Vanilla latte. Extra hot. Half sweet.
Exactly right.
My fingers tighten around the cup.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
He says it simply, already crouching so Jillie can inspect the paper bag, as if remembering my coffee order is not the sort of thing that can make a woman's chest feel too tight before eight in the morning.
Jillie peers inside the bag.
"Muffins?"
"Backup breakfast."
"For me?"
"For your mom. You looked fed."
Jillie nods wisely. "Mom forgets sometimes."
"I do not forget."
Two faces turn toward me.
One tiny.
One unfairly handsome.
Both unconvinced.
I point toward the door. "We should leave before this becomes a discussion about my personal failings."
Colby's mouth curves.
"Probably wise."
Frostholm is only a couple of hours from Briar Cove, but stepping into the Blizzards practice facility feels like entering a different universe.
Everything is bigger.
The glass.
The logo.
The banners.
The echo of skates cutting ice somewhere beyond the main corridor.
Jillie goes quiet the moment we walk through the doors.
That alone should concern someone.
She stares at the enormous Blizzard crest painted across the lobby floor, then at the framed jerseys on the wall, then at the hallway where people in team jackets move with purposeful speed.
"Oh," she whispers.
