1
Landon
Life is sometimes nothing but a series of mistakes.
Mistakes that leave you wondering a few hours later what the hell you were thinking.
Mistakes that seem like a brilliant idea at the time.
“Ooh, coffee,” my latest mistake says, walking into the kitchen, wearing nothing but a hockey jersey. My hockey jersey, which was hanging in my closet until a few minutes ago.
“I’m going to need that soon.” I nod at the item of clothing.
The blonde, whose name I can’t quite remember, sidles up to me. I met her at the bar Adam, Connor, and I went to last night. I hadn’t gone there to get laid, but here I am, with a strange woman in my town house.
“I didn’t know you play hockey,” she says with a seductive purr. It was a turn-on last night. Now, not so much. “I loooove hockey.”
Something about the way she says this hints that it’s not entirely true. I recognize the look in her eyes from my days in junior hockey.
She’s not a real fan of the game. Hooking up with hockey players is her sport of choice.
I’d dealt with a few of those in my past, back before I realized I’d never be good enough to play in the NHL.
I give her a single nod—because there isn’t anything more to say on the subject. She’s just reminding me why I don’t typically bring one-night stands to my place.
Not that one-night stands are a habit of mine these days.
Blondie is one of those rare occasions.
She doesn’t get the hint and leans against the granite kitchen counter. “Can I have some, please?” Her gaze drops to the mug in my hand, and I stiffen.
But while I’m not exactly happy she’s still here, I’m not going to be an asshole and kick her out of my home.
Yet.
If she decides to overstay her welcome, I’ll politely ask her to leave.
I remove a mug from the kitchen cabinet, fill it partway, and hand it to her.
“Thanks.” She takes a sip and pouts at me. “You’ve already showered?” she says, stating the obvious. My hair’s still damp.
My goal had been for her to wake up while I was in the shower and be the kind of woman who bails while the guy’s preoccupied.
Instead, she slept the entire time and only woke up when the coffee had finished brewing.
“I was hoping we could shower…together.” She flashes me a look that reminds me of Mojo—my colleague’s Bernese mountain dog—whenever he sees his favorite treat.
Then she winks at me…which lasts an incredibly long time. Like her eye has frozen shut. “Oh, darn it. My false eyelashes are stuck together. Can you help me, Landon?”
Sorry, sweetheart, you’re on your own.
Before I can voice that out loud, “Hit Me with Your Best Shot” plays from my phone on the kitchen table.
Saved by Pat Benatar.
“Sorry, I have to take this.” I don’t suppose you’ll be gone by the time I return.…
I pick up my phone and head upstairs to my office.
Inside, I close the door behind me. “What’s up?” I ask Liam. My boss.
The owner of Quade Security and Investigations.
My former brother in arms.
Liam doesn’t call the team on a Sunday unless it’s super important. He’s a family man through and through—especially since his daughter was born over a year ago.
Cassie and his wife, Ava, are his world.
“I need you to come into the office this morning. I’m calling the entire team in.”
“I’d ask what this is about, but now’s not a good time for me to talk.” I have no idea if Blondie’s the curious type—if snooping gets her off. “As soon as I get some baggage out of my house, I’ll be there.”
Liam has been my friend for too long to miss the hidden meaning between the words. “You know, if you found a nice woman to settle down with, the overstaying-their-welcome baggage wouldn’t be a problem.”
“You sound like my mother.”
“Your mom is a wise woman.”
We end the call, and I head downstairs. Blondie is still in the kitchen, in my hockey jersey, coffee mug in hand, in no particular rush to leave. Her eyelashes are no longer stuck together.
“I have to go to work now,” I tell her, hoping she gets the hint this time.
She frowns, her pout resembling that of a toddler denied a cookie more than it resembles the pout of a supermodel selling sexy lingerie. “Work? But it’s Sunday.”
I shrug because it is what it is.
“You never did tell me what you do for a living.” She sips on her coffee.
“I’m a janitor. The usual weekend guy called in sick.”
Rule #1 when it comes to hookups: Never tell them my real job.
Even if I don’t mention the off-the-website part of the job—the part involving secret government contracts—telling women I work for a security and investigation company leaves them with all kinds of alpha-hero fantasies.
It makes me, in their eyes, more desirable, more exciting, than someone who cleans an office building for a living.
The frown between Blondie’s eyebrows returns. “This is a really nice place for a janitor.”
I don’t dignify her comment with a reply.
Fortunately, she finally gets the hint, puts the mug on the counter, and heads upstairs to hopefully get changed. She returns a few minutes later in the dress she was wearing last night. Her hair is no longer messy.
“I had fun last night,” she says, batting her eyelashes at me. They miraculously don’t stick together this time. “I would love to see you again. Maybe we could catch a movie and dinner later this week?”
Her tone is not of someone hoping to be a booty call. It’s more along the lines of wanting something I can’t give—my heart.
Or what’s left of it.
No, a woman didn’t cheat on me or do me wrong. Just the opposite. My post-college girlfriend was the love of my life. I was positive she was it—the woman I would one day marry.
At least that had been my plan until she went out with friends. The next time I saw her, she was in a coma and on life support.
Her parents removed her from it a month later.
After that, I joined the military. And on more than one occasion witnessed a brother die—and each time, like with my girlfriend, I was unable to do anything about it.
“Sorry,” I tell Blondie, “but I told you last night it was a one-time-only deal. That hasn’t changed.”
She shrugs, the disappointment on her face nothing more than a flicker. A minute later, the front door clicks shut behind her.
I grab my jeep keys and head out the front door. The crisp November air is heavy with the promise of rain.
A faint whimper, almost a squeak, draws my attention to a bush on my property. I walk over to the sound and crouch next to the bush, where a small tangle of reddish-brown fur with large floppy ears lies.
“Hey, little guy, what are you doing here?”
The puppy lifts its head slightly and gives another whimper. It doesn’t have a collar, doesn’t look familiar.
I hold my hand out to him, letting him sniff it, and stroke his soft head. “Are you injured?” I don’t know a whole lot about dogs. My only real experience with them comes from my colleague’s dog, Mojo. Jayden’s dog is a Bernese mountain goofball who likes to hang out at the office and soak in as much attention as possible.