Which just goes to show that Hannah Wells is…amazing. She’s so fucking attuned to me, my moods, my pain. I’ve never been with anyone who can read me so well.

An hour goes by. I know it’s an hour because that’s how long the playlist lasts, and when it ends, Hannah puts on a different mix, which makes me smile too because it consists of a whole lot of Rat Pack, Motown and Bruno Mars.

I’m calm now. Well, calmer. Every time I feel like I’m relaxing, I remember Cindy’s fear-ridden eyes and the pressure squeezes my chest again. As uncertainties eddy in my gut, I force myself not to dwell on the one question that keeps pricking at my brain, but as I speed off the exit ramp and drive toward the two-lane road that will take us to Hastings, the question pops up again and this time I can’t bat it away.

“What if I’m capable of it?”

Hannah turns down the volume. “What?”

“What if I’m capable of hurting someone?” I ask hoarsely. “What if I’m just like him?”

She answers with absolute conviction. “You’re not.”

Misery crawls up my spine. “I have his temper, I know I do. I wanted to strangle him tonight.” I press my lips together. “It took all my willpower not to throw him into a wall and beat him to death. But it wasn’t fucking worth it. He’s not worth it.”

She reaches for my hand and laces her fingers through mine. “And that’s why you’re not like him. You have that willpower, and that means you don’t have his temper. Because he can’t control his. He lets the anger fuel him, drive him to hurt the people around him, people who are weaker than him.” Her grip on my hand tightens. “What would you do if I pissed you off right now?”

I blink. “What do you mean?”

“Let’s pretend we’re not in the car right now. We’re in my room, or your house, and I…I don’t know, tell you that I slept with someone else. No, I tell you that I’ve been sleeping with the entire hockey team since the second we met.”

The thought makes my insides clench.

“What would you do?” she prompts.

I turn to her with a frown. “I’d end it and walk out the door.”

“That’s it? You wouldn’t be tempted to hit me?”

I recoil in horror. “Of course not. Jesus.”

“Exactly.” Her palm moves gently over my cold knuckles. “Because you’re not like him. No matter how angry someone made you, you wouldn’t hit them.”

“That’s not true. I’ve gotten into a brawl or two on the ice,” I admit. “And one time I punched a guy at Malone’s, but that’s ’cause he said some nasty shit about Logan’s mom and I couldn’t not throw down for my friend.”

She sighs. “I’m not saying you’re incapable of violence. Everyone is capable of it. I’m saying you wouldn’t hurt someone you love. At least not intentionally.”

I pray to God she’s right. But when you inherited your DNA from a man who does hurt the people he loves, who the hell knows.

My hands start to shake, and I know Hannah feels it because she squeezes my right hand to steady it. “Pull over,” she says.

I frown again. We’re driving down a dark stretch of road, and even though there are no other cars in sight, I don’t like the idea of stopping in the middle of nowhere. “Why?”

“Because I want to kiss you, and I can’t do that when your eyes are on the road.”

An unwitting smile springs to my lips. Nobody has ever asked me to pull over before so they can kiss me, and although I’m exhausted and pissed off and sad and who knows what else, the thought of kissing Hannah right now sounds like pure fucking heaven.

Without another word, I pull off onto the shoulder, move the gearshift to park, and flick the emergency blinkers.

She slides closer and grasps my chin. Delicate fingertips stroke my stubble, and then she leans in and kisses me. Just the fleeting touch of her lips, before she pulls back and whispers, “You’re not like him. You will never be like him.” Her lips tickle my nose before kissing the tip of it. “You’re a good person.” She plants a tiny kiss on my cheek. “You’re honest and kind and compassionate.” She lightly bites my bottom lip. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, you’re a total dick sometimes, but it’s a tolerable kind of dickishness.”

I can’t stop a grin.

“You’re not like him,” she repeats, firmer this time. “The only thing you two have in common is that you’re both gifted hockey players. That’s it. You are not like him.”

Jesus, I needed to hear that. Her words penetrate that terrified place in my heart, and as the pressure in my chest dissipates, I cup the back of her head and kiss her hard. My tongue slides into her mouth and I groan happily, because she tastes like cranberries and smells like cherries and I fucking love it. I want to kiss her all night, for the rest of my fucking life, but I haven’t forgotten where we are at the moment.

I reluctantly break the kiss—just as her hand sneaks toward my crotch.

“What are you doing?” I croak, then groan again when she rubs my aching cock over my trousers.

“What does it feel like?”

I grab her hand to still its movements. “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but we’re sitting in the car on the side of the road.”

“No, really? I thought we were on an airplane on our way to Palm Springs.”