HILLARY
SUMMER
Summer was always one of Hillary’s favorite times of the year. The hustle and grind of the hockey season was over. While most of the organization took a large portion of the summer off, Hillary took it as a chance to really plan and prepare. During the season, she was so distracted with the whack-a-mole of dealing with PR issues that popped up. In the summer, she really got to dig in and think about new partnerships and innovative ideas for the upcoming season.
But today, Hillary was cutting out early. She’d been to an early meeting and was on her way to meet her sister at the hospital for some lunch, but she wanted to explore the little farmer’s market next to it.
The farmer’s market stretched down the closed-off city street like a living thing—bright canopies snapping in the breeze, the air thick with the smell of bread, coffee, sun-warmed fruit, and something sizzling on a flat-top grill. Voices overlapped in a low, happy hum as people drifted from stall to stall, hands brushing baskets of peaches, fingers testing the heft of tomatoes still warm from the field. A busker played soft guitar near the corner, his music threading through the laughter and the clink of coins.Somewhere a baby squealed, a dog barked, and the whole place felt unhurried, indulgent—like the city had collectively decided to pause, breathe, and remember how good simple things could be.
Then she saw it, a stand tucked beside the building’s blue-and-white striped tent: a handwritten chalkboard menu, the smell of butter and sugar drifting halfway down the block. It was the best coffee shop in town. This was the main reason she was here. Sometimes she found herself wishing she could mainline this coffee straight into her veins.
She stood in line, iced coffee sweating in her hand, the hum of voices and live acoustic guitar buzzing around her. The sun was warm on her shoulders, her sunglasses pushed up into her hair, a rare feeling of ease settling into her bones.
And then she thought she saw him.
Her heart tripped hard enough that she nearly laughed at herself.
Murphy.
Tall. Broad shoulders. That unmistakable way he moved—easy, open, like the world had never taught him to brace for impact. He disappeared behind a cluster of people before she could be sure, and Hillary blew out a quiet breath.
Get it together.
It had been months. One night. One mistake she’d drawn a line under and walked away from like she always did. She’d had her fair share of one-night stands—men who were fun, fleeting, forgettable.
Murphy wasn’t forgettable.
Something about that night clung to her in ways she didn’t like to examine too closely. The way he’d listened. The way he’d looked at her like she was more than a woman obsessed with work—just a woman worth wanting.
She grabbed her coffee from the window and decided she would explore before she had to meet Sydney over by the food trucks.
And promptly walked straight into a solid wall of muscle.
“Oh—shit—sorry,” she said automatically, her iced coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim.
“Whoa—hey?—”
Too late.
Coffee spilled, splashing over her hand and the front of her sundress.
Hillary gasped. “Damn it.”
A familiar laugh—warm, startled—hit her ears.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” Murphy said.
She looked up.
It was him.
Close enough now that there was no mistaking the dimples, the sun-kissed skin, the baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. He looked . . . relaxed. Summer-soft. Like a man not currently trying to find his way in the NHL.
“It’s my fault,” she said, already blotting at her dress with a napkin someone shoved into her hand.
“Nope. That one’s on me.” He reached for more napkins, handing them over with an apologetic grin. “I should’ve been watching where I was going.”
Her pulse skidded, but she forced herself to smile back. Professional. Polite. Safe.
