I’m joking, mostly, but now that Lane is here, I feel more twisted than a custard-filled Danish pastry knot.
A slow smile spreads across his face. “People in Cobbiton really go all in for hockey.”
“Are you surprised?”
“A little,” he admits, accepting the cookie I offer him. “Are you a fan?”
“Yes. No.” I shake my head. “Both?”
“How does that work?” He takes a bite of the cookie and makes a soft sound of appreciation that makes my pulse leap out of the window.
“I like the game itself, the strategy, the teamwork, and that kind of thing.” I see the same light in his eyes that sparked in my father’s at the crack of the puck against his stick and the rush of flying down the ice. The same one I experienced, but it was extinguished all too soon. “How about you?”
He nods. “I couldn’t have said it better. But I could do without the cameras, the superficial interviews, and the constant scrutiny of my every move on and off the ice—” He lets out a breath that suggests each of those words weighed more than the invisible letters spoken.
Thinking about my promise to my father and how everything went so wrong between him and my mother, I say, “I could see how you’d like to do without all that.”
Looking surprisingly thoughtful, he says, “Sometimes I just want to hit rewind and be the kid who wasn’t under constant scrutiny and pressure.” He tips his head as if that’s nothing more than wishful thinking.
I wonder if he’s referring to expectations his father may have placed on him. “Well, what do I know about pro hockey? I’m small-town potatoes?—”
“Isn’t Cobbiton known for its corn?” His lips ripple.
I try not to grin because I’m not sure if he was intentionally making a joke or is being serious.
“And amazing baked goods. I’ve driven by and seen how busy this place gets. You’re not small-town potatoes or corn. More like delicious Danish buns.” Lane’s eyes widen. “I mean, pastries. I don’t know what I—” The tips of his ears go pink.
With a warm shiver, because there’s no mistaking the subtext, I help us both recover and say, “I know what you mean. I’d also like to eliminate the business side of things and just bake.”
“Leave you to the kitchen and leave me to fresh ice, and we’re both in our happy places.”
I’m reminded of last night’s conversation with Lucian Little. So he does remember? There’s something vulnerable in the way Lane speaks, like he’s admitting something he doesn’t usually share.
My father’s voice echoes in my mind and I worry I’m being played. “I’m surprised to find we agree. Then again, you could just be telling me what you think I want to hear.”
Prepared to finish off the cookie, Lane is taken aback and drops his hand from his mouth. “Why would I do that?”
Rocking back on my heels, I feel like a jerk, but it’s just that my father warned me about hockey players. Don’t want to get cross-checked. “I’m not sure but?—”
He scrubs his hand along his jaw. “Nina, I’ve been manipulated enough in my career to know better than to try to use or deceive anyone.”
“But there was last night.”
He shakes his head. “If anyone was using or deceiving, it would be Lucian Little. I have my attorney looking into the situation.”
That’s probably a good thing, but it’s time to put him to the test. “Why were you late just now?”
“I was waiting for what my sister said was a very important phone call that I’d want to be sitting down to receive. It never came. No surprise there.” I detect hurt and disappointment, but the sincerity in his gaze makes me want to trust him.
Part of me wants to know more about Lane Sheridan Junior—not the career stats and highlights, but the real person underneath the jersey. This is dangerous thinking for someone who was never supposed to date, never mind marry, a hockey player—leaving me to figure out how to fix this.
Or not. I mean, would it really be that bad to spend forever with someone so handsome?
I drag myself, kicking and screaming, back to reality and say, “So … about our situation.”
Lane reaches into his jacket and pulls out what looks like a photo strip from an old-fashioned photo booth. “First, I want to show you something. The roving photographers last night put together photo booth-like collections of pictures for the guests. They gave this one to my teammate to pass along to me after we bolted. A party favor, I guess.”
He hands me the strip, and my breath catches. It’s us, from last night, but not during the hypnosis ceremony. These photos are from earlier in the evening—we’re laughing, dancing, looking at each other like we’re sharing a wonderful secret.
