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Fuck. I already knew she owned but I had no idea how fucking perfect she really is.

I huff out a laugh and lift my whiskey, tipping it toward her. “I’m a member of the only child club, too. Guess we’re both the chaos agents in our families.”

“Let me guess,” she says, tilting her head, blue eyes all knowing and shiny. “You were the human version of a border collie. Breaking furniture and destroying everything in your path.”

“Entirely feral,” I admit. “I had way too much energy. My mom used to threaten me with boarding school. Instead, she bought me skates and signed me up for hockey.”

She snorts into her wine. “At least it worked out for you.”

“This is true.” I set the glass down, tracing the rim. Her eyes are glued to my face, hungry to know more, and it gets me right in the chest. “They didn’t do siblings, either. Work, routines, a lot of formality. Hockey was how we communicated. They showed up for every game, but we never really talked in between.”

She goes quiet. There’s a micro-expression, right there, raw and unguarded. Like she gets it. The loneliness that clings to your ribs even when you’ve filled every single seat in the bleachers.

“I never fit at home, either.” My fingers flex on the table. “But on the ice, it felt like home.”

“To only-child loneliness and finding where you fit in.” She holds up her glass to mine. I clink my whiskey to hers, and for a second, it’s like the whole world shrinks down to just this booth, this table, this woman. I watch her take a sip, lips deep red from the wine, and I have to look away before I do something unfit for public viewing.

She asks about hockey, and I give her a few scandalous locker-room stories. She tells me about the hospital, and I can practically see her in those scrubs, rolling her eyes at the chaos, secretly loving it. Her laugh does things to my chest I don’t have words for.

We order dessert even though we’re both stuffed. She pretends to be scandalized when I steal a bite of her tiramisu. I promise to make it up to her and she tells me she’s going to hold me to that.

Hours vanish. The booth, the emptying restaurant, the way our fingers are intertwined on the table. I can’t stop touching her. I don’t even try.

Eventually, we have to go. I pay the bill and lead her out into the chilly Seattle night. I open the car door for her, and for a second, just stare.

“I wish tonight wasn’t over,” I say. My voice is rough. The truth, plain as I can make it.

She slides into the passenger seat, looking up at me through her lashes. “Me either.” I can barely fucking breathe. I’m dying to take her back to my place tonight but I want to do this right. Earn it. Win her goddamn heart and soul.

I tuck her into the passenger seat and shut the door gently, even though what I really want to do is slam it and then take her up against the side of the car like some kind of caveman. I slide behind the wheel, fighting for control. My voice is rough as sandpaper.

“I want to see you every goddamn day.” I grip the gearshift so hard my knuckles go white. “But I’ve got games. Four in a row, starting tomorrow. I’ll be living and breathing the rink till Thursday.”

She glances sideways, eyes glittering with amusement and something softer. “That’s a shame. Guess I’ll have to pine for you while you’re off being a hockey god.”

Fucking hell. She’s perfect.

“Are you free on Friday?” I hold my goddamn breath waiting for her answer. “I’ll make you dinner. No distractions. Just us and my grandmother’s famous pot roast.”

She grins, slow and wicked. “There’s no way I can say no to homemade pot roast.”

“It’s a date.” I take her soft hand in mine and bring it to my lips for a kiss. Driving her straight home and dropping her off at her front door with a quick kiss is the hardest thing I’ve ever done but I force myself to do it. I have to get this right. Fucking this up isn’t an option.

CHAPTER FIVE

MIA

At the ass crack of dawn, Monday morning in Seattle is doomy and gloomy with rain battering my front window. I’m hunched over my kitchen counter, counting the seconds until my coffee hits optimal, tongue-scorching temperature.

I’m not quite functioning yet. I have work in forty minutes and a catastrophic case of bed hair that needs my attention.

I take a long, scalding sip, savoring the caffeine jolt when my phone buzzes on the counter.

I turn it over expecting a message from Katie or Harper but I’m shocked to see Mick’s name flash on the screen.

Mr. Hockey God

Hey trouble. Surviving Monday or is Monday surviving you?