I have absolutely no time to react as he charges me like a bull. One hand planted on my shoulder, he grabs the back of my belt and slings me across my office.
“You mother fucking son of a cheating bitch,” he bellows as he charges again, this time putting both hands to my chest and slamming me into the wall. My head knocks against a framed photograph of Gordie Howe.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I snarl, but make no attempt to break his hold on me.
“What the fuck is wrong with me?” he yells, teeth bared. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Dating my sister while getting your cock sucked by someone else?”
You have got to be fucking kidding me.
I could set the record straight, but some mean spark inside remembers how much fun it is to get Dax worked up. So I merely reply, “Your sister and I broke up six days ago.”
“Bullshit,” he counters angrily.
“True.” I give him a slight shrug. “I think you owe that nice lady over there an apology for coming in here and acting like an ass.”
Dax releases his hold on me, twisting to look over his shoulder. I can’t see his expression, but I can tell the exact moment he realizes just how wrong he is about this whole scenario when he mutters, “Fuck.”
Because the woman kneeling on the floor is my tailor—measuring tape in one hand, a notepad tucked under an arm, and a pencil tucked behind her ear—who has been custom fitting me for bespoke suits for almost seven years now. She also happens to be almost sixty years old, which makes this way funnier than it should be.
“That’s Mrs. Welsh,” I gleefully inform Dax, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “She’s my tailor.”
“Goddamn it,” Dax mutters, then launches into a thousand apologies to Mrs. Welsh, who assures him it’s totally fine.
He faces me, wincing. To my surprise, I get an apology, too. “Sorry.”
It’s not much—and it’s not really needed—but it seems to make him feel better. “No worries. What did you need?”
I stride over to Mrs. Welsh, who returns to quietly measuring the inseam of my leg. I’m not sure why they insist on measurements each time. Fairly sure I’m not getting shorter, but I guess I’m getting what I pay for.
“Just finished my workout, and I came by to see if you wanted to go grab lunch,” he replies.
I blink in surprise. I mean, Dax and I have put our differences aside. He has accepted me dating his sister, but I wasn’t counting on a friendship or anything.
“I’m finished, Mr. Carlson,” Mrs. Welsh says, and I offer my hand to help her up. She’s spry for her age, though, and pops to her feet without my assistance. “I’ll get these off, along with the choices we made. I expect we can have the first fitting in about four weeks.”
“Sounds good,” I say, my smile apologetic. “Thank you.”
Mrs. Welsh leaves, closing my office door behind her.
“Why did you break up with my sister?” Dax asks, sounding defensive.
I spin to face him, not exactly surprised he’d accuse me of being the one at fault here, but I don’t feel the need to hold back the fact this isn’t all on me. “Because your sister is fucking crazy, that’s why.”
“I hope you have a good reason for saying that,” he growls in a low voice full of warning. “Otherwise, I’m going to have to kick your ass.”
“Oh, come on,” I snap as I throw my arms out in frustration. “Don’t tell me what she does for a living doesn’t bother you. I mean, I don’t know how you all can just stand by while she puts herself in such danger—”
“What are you talking about?” Dax interrupts, his face awash with confusion.
This gives me pause. Does he truly not know what she does?
“I’m talking about the fact your sister goes to dangerous places for her line of work. Did you not know that?”
Still frowning, he hedges, “Well, yeah… I mean, we know she’s been in some dicey areas, but she always goes with full security details for protection. She’s assured us it’s low risk and actually quite safe—”
“Jesus, you’re a fucking moron, Dax,” I mutter, which shuts him up cold. “How can you even say that—especially knowing she’s been wounded—”
“What?” Dax yells so sharply that his entire body goes tight with alarm.
“Wounded,” I repeat, this time a little lower. Clearly, this news is a surprise. “She got hit by shrapnel from a grenade.”
“The fuck she did,” he asserts.
“Exactly what I said when I found out,” I mutter, then shake my head. “Look… it’s clear you don’t know she’s in areas where the threat of injury and death are real and very present. How could you not know that?”
“Because my sister never told us she got wounded,” he snarls before falling heavily down on my couch, scrubbing his hands through his hair. He’s clearly distressed, and I feel sorry for the dude.