“Sorry, excuse—” a deep voice starts.
Our hands collide. My coffee tips, splashes across the counter, and spills down the front of my jeans. Hot liquid seeps through the fabric, and I jump back with a startled gasp.
“Shit, I’m so sorry.” The voice belongs to a tall, dark-haired man. He grabs napkins from the dispenser, thrusting them toward me with genuine alarm. “That was completely my fault.”
I recognize him now—the face of the franchise, according to the morning news. Something Malone. Women at school pickup sometimes whisper about him, about his latest conquests detailed in gossip columns.
“It’s fine,” I mutter, taking the napkins and dabbing uselessly at my jeans. The coffee has already soaked through, an uncomfortable warm patch spreading across my thigh. “I need to go.”
“Let me buy you another one,” he insists, already signaling to the barista. “And pay for the cleaning bill for your pants.”
“Really, it’s not necessary.” I back away, discomfort rising. The last thing I need is a man who won’t take no for an answer, regardless of how apologetic he seems.
“I insist,” he says, but then something in my expression makes him pause. He steps back slightly, giving me space. “Or not. Totally your call.”
The barista is already making a replacement drink. “On the house,” she says with a smile directed at him more than me. “Accidents happen.”
“At least take the replacement,” the hockey player says, his voice gentler now. He doesn’t move closer. “I’m Dex, by the way. And I really am sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I reply automatically. “Thanks for the napkins.”
He smiles—a genuine smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. In another life, I might have found him charming. In this one, I’m hyperaware of his size, his confidence, the way other patrons are watching our interaction.
“Enjoy your coffee,” he says, and returns to his teammates without pressing further.
I take the replacement drink and hurry outside, pulse racing more than the situation warrants. The burn of the coffee on my skin mingles with the fresh sting of the tattoo—physical reminders of a day meant to symbolize moving forward.
From inside the coffee shop, I catch him looking in my direction, a thoughtful expression on his face before one of his teammates draws his attention away.
I turn and walk in the opposite direction. I’ve spent a year rebuilding my boundaries. The last thing I need is a man, any man, crashing through them, no matter how accidentally.
PROLOGUE: DEX
“This view is definitely worth the ticket price,” Alessandra purrs, leaning against the observation deck railing. The Space Needle stretches beneath us, Seattle sprawled out below, glittery lights under the night sky. “Though I’m still not clear how we got the place to ourselves.”
“I know people who know people,” I say with a wink, pouring more tequila into her outstretched glass. The truth—that I dropped fifteen grand to rent the observation deck after hours—isn’t nearly as mysterious. But mystery has its advantages, especially when entertaining three lingerie models I met at yesterday’s charity auction.
Katerina giggles from where she’s sprawled across one of the benches, her accent thickening with each drink. “In my country, they say hockey players are brutes with no teeth. But you, Dex Malone, are...” she gestures vaguely at all of me, “definitely not this.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I laugh, catching Olivia’s eye as she returns from exploring the far side of the deck. The third model is quieter than her companions, but there’s something in her gaze that suggests she sees more than she lets on.
“You brought hockey sticks to the Space Needle?” Olivia raises an eyebrow, nodding toward the equipment bag I stashed behind the small portable bar. “Planning on some urban practice?”
Before I can answer, Katerina is on her feet, swaying slightly. “I want to try! I have never held real hockey stick!”
“Me too!” Alessandra straightens, her competitive nature already evident in the quick flash of her eyes. “Show us how to play, Dex.”
Hell, why not? I’m already paying for the space. Might as well make full use of it.
“Careful with those,” I caution as Katerina rifles through my bag. “They’re?—”
“Heavy!” she exclaims, nearly taking out a display placard as she swings one experimentally.
“Here.” I position myself behind her, adjusting her grip, enjoying the feel of her against me. “Like this.”
Within minutes, I’ve created a makeshift shooting range using empty tequila bottles and a small cooler. The women take turns attempting wrist shots, their laughter echoing off the glass walls as more tequila disappears. Alessandra has a surprisingly decent form—apparently sports modeling included some hockey promotions—while Katerina’s enthusiasm makes up for her complete lack of coordination.
“Your turn,” Olivia challenges me, holding out a stick. “Show us how the professionals do it.”
