The Playbook for Heartbreak
Terry stopped, leaning both palms flat on the marble, his broad shoulders hunched over the tablet as his slate-grey eyes devoured the text.
"Thirty-two," Terry muttered under his breath, his gravelly voice dropping into a dark, critical register. "Harvard undergrad. Oxford fellowship. Speaks fluent French. Plays the cello."
He scowled, tapping the screen with a thick, calloused finger to scroll through her published papers.
"Too clean," he grunted to the empty room, his jaw locking so tight the muscles in his neck strained against his collar. "She’s got zero penalty minutes in her entire career. Probably orders sparkling water with lime and talks about macroeconomic healthcare trends for thr