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“You can take a couple of cinnamon rolls with you when you leave,” I offer, trying not to stare at his mouth and failing.

“I actually have cinnamon rolls at home,” he says.

Right. Cinnamon rolls that I gave him. But he doesn’t know that.

A thought hits me. Can he tell they are exactly the same?

“I haven’t tried them yet, though they’re probably nowhere near as good as these,” he says, giving me a grin.

Thank God. I try not to slump with relief.

“And I left them with Brewser, Leo, Patty, and Wilson. There might not be any left when I get home.”

“Well, then you definitely have to take a couple of these,” I say.

He nods as he puts the last bite in his mouth. “Actually, I think I’m gonna take you up on that.”

I try not to squeal in happiness. That would be an insane reaction.

“Awesome.” I turn to grab a to-go container out of the cupboard, realize it also matches the containers I’ve taken to Brewser’s lately, slam the cupboard door shut way too hard, and wince.

I calmly open a different cupboard and withdraw a non-disposable plastic container with a lid. This way, he might just have to stop back by, bring it, and return it to me. Win-win.

“Your brother is actually a really good guy, right?”

I frown as I fill the container with two cinnamon rolls, making sure they have as much icing as possible. I snap on the lid and carry it to the table. “He is,” I finally say. Where is this going? Does Lawson really want to talk about Beckett? Maybe he wants my help in mending fences. That would be…nice. I suppose. It would make hockey practice easier for sure.

“He really loves the new things the hockey team is doing and I know you don’t always see eye-to-eye on that,” I say.

Lawson takes a deep breath and shakes his head. “In the beginning when I didn’t understand what it was about, I was annoyed about a lot of it. It seemed silly. And he’s definitely more…”

When he trails off, I smile. “Exuberant? Enthusiastic? Outgoing? Annoying?”

Lawson huffs out a little laugh, and my stomach flips over. Dang, I really like making him laugh too.

Feeding him and making him happy—I could do that for, I don’t know, the rest of my life?

“He is all of those things,” he acknowledges. “We’re just different personalities. I suppose that rubbed me the wrong way in the beginning. Especially when I was still getting used to the way we play hockey here now. But once I understood where his animosity toward me was coming from, I was fine. He’s a good guy.”

I study his face. He’s not meeting my gaze, but I think over his words. “You mean once you understood that he was worried about you and me?”

Might as well put it right out there.

Lawson’s gaze bounces up to mine. “Yeah. I get that. I respect it.”

“Okay,” I say. I don’t really know what else to add.

Lawson respects my brother being protective of me. That’s nice, I guess. Then I ask, “But he doesn’t need to worry about you hurting me or treating me badly, right? Because you’re a good guy too.”

Something flickers in his gaze, and I wonder if people ever tell Lawson that he’s a good guy. Does he not believe that? I have been intrigued by and curious about this man since I first met him. Curious about his past, why he left the New Orleans Jazz, the altercation with his teammate, and all the reasons that my brother is worried about him with me. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out it all had something to do with a woman.

But getting to know him over the past several months and observing him not only with the team but also in the community and among the fans has shown me that Lawson Landry is a good man.

Whatever happened in New Orleans was a specific incident. Lawson doesn’t have anger issues. He’s a defender on a hockey team, so he’s aggressive and not afraid to take or make a hit as needed, but this is a fun league where the guys all know each other and hang out after games, with both teams essentially functioning as one big unit. They also interact in the community outside of bonkers hockey events. The hits he gives and takes in the games are minor and mostly for show.

This is not an aggressive, angry man.

Unless, perhaps, provoked.