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My shoulders drop. I know how much swimming has helped her deal with her anxiety.

“I feel for the guy who ends up with my sister.” He sighs.

Trying to keep my face neutral, I ask, “Why do you say that?”

“Ever since she fell through the ice on that pond when she was a kid, she has had this insatiable need to feel in control, or she has a panic attack. Her therapist told my parents she’d get better with time, but it happened eight years ago.” He blows out a breath. “If she gets married someday, I feel like she’s gonna need someone super reliable with a really tight schedule. Like a banker.” He chuckles. “Definitely no one like us, pursuing pro hockey careers.”

My breathing stops. “Yeah, true.” I force a smile on my face and huff out a laugh.

Melanie’s anxiety is directly related to her fear of ice and drowning, how could I ever be with her when my career is literally on ice. Not only that, but it would be really hard on someone who thrives on organization and consistency to handle the crazy schedule I’d have. My hockey coach has been talking to scouts and thinks I’ll be drafted by the NHL sooner rather than later. Obviously, I’m thrilled about the possibility. I’ve worked my entire life to get to this point. But with training, practice, away games, late nights. I can’t offer Mel any consistency at all.

My heart feels heavy at the thought that she might be better off with someone else. And it feels even heavier at the image of her with some faceless businessman. I don’t even know him, but I hate this imaginary person.

I rake a hand through my hair, still wet from showering after practice, and remove my Bluetooth headphones from my backpack and turn them on. Leaning away from Harrison’s view, I watch Melanie’s video again, listening to her sweet voice through my headphones.

The rest of the day, I wrestle with my thoughts, but by the time the sun sets, I know what I have to do. I have to convince Melanie I don’t feel the same way, even though it’s a lie.

I’m no good for her; she’ll be happier with someone else. And that thought kills me.

CHAPTER ONE

MELANIE

5 YEARS LATER

I tap my foot and glance at my watch while I stand in line waiting for my coffee order. This is not the morning to be late. Being a personal assistant to a member of Congress is a lot of pressure. Mr. Windell is probably the nicest politician I’ve ever met, but still, his wife is in town and I want to make sure everything is perfect.

Their favorite coffee shop is across town from my apartment, and despite leaving extra early this morning, I couldn’t get D.C. traffic to cooperate with my perfectly timed plans. However, if the barista gets my coffee order for me in one minute and five seconds, I can still make it work.

My job is knowing everything, from Mr. Windell’s coffee order to every second of his schedule. I’m here to make his life easier and his schedule seamless. And I’m damn good at it, if I do say so myself.

I was lucky enough to get this job straight out of college, and I will not, under any circumstances, mess it up.

“Melanie!” The barista finally calls.

Looking at my watch once more, I smile to myself. Nine seconds to spare.

I grab the coffee order, one Americano, and one plain black coffee. It’s the most boring coffee order in the history of coffee orders. Mr. and Mrs. Windell are always very buttoned-up and straight-laced. But judging by the smirks and glances I catch between the two of them when they think no one is looking, I’m pretty sure there’s a playfulness in both that they don’t show in public.

“Thank you!” I tell the barista before turning and leaving the coffee shop.

After finally arriving at Mr. Windell’s office twenty minutes later, I ride up the elevator and check my outfit in the shiny polished metal of the elevator. The pencil skirt is smooth, check. Pointed-toe heels looking chic but professional, check. White silk blouse buttoned up high enough to hide the goods, check. And, courtesy of a visit to the salon last week, my mousy-brown hair—which the stylist refers to as burnt sienna—is perfectly highlighted and blown out, check.

I’m ready and in the zone when the elevator dings and I stride into the small but lovely office space with confidence. Most buildings and homes in D.C. don’t come with a generous amount of space, but they make up for it in charm. This building has been remodeled but still has that old world feel with the narrow windows and high ceilings. The windows allow in a generous amount of natural light, which, paired with the white walls and tile floors, makes the space bright and not dreary like a typical office.

I peek into Madden’s office and find him sitting on his desk with his hands on his wife’s waist while she stands between his legs and ties his tie. I hesitate before knocking, feeling like I’m interrupting an intimate moment.

But no one likes cold coffee.

I tap lightly on the door frame. “I hate to interrupt, but I have coffee.” I smile and lift the drink carrier in my hand.

“Melanie, it’s like you read my mind!” Mr. Windell stands and grins, showing off his perfect white teeth.

His wife turns on her heel to look at me, causing her brilliant red hair to fan out. She smiles at me before patting her husband on the chest. “So glad Madden has an amazing assistant to keep him caffeinated.”

They grin at each other and I can’t help but stare at them for a moment. Despite their boring taste in caffeinated beverages, they really are a stunning couple. Mr. Windell has chiseled features with wavy blonde hair that makes him look like he belongs in a Vineyard Vines catalog. And his wife is also gorgeous with her red hair, emerald green eyes, and round glasses. She reminds me a of sexy librarian slash fae princess.

I hand them the coffees and then turn to leave and walk back to my desk outside the office.