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“At least you know these people,” I grouse playfully. “I’m just a small-town girl who thinks Vienna sausages are an appropriate canapé to serve at a party.”
Coen snorts and leans in for one of his fast kisses. “You most certainly don’t think that about Vienna sausages, as I happen to know you’re a foodie. Yes, you may be a small-town girl, but you’re going to charm the socks off everyone here.”
Brienne Norcross’s house sits in a gated community just north of the Pittsburgh city limits. Tonight is a welcome-back party—not for Coen—but for the team as a whole.
Training camp starts tomorrow and I’m spending the week in Pittsburgh with him. Once the season starts, we’ll have to face the struggles of on and off long-distance dating.
“Let’s do this,” he says, leaning in for another kiss, and it settles me.
Everything about this man steadies me in all ways, and he considers it his job. He took that responsibility on the minute I agreed to live my life with him.
We had six weeks together in Coudersport before it was time for him to come to Pittsburgh and walk back into the hockey world. Tonight, the team parties at the owner’s house, and tomorrow they step onto the ice.
I’d be lying if I didn’t say the past several weeks have been idyllic. The first order of business after Coen flipped my world upside down was to move my stuff into his cabin.
Well,ourcabin now.
We then began construction to convert my house into a studio. Coen and I did the demolition together and we decided to keep the trees. It keeps us private although he laid a stone path through the woods that separate the two properties and then moved some of my mom’s sculptures to help guide the way when I make the walk. It took almost the entire remainder of summer for us to transform the interior of my place into an artists’ haven with rooms for painting and pottery.
I hope to add a covered area in the back for welding, as I have all my mother’s equipment. I’m not qualified to teach it, nor pottery, for that matter, but I will invite guest teachers to come in, and the studio is for those who already have the skill and knowledge but not the means to produce their art.
When we weren’t working on the studio, we were still together. We’d grab lunch or dinner in town, take long drives, have game night with Ann Marie and Xander, or he’d take me fishing. I like to sit on the bank and watch. Fishing’s not my favorite, but Coen most certainly is.
Among the more humorous things that happened over the remainder of the summer was when Cici and her group triedto ingratiate themselves with Coen. Word spread around town that he owns a place and is becoming a fixture in some local establishments, Masha’s being one of our regular hangouts.
Cici and her gang don’t know how to give up. They want to hang with the famous hockey player, which is probably the most interesting thing that’s ever happened in their lives. It’s pitiful, if not amusing, that they’re trying to get to Coen through me. On more than one occasion, Cici has approached me like we’re long-lost friends, and I’ve ignored her the same way I do when she slings insults.
Coen isn’t so nice. He finally told Cici and her groupies to leave us alone, that we have no interest in being friends with them, and that they’re being pathetic in their attempts.
“Guess all that practice at being an asshole for so long really paid off,” Coen said with a grin as they stomped away in humiliation.
I threw my arms around his neck and kissed him, which made him happy since he loves kissing so much. “I love you more and more each day.”
And it’s true.
Just keeps getting better.
We exit Coen’s truck and walk hand in hand down the sidewalk toward the Norcross mansion. A few other guests are arriving at the same time, and they nod and call out greetings to Coen.
Inside, I look around with wide eyes at the massive, vaulted ceilings, gleaming wood floors with inlaid designs, and art that I know cost a fortune.
Coen’s hand tightens on mine as we wind through guests in various rooms. Seems everyone already has a drink or hors d’oeuvres plate, or both.
“I want to introduce you first to Brienne. Then we’ll walk around and you can meet everyone else,” Coen says. “There will be a name quiz at the end.”
“Funny,” I grouse, squeezing his hand back.
There are no words for how beautiful Brienne Norcross is. She’s like a Nordic princess with her pale blond hair that falls just to her shoulders in a slightly asymmetrical cut and eyes the color of cobalt. Tall and statuesque, she’s wearing a cream-colored blouse, black wide-leg pants that offer only a peek of a stiletto heel, and a simple gold necklace with matching small hoops in her ears. She is understated elegance, and there’s no doubt her outfit is worth more than all my clothes combined.
As she sees us approaching, her eyes transform from welcoming hostess to deep warmth as she takes in Coen. Her lips curve into a smile, and she says something to the very handsome man standing next to her who looks our way.
“Coen,” she says, her voice so affectionate, I think she might hug him, but instead, she reaches out a hand for him to shake. I suspect this is done in deference to him more than anything, as I’m well aware how contentious and standoffish he’s been. “I am so glad you came. Welcome back.”
They clasp hands briefly as Coen says, “I’m glad to be here. Thank you for giving me a chance.”
“You deserve it,” she says.
Coen first notified the general manager, Callum Derringer, of his return, and then he had a long telephone conversation with Brienne. It was done while I was out grocery shopping, so I didn’t hear what was said, but Coen filled me in. He told Brienne the whys behind his attitude, mentioning without details that he’d broken trust with a teammate. He revealed to her the demons that sprang forth from that incident, including the biggest—his feeling that he didn’t deserve to be on the team.
