Bulldozer (Hard to Love 3)

With that, I throw the hose nozzle at him, which he catches with the most efficient of movements, and leave him to ponder my threat.

A few hours later I’m showered and comfortably ensconced in bed, ready to put this whole debacle of a day behind me and disappear into the wonderful worlds contained in my trusty Kindle when a knock at the door makes me grimace.

Sam has never knocked once in his life so there’s no doubt whom it could be. All the same, I’m going to make this as difficult for him as he’s made things for me. “Who is it?”

“Can we talk?” he rasps from behind the closed door.

What a surprise. “I’m tired.”

Silence. For one, two, three minutes. I’m starting to think he’s gone when I hear a muffled sound––a huff or a sigh. “It’ll only take a minute.”

“Can we do this tomorrow?”

He doesn’t answer. Time trots on. I wait patiently for the heavens to part and show me some mercy and send him away; I believe I’m due for some.

“Please.”

But no––not tonight.

He had to pull the courtesy card on me. Good manners are a weakness of mine, one of many. You ask me nicely for something other than my liver or my firstborn and it’s nearly impossible for me to refuse.

“Good people have good manners, Mandy Sue. Be suspicious of the ones that don’t,” Miss Parnell would say over and over until it stuck.

Shaking my head, I stare longingly at my Kindle. “Make it quick.”

The door flies opens and Hendricks steps inside. He closes the door and leans back against it, hands tucked behind him. No shirt. Still wearing those ratty swim trunks that hang too low to be respectable. With his biceps bulging and the intense gaze he’s leveling on me, he looks primed for battle. I’m pumped. Game on, dude.

His gaze falls and his brow furrows at the faded Titans men’s t-shirt I’m wearing. What was he expecting, a satin nightie?

“I don’t have time for your long, dramatic pauses, Hendricks. Let’s hear it.”

Exhaling sharply, his head hits the back of the door, gaze climbing to the ceiling. “Don’t call your brother,” he says in a quiet voice.

Mmmwhat? He has insulted me, subjected my kid to his infantile theatrics, and now this––a command instead of the serious groveling I should be hearing? “I’m not at all impressed with your apology skills.” They need practice. That’s for dang sure.

“Please,” he says––at the ceiling.

“That’s it?”

“I apologize.”

“You know,” I start, my face the very picture of disbelief. “I’ve always tried not to lump all you guys together in the same bag of entitled dicks. And I say this with love because I have three brothers that are athletes. But it’s really hard when I’m constantly treated like garbage by men like you.”

He has the nerve to look affronted.

“I’ve tried to understand you,” I point out, marking it off on my fingers. “Tried sympathizing. But I’m not a saint. And I am not rich and famous. I’m a woman trying to keep her business afloat and your antics are messing with my money and my mojo. I already have too much to worry about without adding you to the list.”

His head hangs––in shame, if he has a decent bone in his body. “What do you want me to say? I’ll say it.”

“Why are you here? Don’t you have a palace and a harem to get back to? You have the biggest contract on the team. I only know this because Calvin keeps saying he didn’t get the Hendricks Special.” I air quote. “Why don’t you go buy yourself a beach house or ten. Why. Are. You. Here?”

He scrapes the blond scruff under his jutting chin. “No palace…Just a rental with too many reporters hanging outside asking questions I don’t have an answer for…no harem.” His eyes slide to me and away. “And I like it here.”

He turns his head three quarters away from me. Though not before I catch the lost look on his face. This is the first time I’ve seen him look anything less than totally self-possessed. It pokes at my conscience, eliciting a pathetic pang of sympathy.

Keep it together, Amanda. Evil wears many faces.

“I really am sorry about the kid,” he mutters, shoulders dropping. The pang grows into a vicious throb.

His focus moves to my fisted hands on the blanket, his dark blond brows drawing together in contemplation. I cross my arms, tucking my hands under my pits and out of sight.

“Sam,” I cut in, clarifying that he’s not just any kid.

“Sam,” he repeats. “I’m sorry Sam had to hear it.” For the first time tonight his eyes meet mine, and what I see is proof he’s being truthful, shame setting his jaw to rock hard.

“But you’re not sorry I had to hear it.” It’s not a question and the nervous way he licks his lips pretty much confirms that I’m right. “It’s like you’re trying to get me to leave,” I muse.