Risky Business by Melissa Cutler

freeloading? Because I made the offer to buy her more than once to your dear, sweet husband, and he refused.”
    â€œNumber one: Lowell isn’t sweet or a dear, and he’s definitely not my husband anymore. Two: I’m not accusing you of anything.
Freeloader
was your word, not mine. And three: why would Lowell refuse? Lanette is your home and he had nothing to gain keeping the boat unless there’s something you’re not telling me.”
    The way he smirked made her think she was right and there was more to the story than he was going to share. Sure enough, he answered, “You’ll have to ask Lowell about that.”
    She was so over the idea of going to the prison to talk to Lowell ever again. Been there, done that. And she’d vowed to spare herself from the ordeal and stress of listening to him plead for her to take him back, or of waiting for him to ask about Katie, though he never did.
    â€œI will,” she bluffed.
    â€œAre you going to sell Lanette to me?”
    There was challenge in his voice. Distrust, too. She held the deed to his home and, even though she’d openly admitted that Lanette should be his, clearly he didn’t expect her to do the right thing and hand it over to him.
    The assumption made her feel like a villain. Already, she was holding it over his head, using it as a weapon to lash out at him today. Right then and there, even though it meant giving up the most sure-fire leverage she had, she decided to transfer Lanette’s ownership to him. It was the right thing to do, and that had to count for something, if only karmically.
    But that didn’t mean she had to hand over the deed that very moment, while he was being so rude and unhelpful. He deserved to sweat it out if only because he’d refused to help her acclimate at Cloud Nine and Destiny Falls in any way. Even this small conversation got her back up enough that there was no way she’d lie down like a rug and let him stomp all over her.
    â€œI’m still wading through the paperwork, on my own, which is slow going since I don’t have any help, and I’m not making any major financial decisions until I figure out what I’m dealing with. Are you going to come get these hot wings or not?”
    She held the plate and beer out, meeting the narrowed, spiteful gaze he issued her in return. If he wanted a staring contest, then she was game. She was one of four siblings and, therefore, practically a professional at them. He had no idea the caliber of stubbornness he was dealing with.
    Finally, he sniffed and looked at the water. He threw the rag down, flipped the radio back on, and stepped into the boat’s cabin, dismissing her and her offering.
    Oh, hell, no.
    There was only one thing to do. She jumped onto the boat and threw the plate into the boat cabin, Frisbee style, at Theo’s back. He ducked, exclaiming in French. Then she twisted the top off the beer and overturned it in one of the plastic drink holders affixed to the deck railing. Shaking with adrenaline, she pivoted on her heel, jumped back onto the dock, marched up the stairs and into the office, where she dialed the number to Lock, Stock, & Barrel.
    â€œHi, Harper? It’s Allison. I had a change of heart. I’d love to go with you to the hockey game.”

Chapter Seven
    Anyone who claimed that intensity didn’t have a smell had obviously never spent any time in a locker room before a big game. It used to be that men’s league hockey was a fun way for Theo to blow off steam after long days of dealing with tourists, Lowell’s mistress/secretary, and boat motors that wouldn’t start. Not this season.
    Intensity had a way of turning the air heavy with sweat, medical tape, and the soapy steam from one or more of the players’ ritual pre-game shower—on Bomb Squad, that player was Liam. The smell and pressure of the room reminded Theo of the minor league and the pressure put on teenage boys