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She slides the beer bottle across to me. “For your hat trick,” she says, and the words are flat but not unkind, the way you might toss a dog a treat for finally rolling over. “It’s on the house.”

“Thank you.” I pick up the bottle, fingers wrapping around the neck, and for a second, I just hold it there. My thumb works the edge of the label, back and forth. The whole booth is loud again, and I can feel the rumble of the team’s laughter in my ribs, but it’s all background noise now. My world’s contracted to about two feet across, which is the distance between her and me.

I take a long pull, let the beer hit my empty stomach, and set the bottle down harder than I mean to.

“Let me know if you need anything else,” she mutters as she turns to walk away.

“I need to know your name.” I guess my mouth isn’t finished running off without consulting my goddamn brain. Fuck. The silence around the table tells me that all my teammates are watching me make a fool of myself.

She glances over at me but keeps walking. Then she’s gone, disappearing through the crowd.

I watch her cross the floor. Not staring, exactly, but definitely not doing anything else. There’s something about the way she moves that’s not for show. She doesn’t sway, doesn’t bother with any of the performative bullshit the other servers try on the bigger tippers. She just walks, cuts through the crowd, delivers, collects, repeats. And I keep my eyes on her, knowing my life will never be the same again.

CHAPTER TWO

DAISY

I push through the back-office door with a hip, letting it swing shut behind me, and breathe a sigh of relief. On the other side of the cinder block wall, the main bar is a riot of voices. I take a deep breath, inhale the rose-scented air, and feel myself relax a little. The new wax warmer I bought myself is worth its weight in gold.

The office is my haven. There’s a battered desk that’s older than me. It’s covered in scrapes, coffee rings, and deep gouges where the drawers stick, but I love every inch of its ugly, stubborn heart.

One wall is lined with ancient beer signs from the main room that have been replaced with new fancy ones over time.

Under the desk, there’s a hidden stash of emergency peanut butter cups and a perfectly cheap bottle of bourbon for nights that test the limits of my patience. My old, ass-dented office chair squeaks loud enough to wake the dead, but it’s the most comfortable chair I’ve ever sat in. Above my head, a cork board has old pictures pinned to it, and a purple Post-It that says I TOLD YOU SO in massive, capital letters in my handwriting. What can I say? Sometimes you have to win an argument with yourself.

The wax warmer on the filing cabinet is working overtime, pumping sweet rose into the air. There’s something about taking a space nobody else wanted and making it mine.

This is where I breathe. Where I plan my next move while the world outside gets loud and stupid.

My heart is still pounding double-time from the look in Harrison Stafford’s eyes when he asked me for a kiss. Dammit. I never let spoiled athletes get to me, but he definitely got past my defenses. I take that back. He didn’t just get past my defenses. He barreled through them, clearing everything out of his way until all that was left was the ridiculous thump-thump-thump of my pulse and the memory of the way his mouth twisted when he asked for that kiss.

God. That mouth. My hussy girly bits are imagining all the wicked things he could do with it.

Harrison Stafford is big, bold, like every inch of him was carved out of confidence. He fills up a room without even trying, like gravity bends a little harder for him.

Just thinking about the way he focused on me, like everything else faded into white noise, is enough to make my stomach do that annoying butterfly drop. There was no mistaking the look in his eyes. Hungry. Single-minded. Like he wanted to eat me alive.

I should be immune. Instead, I’m hiding in my own office, breathing rose-scented air, and wondering what the hell it would be like to let him have what he wants.

If I close my eyes, I can still see his stupid Greek god grin. The way he looked at me nearly caused my undies to melt right off my body.

I tell myself to just freaking forget Harrison Stafford and his intense brown eyes. But that’s not how it works and I know it.

I’m not even into hockey. I mean, I watch it. I have to since it’s on every screen in the bar, and the money in our tip pool rises and falls with every home team win. But I don’t go for athletes. Not in college, not ever. They come with too much drama, too much baggage. Too much everything I just don’t need in my life.

And yet, here I am, not five minutes after my run-in with Harrison Stafford, and my internal wiring is still crackling from the look on his face when he realized I wasn’t going to play along. I should be congratulating myself, but all I want to do is see if he’d look at me that way again.

God, I need help.

I pick at a hangnail, wishing it were the only thing irritating me right now. The real problem, the one I can’t totally ignore, is that Harrison Stafford is objectively, infuriatingly hot. And not just in the “he made a GQ list once” way, but in the way his entire face lights up when he’s with his teammates, in the way his voice got soft for half a second when he asked if I was going to give him a kiss. I hate that I noticed. I hate that my chest got tight, just for a second, like my heart had tripped over a power cable. I hate that every molecule of me is now intimately aware of him and his existence.

I should go back to the bar and ignore the rowdy hockey players in the back booth. Instead, I sit in the chair, counting the flecks of dust on the surface of the desk, trying to will myself into a new emotional state.

I close my eyes and count to ten. Then I count to fifteen. Then I stop because I can see Harrison’s face dancing behind my closed eyelids.

I turn on the computer and pull up tonight’s time sheets. Maybe a little work will clear my mind of the freaking hot hockey player.

But nothing is working. What the holy heck is wrong with me?