“From before the variety showcase,” I whisper, staring at the evidence in my hands.
“We danced.”
“And laughed.”
“It was fun.”
“It was a flash.” I snap my fingers. “Two songs. The end of a fast one and the start of a slow one. It all happened so fast.”
He snorts through his nose. “Hockey players tend to move at a rapid pace.”
I grimace.
He holds his hand up as if understanding the double meaning. “I didn’t mean it like that. Though this is my fastest marriage.”
“Have you been married before?”
He winces like this is coming out all wrong. “No, I meant like maybe the fastest wedding in history. I’m also not a very good dancer, so consider yourself spared from more than the halves of two songs.” He clams up as if this conversation isn’t coming easily to him.
Biting my lip, I say, “You were a great dancer. And I’ll admit that I was nervous. Hadn’t done anything like that in a while.” If I were seated, my leg would be jiggling right now, not to be confused with dancing a jig. No, this is pure nerves.
Our eyes meet, and suddenly we’re back in that moment, sharing the connection that sparked between us before hypnosis, before marriage. It was as simple as two people drawn together, briefly dancing on New Year’s Eve and pierced by little love arrows.
“Auld Lang Swoon!”
Did I say that out loud? Those were Emerson’s words, not mine! It’s my turn to wince.
“Yeah,” Lane says softly as if admitting the same.
Rewinding the last few moments, I’m certain I didn’t say the thing about little love arrows. Just in my head. A thing I desperately need to screw on straight. Get back on track.
Taking a deep breath, I say, “Um, there’s something you should know.”
He leans in expectantly.
“I vowed never to date a hockey player,” I hear myself say this time. “I made a promise to my father.”
Lane’s expression grows serious. “Why?”
Like the heavy trucks that clear the snow from Cobbiton’s thoroughfares well before dawn, I force myself to plow ahead. “Because my parents weren’t exactly what you’d call the picture of a model couple. My mother was actually a fashion model, and she was beautiful and charming and completely unprepared for the reality of being a hockey wife ... or mom. They never even made it to the altar. She, um, left him for someone else.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Wait, does that mean your father played hockey?”
“Viggo Bruun,” I supply.
Lane’s jaw drops. “The Danish Hammer,” he adds, referencing a nickname given to my father by fans.
I nod. “And your father is Lane Sheridan Senior.”
“The one and only,” he mutters with what amounts to pride but also sounds laden with what may as well amount to an entire team’s worth of hockey gear baggage.
Clearing my throat, I do my best to keep my voice steady when I add one more not insignificant detail, “And the one my mother cheated on my father with.”
Lane’s head snaps in my direction as if my words and their meaning took a second to catch up with him. “Are you saying my father and your mother …?”
I nod solemnly.
He’s quiet for a long beat, likely processing this information.
