Logan (Carolina Reapers 4)

And left me alone with my thoughts. Awesome.

I walked forward about ten feet and found the central corridor of the library. The circular table in the middle must have been the reference desk, but no one was there...referencing. Go figure, since it was six o’clock in the fucking morning.

Cannon read like some people drank. I got that. It was probably a lot better than what he could be out doing, especially considering the reputation he had for getting his ass into trouble, but still. It was way too early for this shit.

I looked over at the display table at the head of one of the rows and picked up a shiny hardcover book. “Marketing in the Social Media Age. Fuck marketing and fuck social media,” I muttered, putting the book back on the table with a thud.

Social media was what got me here. Well, trusting a woman was what got me to whatever stage in my life this was, but it was pretty much the same thing. Maybe they’d used Blaire as source material in the book. They should have considering she knew how to work the system better than anyone I’ve ever met.

She’d worked me, too.

I hadn’t seen her coming, though. I should have. They warn every rookie to watch for the girls who are after your paycheck and your fame. I just hadn’t seen that she’d gotten her paycheck by exploiting our relationship online.

A rustle sounded above me, and I backed up to see Cannon walking along the glass railing upstairs, thumbing through a book. “Are you almost done?” I asked.

“Shhhh, it’s a fucking library,” he fired back.

“There’s no one even here,” I whispered, then shook my head because again, there was no one here. Onto the next display table. “Finding Love—A Guide to Your Inner Self,” I read the title of the book aloud. “Yeah, no thank you. How about Avoiding Love at All Costs—A Guide to Saving Your Sanity.”

I picked up the next book. “Unfuck Yourself. That’s much more my speed.”

Book in hand, I walked toward the circulation desk—right, that’s what it was called. A book cart appeared to my right, followed by a woman—

“Holy shit!” she shrieked.

A book hurtled toward me, and I barely ducked in time.

“Get out!” the woman yelled as the mass of dark hair on her head bounced.

“I’m—” Damn, she was fast. I missed that one by a hair.

I caught the next one in my empty hand.

Her mouth dropped—a very nice mouth, under two large, blinking eyes framed by cat-eyed glasses. She looked about my age, if not a year or two younger than my twenty-five.

“Truce?” I asked, a book in each hand.

“Talk.” Her eyes narrowed, and she picked up an exceptionally large hardback and held it in a prime position to chuck my way.

“He’s with me,” Cannon called over the railing. “Sorry, Delaney, I should have told you I was bringing someone.”

Delaney.

“I’m with him,” I assured her with a nod.

“I don’t like surprises, Cannon,” she lectured the scariest bastard in the NHL, cocking an eyebrow in his direction.

Holy shit, her voice had a deeper southern drawl than I’d heard around here. It was sweet, but a little raspy, like the way rock candy scraped over my tongue. Wait. What the hell was wrong with me? Was I seriously attracted to a stranger’s voice?

“I know, and I’m sorry. We’re headed to the airport together, and I should have told him to stay in the car. I’ll be ready in about ten minutes if that’s cool with you?”

“That’s fine. Take your time.”

Cannon walked away, and I stared down the world’s best book-sniper. “You know, if book-tossing was an Olympic sport, you’d definitely medal.”

“I don’t do sports.” She scoffed, but she put the book down.

“Well, you have the arm for it.” I walked forward and gave her the book she’d thrown at me.

“Thank you.” She took the book back. “Sorry I threw it at you, but…”

“But it’s dark, and the perfect setting for a horror movie and I scared the shit out of you when you thought only Cannon was in here with you,” I said with a shrug. “I don’t blame you. I’m just impressed with your speed.”

A smile flashed across her shadowed face. “I’m impressed with your reflexes.”

“Yeah, well, that comes with…” being in the NHL. It was on the tip of my tongue, but I held it back. Why? Chances were she already knew, considering she appeared to know Cannon, but what if she didn’t?

What if I met someone—anyone who didn’t know who I was or what I did for a living? Would that remove the rose-colored glasses people used when they looked at me? Could I just be Logan instead of Logan Ward, defenseman for the Stanley Cup-winning South Carolina Reapers?

“Comes with…” her eyebrows rose in question.

Right, I’d been talking. “Comes with the genetics,” I blurted out. “My dad played tennis in college.” Not a lie. Not exactly the truth, either, but still...not a lie.