Page 28 of Made for Mayhem

Those hazel eyes I’d never been able to get out of my head lit with amusement. “So, you figured it out, then?”

“Not nearly as cool as Sir Wallace T. Hudsington the Third, but yes,” I said. “Hard to ignore your face on Chicago Storm banners around the city once I paid attention.”

Three years ago, I hadn’t known his real name. He’d just been Huddy—the hot guy with the beard and the crooked grin who’d spent one unforgettable night with me doing nothing and everything. For months, I’d tried to find him. Not in a stalkery way, but a please tell me that night happened kind of way. But he’d retired and disappeared before I ever got the chance. No interviews. No charity appearances. Nothing. It was like he’d fallen off the face of the earth.

It was dizzying to stand this close to a man I’d spent the last three years dreaming of. A man I’d half convinced myself I’d imagined. Told myself those few hours had been small to him—something he forgot before the elevator doors even closed.

But now he stood here, wearing my weakness on his face like a weapon.

That didn’t feel like he forgot me. Not at all.

For a moment, neither of us said a word. We just kept shaking hands far longer than appropriate. His mustache twitched—almost a smile, almost not. My mouth hovered somewhere between a laugh and something dangerous.

Three seconds of eye contact, three years of unspoken history.

“Do you want to see the kittens?” Junie piped up, tugging on the hem of my shirt.

I dropped his hand as if it had burned me, feeling my cheeks flush with heat.

Once I started walking with her, June skipped a few steps ahead of us, boots crunching against the gravel. “Okay, so first let’s meet Dolly Pawton—she’s the barn cat, and she had kittens. Five of them. They’re perfect. Then there’s Cluck Norris. He’s the rooster. He’s very mean. Oh, and Uno—he’s the llama with only one eye. He’s new. We got him at the auction. He likes me more than Ty because his eyes are the color of woodchips. Did you know llamas are related to camels?”

She delivered the list like she was introducing the world’s weirdest royal court, and I grinned down at her.

“I did not,” I said, then glanced at Ty. “Dolly Pawton, huh?”

He didn’t even blink. “Lotta mice.”

A laugh burst out of me, bright and startled, out of place with the reason for this visit. “She’s working nine to five, just trying to make a living?”

The corner of his mouth twitched beneath that unfairly perfect mustache—barely there, but heaven help me, I saw it. A subtle nod.

It hit me again how hot it was that he had a sense of humor tucked beneath all that broody cowboy quiet.

Ty hung a few steps back, hands shoved into the pockets of his worn jeans. At his side, a sleek black dog with three legs hopped along in perfect rhythm, his own personal shadow.

I crouched, holding out a hand. “And who’s this handsome guy?”

“Rowdy,” Junie said with a smile. “He got hit by a truck when he was a puppy, but Ty saved him. Now he’s the boss here at Copper Ridge.”

I looked up at Ty, squinting against the morning light. “You save puppies and grow mustaches? Dangerous combination, Huddy.”

His mouth twitched again—closer to a smile this time—and it did ridiculous things to my insides.

“Don’t encourage him,” Junie muttered, sounding far older than her eight years. “That’s what Emmy says.”

I faltered for half a step. Emmy.

The name hit like a spark on dry kindling. My gaze flicked down—zero chill—to his left hand resting against his thick thigh. No ring. But my imagination didn’t need evidence. Oh no. It could run a full-length feature film on two little syllables.

In my head, Emmy was perfect.

She wore soft cardigans and smelled like sugar cookies and emotional stability. She probably made perfect cinnamon rolls at sunrise, fostered one-eyed llamas and orphans on weekends, and rescued misunderstood roosters just for fun. She and Ty hosted neighborhood bonfires, slow-danced in the kitchen, and had the postcard-perfect small-town life. Emmy laughed softly, never raised her voice, and always had a hair tie when you needed one. And every night, she got to run her hands through his thick, dark hair and kiss that unfairly gorgeous mustached face like it deserved to be kissed.

Meanwhile, my own life resembled a burning dumpster rolling down a hill with a feral raccoon hanging on the side. If it weren’t for Diet Coke, cherry candy, and denial, my emotional infrastructure would collapse faster than a house of cards.

Of course, Ty was perfect. Of course, Emmy existed. And, of course, I felt a sharp, stupid twist of disappointment.

I didn’t deserve to feel that way. Not even a little.