A spike of hot adrenaline stabbed the icy panic right through the heart. Too bad, asshole, I’m not waiting for you to attack.
Shelby let out a banshee shriek—okay, squeak. The man whirled around, hands curled into fists. She flipped on the flashlight on the inhale as he reared back, and then she shoved the arcing end into his stomach. Technically, she was supposed to hold it there for three seconds. She got maybe half of one before her grip slipped and she lost contact. He stumbled back, letting out a low rumbly yowl of pain.
That’s when she was supposed to run, sprinting away from death and danger. But she didn’t, not once her flashlight’s beam landed on the man’s face and her stomach dropped down to the cabin’s wine cellar. She recognized him immediately.
Ian Petrov. Hockey player. Curly-haired, bearded sex god, according to the tabloids. Also…the one person who hated her more than anyone else in the world.
“What the hell,” Ian yelled, holding a protective arm over his gut as he advanced toward her. “You better get the fuck out of here before the cops show up.”
“Did you follow me?” Brilliant question? No, but her brain was a little shell-shocked at the moment.
“Why in the hell would I do th—” The word died on his lips as recognition and something that looked a lot like disgust crossed his way-too-ruggedly-handsome face. He stopped walking and groaned, letting his head drop back as he mumbled curses at the ceiling. “You have got to be fucking kidding me. You? Here? What, are you stalking me? Haven’t you fucked up my life enough?”
Shelby winced. It had been an accident, but the result was the same. She was the reason why everyone in Harbor City now knew that Ian’s best friend and fellow Ice Knights hockey player, Alex Christensen, was actually Ian’s secret half brother.
When it came out that Alex had known the truth for years without telling Ian, the two men had stopped speaking to each other. Now the Ice Knights had been torn in two just as the playoffs were starting. It was an unmitigated mess. And all her fault.
Ian may not be a friendly neighborhood murderer, but he might just kill her—metaphorically. All the same, it still looked like he wouldn’t mind tossing her out into the snow and leaving her to freeze in the night—and part of her couldn’t even blame him.
…
Ian had been in some weird situations with women before.
There was the date who showed up in head-to-toe Ice Knights gear and asked if he wanted to see the tattoo of his face on her ass. He’d declined.
One woman had pledged daily blow jobs in exchange for helping her hook up with stern brunch daddy Coach Peppers. Ian still had no idea what a stern brunch daddy was, but if it was a guy who walked around the locker room drinking coffee that was more sugar and milk than caffeine, the team coach would qualify.
His favorite, though, was Clarissa, who had brought both her parents and her little sister along on their date. He’d had a blast at the amusement park with them, but a second date hadn’t been a priority for either of them.
Never—not one single time—though, had he ever been stun-gunned in his rented Airbnb by the woman who’d ruined his life with her big mouth and who’d managed not just to figure out where he was staying for the next two weeks but to get there early.
He had to admit that before he’d Googled her, he’d never pictured the woman behind Harbor City’s favorite hockey blog, The Biscuit, to have a Jessica Jones tough-chick look, but now it was made all the more jarring by the death grip she had on that stun gun of hers.
“I’m calling the cops,” he said, turning on the lamp by the bed.
“To turn yourself in?” She crossed her arms and snorted in disbelief. “Perfect.”
Shelby Blanton—yeah, he’d made it a point to find out her name after what she’d done—was deranged. Sure, she was hot, but definitely one crazy bitch if she thought showing up at his rental cabin was the way to get an exclusive interview or to make an apology for what she’d done. She was going to have to figure out how to increase her clout another way.
Standing his ground, he did a quick appraisal. Her dark hair was short and wavy, with one side of her scalp shaved down to such a short length, it would have made a marine recruit envious. She couldn’t be more than five foot six, but even in her one-piece black thermal underwear, she managed to look tough. Maybe it was the tattoos or the nose ring—wait, it was definitely the eyes, big and dark and all but shooting laser beams of fury at him.
“Why would I call the cops on myself?” Ian asked, rubbing his abs that ached from the quick jolt from her stun gun. Fuck, he was wearing a leather jacket and a thick sweater, and it still hurt like hell. If she’d actually managed to get him for longer, his ass would be down on the ground. He probably would have pissed himself just to add to the humiliation of being held at stun-gunpoint in his own rental.
“This is my cabin,” she said.
“Nice try, but I have a signed contract for this place.” Check and mate.
“Big whoop, so do I, but mine is legit.”
He reached for his phone and she leveled that mean little flashlight-on-steroids at him again.
His gut tensed, which made his stomach hurt even more, and he held up a hand. “Whoa, I’m already nursing an injury—don’t shoot me with that thing again.”
Once Shelby gave him a curt nod, he pulled his phone out and brought up the email confirmation of the booking.
“See?” He turned the phone so the screen faced his attacker.
She rolled her eyes but eventually looked at
