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But something tells me Miles Stratton could become a close second.

Chapter 2

Miles

Itighten the shackle connecting the strap to the sedan in the snowbank and keep telling myself the same thing over and over again.

It was just a nipple.

A very nice nipple.

But still, just a nipple.

I crouch beside the runaway bride's buried wheel and loop the tow strap around the recovery point, and yet, all I can think about is the way that fucking wedding dress gave me the single greatest roadside emergency of my career.

Focus, Stratton. Hook the strap. Save the beautiful bride and get to the resort.

Because here's the thing nobody up at that shiny new resort knows.

The Stratton Christmas Tree Farm is drowning.

After three bad seasons, two loans and one very generous bank that's running out of patience, Big Mike's guaranteed Wildcard money is supposed to cover the worst of the debt.

For me, The Mistletoe League is not just another casual exhibition where retired players drink beer afterward and laugh about their failing knees. Big Mike has invited scouts, sponsors, executives and enough media to turn the Wildcards into either a redemption story or a public collection of professional hockey’s leftovers.

At twenty-nine, I know which category most teams place me in.

I'm reliable. Experienced. Useful.

All flattering words until the contract arrives with somebody else’s name on it.

The guaranteed tournament payment I receive by competing keeps the farm alive through winter. But if I play well, a genuine NHL offer could keep it in the family for years.

That's the long shot I'm hoping on.

This tournament is one last audition for an NHL contract I've stopped calling hope because hope has burned me on every temporary roster I've had from here to the other side of the goddamn country.

So no distractions. No complications.

Especially not blonde ones with a body that could end careers while a wedding dress sits unused and crumpled in her back seat.

Fuck.

I rise and glance toward the truck. Audrey sits inside with her legs angled toward the open door and warm air moving through the blonde hair around her face. She catches me looking.

"Need a hand?" She calls out. "You've been out there for a while."

“That's because your car is buried in a foot of snow.”

I see her brows shoot up from here. “In my defence, it was dark, snowing and I had recently experienced an emotional event.”

I shake my head and yank the strap tight, then stand and brush the snow off my knees. I climb into my truck, where the complication is currently sitting in my passenger seat, drowning in my coat and smelling like expensive perfume.

“All hooked up,” I say, rubbing my hands together to bring some feeling back into them. “I’ll pull you free, then secure your car behind the truck. These roads are getting worse, so you’re riding down the mountain with me.”

She nods, rubbing her palms together, and fuck, I can't stop staring.

Her cheeks are flushed pink from the cold, and my coat has swallowed her completely. Only her fingertips poke out of the sleeves, tiny and pink and so fucking tempting I want to bite them.