“I thought we weren’t supposed to talk about Barcelona,” I say slowly.
He looks at me. All innocent confusion. “What?”
“The restaurant. It’s called Barcelona.”
“Is it?” He glances at the sign like he’s noticing it for the first time. “Huh. Would you look at that.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You didn’t know?”
“Total coincidence.” His face is perfectly neutral. “I just picked it because the food’s supposed to be good.”
“Brody.”
“What?” He’s fighting a smile now. I can see it at the corners of his mouth. “It’s a popular name. Lots of places are called Barcelona.”
“In Minneapolis?”
“Sure. Probably.” He’s fully grinning now. “Statistically speaking.”
“You absolutely knew.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” But he’s laughing. A deep, warm rumble that instantly fogs my mind. “I’m just a simple hockey player who wanted to take a beautiful girl to dinner and?—”
“You’re lying.”
“—happened to pick a restaurant with a completely random name that has absolutely nothing to do with?—”
“Brody Kane.”
He holds up both hands in surrender.
And then he smiles.
Not Candy Kane. Not performance. Not careful control.
Just him.
A real, devastating, knee-buckling smile that makes my heart forget how to beat properly.
“Okay,” he admits. “Maybe I knew.”
My stomach flips. “Why?”
“Because—” He stops. The smile softens. “Because I needed a do-over.”
Oh.
Ohhh.
And now my heart is doing extremely unauthorized things.
The contract said we weren’t supposed to talk about Barcelona outside of our official story. Section something-or-other.Prior romantic history remains confidential…We were supposed to pretend that some things from that night never happened.
“So this was”—I can barely get the words out—“intentional?”
“Completely intentional.” He’s still smilingthatsmile. Oh, he’s good. “Is that okay?”
Is it okay?
