Then I kissed her again, and we picked up where we left off, like pressing play after the best kind of pause. My hands traced the curve of her hip, her arms looped behind my neck pulling me closer until I rolled us, settling her beneath me, and kissed her even deeper. Soft, breathy sounds escaped her and damn near undid me.
The Cup was everything this season was about. For a man who lived for that thrill—she was better.
“Mel?”
We froze. Cassy’s voice floated in from the hallway.
“Hey, Cassy. I’ll be there in a sec,” Mel called out.
“Okay.”
We listened to her footsteps fade. Mel let out a breath, eyes closed. I dropped my head to her chest, resting there, feeling the rapid drumbeat of her heartbeat under my cheek. Good, I wasn’t the only one.
I stayed like that. She smelled of morning breeze and worn cotton. My pulse couldn’t find its rhythm. I’d fallen for her somewhere back when, and this attraction was maddening—not only in looks, but who she was. The way she made me feel lighter, how we teased, the pieces of our lives we’d handed over… we were slowly fitting into each other’s world. And underneath all of it, I knew she might not be ready for everything this was becoming. But I’d wait as long as it took, because every day with her pulled me deeper.
I pressed a slow kiss below her collarbone, then met her eyes and mouthed “later”before sliding out.
In my room, I stripped to my boxers as the sun peeked through the curtain. I’d celebrated our ticket to the Stanley Cup Finals in the best damn way. Forget champagne or confetti, Mel was enough. Her kissing me was the real victory parade, and no one even spilled beer on me. She steadied something in me that the win alone hadn’t touched.
I lay in bed trying to sleep. But the soft movement in the kitchen, low whispers, faint clatter of dishes, and Mel and Cassy trying to hush were as distracting as raccoons with secrets.
I gave up on sleep, threw on shorts and a T-shirt, and went to meet them.
Cassy spotted me first.
“Uncle Sean! Look, it’s Mel! Do you remember her?” She perched at the kitchen island with a coloring book.
I chuckled. “Yeah, Sweet, I remember.”
Damn right I did. I remembered every single scoop.
Mel didn’t turn around. She was at the stove flipping something in a pan, hair up in a loose twist, sleeves pushed up to her elbows, looking perfectly at home.
“Mel and me, we watched you on TV last night, in hockey,” Cassy added helpfully.
I grinned and crossed the room. “Yeah? And guess what? We won.”
Cassy held up her palm, and I gave her a high five.
“So, what’s for breakfast? Smells delicious,” I said, stepping up behind Mel and peeking over her shoulder.
She glanced sideways but didn’t meet my eyes. “Rustic omelet: tomatoes, onions, a little cheddar. I hope you’re not allergic to flavor.”
I grinned. A little dig, but a playful one.
“They definitely hired you in the wrong department,” I said. “Players would love you in nutrition.”
She smiled. “You haven’t tasted it yet.”
“Doesn’t matter. I already like all of it.”
That got her. She finally looked at me—and yeah, I wasn’t talking only about the omelet.
Mel set down plates and poured orange juice into mugs I’d forgotten I even had. We sat at the island, the three of us, sunlight crawling slowly across the hardwood floor.
“Are you going to show my mom how to make it? I like the colors red and yellow,” Cassy said, mouth full.
“You do? Does it taste good?” Mel leaned toward her, smiling.
