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He gestures toward the kitchen with a tilt of his scruffy chin. “Tell you what, why don’t I whip us up some breakfast? We’ll discuss my real identity, and you can tell me why you’re in Kentbury.”
I arch an incredulous eyebrow. “You cook now?”
Setting aside the fireplace poker with a hint of reluctance, I follow him to the kitchen, curious despite myself. Henrik moves with an impressive grace. It’s as if he’s been here before and the kitchen is his domain, his tall frame navigating the cozy space effortlessly. He reaches for the refrigerator, pulling out eggs and butter, then moves to a cabinet to retrieve a skillet.
As I lean against the doorway, observing him, he catches me watching. “What? You never seen a man crack eggs?” he asks, a playful challenge in his tone.
I cross my arms, trying not to show my growing interest. “A man, sure. A famous hockey player? Nope.”
He sighs and shakes his head before cracking the eggs with surprising skill. He whisks them vigorously, his forearms flexing with the effort. I can’t help but be impressed by the juxtaposition of his rough, athletic exterior with the flower apron he’s wearing.
“Guess the big hockey star can handle a few eggs,” I say sarcastically.
He shoots me a dazzling grin. “I’ll have you know I happen to be a culinary expert these days.”
I watch, bemused, as he chops mushrooms and onions with precision. His capable hands work quickly, sautéing vegetables before pouring the egg mixture into a simmering pan. The kitchen fills with the comforting aroma of omelet cooking.
Before long, two impressively fluffy omelets are plated, accompanied by toasted bread, fresh fruit, coffee, and juice. He gestures toward the small wooden table with a triumphant, “Voilà.”
I take an eager first bite, the flavors melting decadently on my tongue. I have to admit, Henrik looks hot as a lumberjack can and he can even cook.
“So, what’s a city girl like you doing out in Kentbury?” Henrik asks eventually.
I toy with my napkin, avoiding his gaze. “Oh, just . . . looking for a change of scenery, I guess.”
Telling him about my failed marriage and how pathetic my life is at the moment is a story for another day.
His piercing eyes seem to see right through me, but before he can push me to say anything I ask, “How about you? Don’t tell me the Blizzard’s legendary captain is taking a break while his team is trying to get to the playoffs.”
“I actually haven’t played professionally in a while,” he admits. “But that’s a story for another time.”
We lapse into thoughtful silence once more. I can feel Henrik subtly watching me, his gaze a mix of curiosity and something undefinable. Intrigue? Attraction? Amusement? It’s hard to pinpoint. But one thing is for sure, I can still feel the magnetic pull.
That was in the past, though, I refuse to act on it. I have to focus on my goal: getting my children back, and building a future for us.
Henrik is not a part of it, even with his impressive culinary skills and rugged good looks.
ChapterEight
Louanne
Henrikand I finish our breakfast. It’s nice to be able to talk to an old friend. Well, he’s Paul’s friend, but once upon a time, we used to share secrets at midnight.
Henrik stands, gathering the empty plates and mugs from the table. I watch the lean muscles of his forearms flex as he carries the dishes to the sink. After rinsing them off, he glances over his shoulder at me with a crooked smile. “Want to help me with these?”
I join him at the counter, hyperaware of his proximity as we wash and dry the dishes together. The domestic routine makes me wonder if I should’ve told him about my divorce. But, no, admitting that failure, that utterly pathetic chapter of my life, sticks in my throat. Better he learns later.
A question occurs to me as we work.So why aren’t you playing hockey anymore?I don’t actually say it out loud. Maybe I should just google him and find out for myself what he’s been up to. But would that be considered prying? If he wanted to tell me, he would, right?
Henrik places the last plate in the drying rack. Turning to me, he slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans. The motion pulls the fabric taut across his muscular thighs. “Well, I should get going,” he says, the words low and smooth.
I frown, confused by his sudden departure. “Do you live here?” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I want to snatch them back. Of course he doesn’t live here, not in this tiny town. What could make a former professional hockey player like him abandon that kind of life for Kentbury?
Henrik gives me a cryptic smile as he exits the B&B. I watch his retreating figure through the window, more questions swirling through my mind.
Up in my room, I strip and step into a hot shower, letting the spray relax my shoulders. The events of the morning play over in my head. Why was Henrik being so evasive? And what exactly happened with his hockey career?
Stepping out, I spot a new text lighting up my phone. It’s from Paul:
