1
Nina
Fat drops of spring rain pummel my head, wilting my curls as I dart through Seattle’s busy traffic to the café on the other side of the street. My best friend, Jess, is inside waiting for me, undoubtedly hyped up on her third latté by now.
I step over a pothole and search for an opening in the traffic. I hate being late, I really do. I totally value other people’s time, but when the email came through from my editor, asking me to write a hot hockey series, my priorities took a curve. I’ve worked with Tara for a couple years now, and I know her like—pardon the pun—a well-worn book. To her, hesitation equals disinterest. She’s a mover, a tree-shaker, and it wouldn’t have taken long for her to offer the opportunity to another author. She wanted a quick reply and I had to give it to her.
I got this!
Yeah, that was my response, but what did I have to lose? I’ve been in such a rut lately, thanks to my fickle muse, deserting me when I needed her most. I swear to God, sometimes she acts like a hormonal teenager. I need to whip her into shape so I don’t lose this gig. The royalties from a series will help make a sizeable dent in the bills that are piling up high and deep.
High and deep.
I laugh. One of those self-derisive snorts that crawls out when you’d really rather cry. Yeah, that pretty much sums up the I got this response I emailed back. High and deep, like a big steaming pile of—
A car horn blares, jolting me from my pity party. With my heart pounding in my chest, I step in front of the Tesla and flip the guy off. I safely reach the sidewalk and once again my mind is back on my job, and off the impatient jerk in the overpriced car.
I step up on the sidewalk and lift my face to the rain, the cool water a pleasant break from this unusual spring heat wave we’re having. Pressure fills my throat. The hum of traffic behind me dulls, leaving only the sound of my pulse pounding in my ears. Panic.
Why the hell did my editor think I, former figure skater turned romance novelist, would want to write a series about hot hockey players? Yeah, sure my brother is an NHL player, but that doesn’t mean I’m into the game. I hate hockey. No, hate is too mild a word for what I feel. I loathe it entirely. But you know what I don’t loathe? Eating. Yeah, I like eating. Oh, and a roof over my head. I really like that, too.
I draw in a semi self-satisfied breath at having rationalized my fast response.
Except my reply was total and utter bullshit. I don’t got this. In fact, I…wait, what’s the antonym of got this? All that comes to mind is, you’re screwed. Yep, that pretty much describes my predicament.
Why didn’t I just stick to figure skating?
Because you took a bad spill that ended your career.
Oh right. But seriously, a hockey series… Ugh. Kill me. Freaking. Now.
I reach the café, pull the glass door open and slick my rain-soaked hair from my face. I quickly catalogue the place to find Jess hitting on the barista. Ahh, now I get why she picked a place so far from home. I take in the guy behind the counter. Damn, he’s hotter than the steaming latté in Jess’s hand, and from the way she’s flirting, it’s clear he’ll be in her bed later today.
I sigh inwardly. It’s always so easy for her. Me? Not so much. Men rarely pay me attention. Unlike Jess, I’m plain, have the body of a twelve-year-old boy, and most times I blend into the woodwork.
I pick up a napkin from the side counter and mop the rain off my face. Doesn’t matter. I’m not interested anyway. From my puck-bunny-chasing brother to all his cocky friends, I know what guys are really like, and when it comes to women, they’re only after one thing, and it isn’t scoring the slot. I roll my eyes. Then again, maybe it is.
And of course, I can’t forget the last guy I was set up with. What he did to me was totally abusive, but I don’t want to dredge up those painful memories right now.
I shake, and water beads fall right off my brand-new rain-resistance coat. At least something is going right for me today. Semi-dry, I cross the room and stand beside Jess.
“Hey, sorry I’m late.”
Jess turns to me, smiles, and holds a finger up. “I’ll forgive you only if you’re late because you were knees deep into some nasty sex, ’cause girlfriend, it’s been far too long since you’ve been laid.”
Jesus, what ever happened to this girl’s filters?
Thoroughly embarrassed, my gaze darts to the barista, who is grinning, his eyes still locked on my friend, looking at her like she’s today’s hot lunch special and ignoring me like I’m yesterday’s cold, lumpy oatmeal.
Ugh, really?
“Non-fat latté,” I say, and scowl at him until he puts his eyes back in his head. I might be an English major but I have a PhD in the death glare. Truthfully, I’m so sick of guys like him, one thing on their minds. Then again, Jess only wants one thing from him, so I really shouldn’t have a problem with it. Why do I? Oh, maybe because Mr. Right, my battery-operated companion, isn’t quite cutting it anymore, and it’s left me a little jittery and a whole lot cranky.
Jess is right. I do need to get laid.
Jess’s lips flatline when she takes me in, her gaze carefully accessing me. “What?” she asks, her mocha eyes narrowing.
God, sometimes I really hate how well she can read me. “Nothing.”
She straightens to her full height, and I try to do the same, but she dwarfs me, even without h
er beloved two-inch heels. I square my shoulders, but it’s always hard to pull off a high-power pose when you’re only five foot two, and teased relentlessly about it.
“Come on,” she says, and guides me to a corner table. I peel off my coat and plunk down. Jess sits across from me. “Spill.”
I point to my forehead. “Do I have ‘idiot’ written here?”
She looks me over, and cautiously asks, “No, why?”
My phone chirps in my purse, and I reach for it. Great, it’s my editor wanting to set turn-in dates. “How about never?” I say under my breath.
“Uh, Nina. You’re talking to your phone. You better tell me what’s going on.”
“You’re not going to believe what I just agreed to.”
“Do tell,” she says and leans forward, like I’m about to spill some dirty little sex secret. If only that were the case.
I grab my phone and hold it up, showing her Tara’s message. “I just agreed to write a hockey series,” I say, and toss my phone back into my purse, mic-drop style—without the bold confidence.
Jess pushes back in her chair, clearly disappointed. She lifts her cup, and over the rim, asks, “I don’t see how that makes you an idiot.”
My mouth drops open. Jess and I have been friends since childhood. She of all people knows how much I hate hockey. “Are you serious?”
She shrugs. “You’re a writer.”
Mr. Sexy Barista brings me my coffee and he shares a secret, let’s-hook-up-later smile with Jess. “And…?” I ask when he leaves.
“Writer’s write and make things up. I know you hate hockey, but what does that have to do with anything?”
“I can’t come up with a plot, or write about the game, if I don’t know anything about it.”
She shakes her head. “And I can’t believe your brother is a professional player and you never once paid attention to the game.”
“I was busy pursuing a professional skating career, remember?”
She reaches across the table and gives my hand a little squeeze. “I know. I’m sorry.”