I fight off a smirk. She’s noticed me too. I set down my to-go cup, and the barista takes it to fill with hot water.
“We really do need to stop meeting like this,” I say, and fortunately, I have a solution since I pride myself on solving problems. Teammates not getting on? I sit their arses down and make them talk till they work it out. Brownstone runs out of hot water one morning? I fix the water heater myself. Missed my chance last season with the woman at the coffee shop who likes to flirt too? I’ve got a plan for thattoday. I reach into the back pocket of my jeans, sliding a finger along the soft envelope once more.
“Do we though?” she counters.
“That’s a fair point,” I say, then thank the barista as he hands me the mug. I turn to go, and in perfect sync, Jane walks with me. “We don’t have to stop.”
She roams her clever eyes over me. Judging by her smile and the way her gaze lingers, she seems to like what she sees. “Go on,” she says as we leave the shop and stand outside in the Manhattan morning.
I take out the envelope with the tickets in it. “We could meet again later this week. I’d love it if you’d come to the home opener. I have a VIP ticket for you, Jane…?”
I wait for her to supply a surname. There’s something teasingly familiar about her, but I’ve never been able to place it.
She’s quiet for a beat, her green eyes sparkling, her lips curving into a grin she seems to try to fight off. Maybe she’s trying to place me too? Hard to say, and hockey players aren’t always recognized, which works fine for me. I’d rather let my stats speak for themselves.
She licks her lips, takes her time, then says, “Jane Smith.”
Right. Sure. But I’m not about to call her on that. “Jane Smith,” I say, accepting her coffee name.
She takes the envelope with her polished nails, gunmetal gray. “It was nice meeting you…” She lifts her chin, her eyes widening, waiting for me.
“Shaw Coleman. Defenseman on the New York Ice Kings,” I say. “But you can just call meyour English friend.”
That smile? It widens, and it looks almost…conspiratorial.
No idea why it would. But maybe she’s been wanting the same thing I have—the chance to meet again.
“Thanks for the coffee. And the invitation,Shaw Coleman.” It’s said like it tastes good on her lips.
I bet her lips would taste good on mine.
“There are actually two tickets in there. Bring a friend. Don’t bring a date, Jane,” I say, locking eyes with her, making my intentions clear. “Since you’ll have oneafterthe game.”
Her smile spreads, pleased and sexy.
Then, out of the blue, she steps closer, her honeysuckle scent wafting around me, and she presses her lips to my cheek unexpectedly, leaving a faint trace of a kiss as she whispers, “I’ll be there for the game andafter…my English friend.”
With her lipstick on my cheek and her honeysuckle-infused confidence trailing behind her, she takes off, walking the other way with a defiant click-clack of her boots, leaving me on the street with the thrill of watching her go.
But this time I have no regrets, since thanks to luck and discipline, I’ll see her again in a couple more days.
3
A KIND OF PLOT
Camden
Would you look at that? I’ve got a date to the first game of the season for the New York Ice Kings. Shame it’s not against the Red Hawks, but you can’t have everything.
“It’s almost like the universe wants me to get a little revenge,” I say to Jules as I flick through a rack of clothes two days later at my favorite thrift shop—Champagne Taste in the West Village.
“I’ll say, but let’s be honest. You did kind of plot it.” She grabs a lavender vest, then holds it up. “This is hot. But maybe not best for a hockey game?”
“Might be too cold,” I say, then make grabby hands. “But I can wear it at the club one night.” Before I get too caught up in how Goddess is coming together—swimmingly, thanks to the lineup of amazing female artists and musicians slated to play there starting next week—I rewind to what Jules just said.
A kernel of guilt wedges into my chest. I didn’t justkind ofplot the date with Shaw. I premeditated it. I flirted with him. I showed up at the shop every morning till he started coming back—I’m pretty sure he spends his summers in his hometown ofLondon, which is why I didn’t see him all summer. Yes, I googled him.
And I did nearly everything I could think of to get the man to finally ask me out. “Is it my fault that my plot worked?”
