Page 125

“You play hockey,” Luc replied with complete innocence.

That was not what he'd meant, and everyone standing there knew it.

I decided retreat was the only sensible option.

I'd bought the farm after signing my second major contract, and for years I'd told myself the purchase had been an investment, which was technically true because the property generated enough income to support itself without requiring me to pour NHL money into it indefinitely. Luc managed the agricultural side, most of the lower acreage produced hay and feed crops, and the maple operation had expanded considerably since I'd bought the neighboring parcel three years ago.

But I'd known long before I started looking what I really wanted. I'd grown up with land beneath my feet and horses close enough to hear from the house, and no city apartment had ever felt completely natural after I left Quebec.

I'd wanted somewhere that belonged to me.

Not my father's land or an apartment chosen because it was convenient to the arena, and certainly not another temporary place I could leave without caring if I got traded.

I'd wanted permanence, although I'd never used that word when explaining the purchase to anyone.

It had taken almost two years to find the property and another three to stop discovering things that needed to be repaired. Even now, Luc maintained a list that seemed to regenerate whenever I crossed something off it.

Ash stood in the kitchen turning slowly while Claire disappeared into the pantry in search of something she considered appropriate food for an injured hockey player.

“This isn't what I expected.”

I set our bags near the stairs and asked what he'd imagined, which earned me a vague gesture at the room before he finally admitted he'd expected something newer.

“That sounds suspiciously diplomatic.”

“Fine. I expected rich-guy farmhouse.”

I leaned against the counter. “I'm almost afraid to ask what that means.”

“Everything white, furniture nobody's allowed to sit on, and a kitchen that cost a hundred grand but has never seen anyone actually cook.”

A sound like someone deeply offended came from inside the pantry.

Ash winced. “Sorry, Claire.”

“She'll forgive you eventually.”

The kitchen was my favorite room in the house, although I wasn't going to admit that while Claire was within hearing distance. We'd knocked down two walls during the renovation and kept as much of the original stone as possible, including the enormous fireplace at the far end. The table was old enough that nobody could tell me exactly when it had been built, and the floorboards were uneven despite my contractor repeatedly offering to replace them.

I'd refused every time.

Ash ran his fingers over one of the marks in the table. “You kept all this deliberately?”

“As much as I could.”

“Why?”

The question shouldn't have been difficult, but the answer that came to me had nothing to do with historical value or expensive renovations.

“Because it survived.”

Ash's gaze lifted to mine, and something passed between us that I didn't know how to name.

Claire emerged from the pantry carrying enough food for four people before either of us had to try.

Luc found us after lunch and informed me the north pasture gate was sticking again.

I knew perfectly well he could fix it without me, and he knew I knew, but twenty minutes later I was pulling on old jeans, a sweatshirt, and work boots while Ash leaned against the mudroom wall watching me with an expression that was becoming annoyingly familiar. He had traveled in sweatpants because of his bruising.