“What’s the game plan? We drive down this weekend?”
“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “It’ll take seven hours. The valley is an out-of-the-way pain in the ass to get to. But believe me, the San Juan Mountains are something to see.”
“I’m Colorado born and raised and have never spent much time in the ski towns. It was too expensive for my family when I was a kid, and now my winters are too busy for vacations.”
He sighed, smile fading. “Mine too.”
“What have you been doing since the lockout?”
“Watching tapes.” His mouth flattened. “Reviewing plays. Climbing the walls. You?”
“Yesterday I wrote yet another lockout think piece,blech. Then I tried learning to knit off YouTube. I’m making a pot holder... I think. Or a lap blanket for a guinea pig.”
“Pot holder.” He tried and failed to picture her in the kitchen, being domestic. “You cook?”
“No. Ew. I barely toast bread.” She gave a short self-deprecating laugh. “But circle back to the lockout for a second. Are there any rumors floating around about negotiations—please say we’re close to a deal?”
He stiffened. “No.” The easiness from a moment ago disappeared, the question a reminder that she wasn’t NeverL8, a woman he’d flirted harmlessly with online. This was Neve Angel and any slip of the tongue could have real and lasting career consequences. He couldn’t forget she was a journalist, and he was playing with fire.
“I’m not fishing,” she said testily. “I didn’t call you at three in the morning to try and trick you out of insider NHL information, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“I wasn’t.” He massaged an ache spreading across his forehead. “I’m not.”
“You’re a good kisser, but a terrible liar, Tor Gunnar. But it doesn’t matter because whatever game you’re playing, I’m going to win.” And that was when she did hang up.
Tor groaned and dropped his phone off the side of the bed before bracing his face in his hands. How were they going to spend the entire weekend together and not commit murder?
And out of all the women in the entire fucking world, why was she the one who made him come alive?
Since his divorce, he’d been frozen. He didn’t miss feeling that he was always disappointing someone, that he was never enough. Maddy used to cry in the shower, where she thought he couldn’t hear. But each and every time he’d go stand by the door, put his hand on the knob and tell himself to open it, to go inside and see what was eating at her.
But he’d been too chicken shit.
At work he’d he always had a game plan and the right answer. Coaching made sense. He was good at it in a way he’d never been as a spouse.
Yeah, he might have been a better husband than his Pop. He didn’t yell or get drunk, and he’d hack off his arm before raising it against a woman. But that didn’t mean he knew the first thing about how to be a significant other, as that disastrous phone call just confirmed.
He knew how to be a father. He knew how to be a friend. He knew how to be a coach. But he was clueless how to prevent himself from driving a lover away, giving them no chance but to end things on their own. His reticence wasn’t about a fear of commitment. He wanted someone to nestle beside in the darkest nights, to know what they ate for breakfast, how they took their coffee, to give and receive love.
He rolled over in his empty bed and flung an arm across his forehead. But it had always been easier to push women away, so he didn’t know what the hell to do about this strange pull toward Neve.
Or if he could do better this time and not screw everything up.
“Need help?” the shop assistant chirped.
Talk about a loaded question. Because yes, Neve needed help. Lots of help on multiple levels. But she’d rather freeze her tongue to a flagpole before admitting as much. “No.” She issued one of her tight “back away slowly” smiles. “I’m fine.”
“Are you looking for any particular occasion?” This redheaded assistant wasn’t giving up easily.
“A wedding.” Her curt tone disinvited further questions but the girl still seemed undeterred. Neve tucked her chin and walked self-consciously toward a little black dress on a center rack. That could work. Timeless elegance. A little Audrey Hepburn. And after all, black was her color.
“Aw, love a wedding!” The woman sounded like she meant it too. “Who is the happy couple? Friend? Sister? Brother?”
“The ex-wife to my date,” she answered crisply, leaving out the part where she was also going to commit espionage and root out her archenemy’s secrets and win whatever secret game he played.
“Ohhhhhh.” The assistant’s eyes rounded just a bit. “This is a challenge. You have to look gooood.”
Neve stiffened. “What do you mean?”
