I can’t help but look at the pictures. The first one is a snapshot of Daddy wearing his Climax Cannons ice hockey cap and windbreaker to match. As usual, Coach McMann’s got a cigarette hanging out of his mouth and me in his left arm as he stands with his free hand on his hip, staring pompously into the camera. I’ve heard the backstory a thousand times. I’m three years old in this picture, and Mama was at work. Daddy had just gotten the call for the Cannons’ coaching job a week before.
He was sure it was his big break, his first chance at a new life since he was discharged from the Army and made his way with one odd job or another.
And in a lot of ways, he was right.
I take the picture and carefully rip it in half. I throw both pieces into the trashcan and methodically go to pick up the next picture.
“Savannah?” Cam’s voice cuts through the silent hotel room, and I pull myself out of the past as I hear the light knock on the door.
I leave the bathroom and walk closer to the door before calling out, “Cam, I just need a couple more minutes. Should I come by when I’m done?”
“Sure. No rush,” he says.
I let out my breath and then return to the bathroom where I pick up the second photograph. There I am, age thirteen, sitting proudly at the desk in my new office. It wasn’t exactly legal to hire a thirteen-year-old, but Daddy put Mama’s information instead of mine on the employee list.
That’s how my career started. First I was the unofficial team mascot, and then I became the scorekeeper before being promoted as the coach’s office and on-ice assistant.
I spent so much time at the ice rink because it was the only way to see my father. He worked nearly around the clock, especially at the beginning. His job as coach still wasn’t enough money to pay the bills, but he managed to get the owner to hire him on as their night janitor for the first few years. If I wanted his attention, I had to jump into my father’s world with both feet. And I did.
I tear the picture into tiny pieces until all I’m holding is a little piece of my smile. All teeth and lips. I throw the jagged bits of photo into the garbage can.
I glance in the mirror one last time and debate whether or not I should do the unexpected—okay, the absolutely-never thing—and wear my hair down.
In a rush of adrenaline, I pull out the elastic band and shake my hair loose. It falls past my shoulders, and I use my brush to try to style it. My hair is thick and wavy, and I almost don’t recognize myself. I grab my keycard and purse and head across the hall.
“Come on in,” Cam says as soon as he answers my knock.
I follow him into his room, and the door automatically shuts behind me.
“So there’s this restaurant nearby that the concierge says is pretty good,” he says, showing me the menu on his phone. “Do you like Italian food?”
“Definitely.” I glance around his room. His suitcase is in the corner, still full of clothes.
“I figured why unpack when I’m just going to wear the clothes anyway?” His gaze follows mine.
“Then why have a dresser at home either?” I say in a teasing tone. “May as well just keep everything in the washing machine and take it out when you’re ready.”
“No, because the clothes would be all wrinkled.” He grins. “But maybe you should do something with that idea.” He puts down his phone and looks at me fully. “Holy shit. Your hair…it’s usually…”
“Up. Yes. I’m wearing it down tonight,” I say quickly. And that would have been fine if I had stopped there, but I don’t. “It’s just regular old hair. Hair I wear every day. To work. Where I see you.”
Cam grins. “I was just going to say it looks good this way. I like it.”
Jesus, Savannah. Shut up.“Thank you,” I manage to get out.
We leave his room, take the elevator down to the lobby, and then we walk through the revolving doors to the sidewalk. The icy wind hits my cheeks as soon as we step outside. We hustle to Cam’s truck and hop inside.
Cam leans across me to grab his wallet out of the glove compartment.
And that’s when I smell him.
His rich, woodsy, masculine scent.
I’ve smelled Cam before. From the first time we met at the coffee shop, or whenever we get together after practice and he’s just showered. Right now, though, the manly scent is like an aphrodisiac to my sex-starved brain. His hair is damp from the shower, and that scent is downright intoxicating. I think it’s his aftershave. Whatever it is, it’s sexy as hell. I’m so aroused I can barely sit still.
His arm brushes mine when he returns his hand to the steering wheel, and that’s the final straw. I reach over and grab his arm without thinking. I think I may murmur something incoherent.
Cam snaps his head over to meet my gaze. “You okay?”
