bullshit. I'm honest about what I can offer. If that works for someone, great. If it doesn't, we move on."

"And Anna?"

I pause with the tongs hovering over the chicken.

"What about her?"

"Nothing. Just asking."

"Then stop fucking asking."

I disconnect the call and drop the phone onto the counter.