“Sutton, stop. The jersey is fine. I have dozens of them at my apartment. And you’re not paying for it. The team gives them to us to sign and hand out. It’s no big deal.”

However, based on the shine in her eyes and the way her eyes are moist right now, I’m thinking I’ve done something akin to offering her the world.

She blinks hard and her eyes dry up. Clearing her throat, she says, “Thank you. You can’t begin to imagine how thrilled he’ll be.”

“It’s my pleasure,” I tell her sincerely, because for some stupid f**king reason, the fact that I put that look on her face is causing me immense pleasure right now.

I know business is at hand, though, when her gaze loses some of the warmth and her voice comes out strong. “So…did you have something important come up this morning?”

She’s referring to our meeting that I cancelled by text message about fifteen minutes before it was set to start. “Nope. I was too hungover to get out of bed.”

Sutton’s perfectly arched eyebrows arch even higher and she quirks her lips. “At least you’re honest.”

“Always. Painfully so,” I concur.

“I suppose that’s a virtue, but I have to say—I’m worried that you were too hungover to come to a meeting at a drug crisis center to work on an outreach program for at-risk youth.”

I blink at her several times, trying to determine if the censure I hear in her tone is real or not. When she pins me hard with those eyes, that were just flashing all kinds of beautiful things at me a moment ago, I do, in fact, realize that she is disapproving.

And, of course, that gets my f**king hackles up. I’ve led my entire life with my dad criticizing my every move, handing out nothing but looks of disappointment my way. I’m f**king done with that shit.

“You’re not my drug or alcohol counselor,” I snarl at her as I lean across the table toward her. “So, you can keep your opinions to yourself.”

I expect her to back down, to maybe even shed a few tears over the venom in my voice, but she just holds my gaze, softly staring at me as if she can see all the way through to my soul. It’s disconcerting, to say the least, but I’m not about to back down.

“Look,” Sutton says with patience, her voice unassuming–nonthreatening, but still very serious. “I have the right to be worried about this. I told you, kids will spot a phony a mile away.”

“I’m not a f**king alcoholic,” I grit out.

“I never said you were an alcoholic,” she assures me softly. “But yet you let alcohol interfere with something that was important. I don’t know you, Alex, but what I’ve seen so far…I’m worried.”

Son of a bitch.

Her words cause anger to suffuse through me, and at the same time, a tiny thread of guilt filters in. It’s an emotion that I’ve felt plenty in my lifetime, my dad always making me feel terrible about myself. Rather than make me take stock of the fact that okay, maybe it wasn’t cool to cancel a meeting because I was hungover, it causes me to get even angrier. Because maybe the truth is hitting a little too close to home. If there’s one thing that will cause me to go apeshit, it’s making a comparison between me and my father. Suggest that we have anything in common, a tiny similarity, and I will tear you a new one.

“It is none of your f**king business what I do in my private time, as long as it’s not publicly hurting our work together. I went out with a teammate and I tied one on. I don’t do it often, but I won’t apologize for it and I won’t sit here and listen to you berate me for it.”

“I wasn’t berating you,” she says quietly…apologetically. “I’m sorry if you felt that way.”

Fucking great.

Her sympathetic words cause more guilt to pour through me, and now anger directed at myself because I let the baggage of my childhood mesh with my adulthood to create new baggage. My chest constricts painfully and I feel the sudden need to get some fresh air. Grabbing my coat, I slide out of the booth. Fishing in my wallet, I pull a fifty-dollar bill out and throw it on the table. “I have to get going.”

“Alex, wait,” she says, but I’m already turning away.

“Please,” she calls out one more time and I almost stop…almost.

Then I’m pushing my way through the crowd and out the door.

By the time I arrive home, most of my anger is gone but I’m left with a sea of culpability churning in my stomach. I briefly consider calling Sutton to apologize, but it’s late so I don’t bother. Besides, I’m not sure exactly what I’d say. It’s not in my nature to apologize, having long ago convinced myself that all the wrongs in my world are not my fault. It was the only way I knew how to protect myself against the monstrosity that was my father—by laying all those wrongs on his doorstep.

I slowly walk up the steps to my second-floor apartment, my suit coat slung over my shoulder. When I reach the top, the hair rises on the back of my neck, knowing immediately that someone stands outside my door. My eyes lift and anger flushes through me hot again.

“I told you not to come here again uninvited,” I tell Cassie, noting the confident way she stands leaning up against my door.

She pushes away and saunters up to me. “You don’t mean that and please don’t make me prove you wrong. It won’t help your self-esteem.”

I watch, almost in a daze as her hands reach toward my crotch, oddly disgusted by the long, red nails she sports. Sutton’s, I noticed, were short and clear, her hands looking as soft as satin.