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.
Daisy clings to my leg, and while she’s not normally nervous around strangers, I sense her worry. I explained this whole meeting to her, but she’s too young to really understand. I pick her up and she cups my cheeks with her hands.
“Daddy, you look like Andi,” she says, and she squeezes my cheeks together and laughs. Andi is her goldfish, and no way do we look alike.
“Oh, is that right?” I ask, and tickle her sides as I make goldfish lips and move my mouth, not the most attractive look, I know. I play with her like that for a minute, until a voice interrupts us.
“Hi.”
Lips still puckered, I go perfectly still—and shift my gaze to see the hottest woman on the planet, holding her door open and trying to bite back a grin.
Shit.
I stop puckering, and she extends her hand to me. “You must be Zander.”
“I am,” I say and slide my hand into hers, taking note of her softness, the light, sweet vanilla scent of her skin. It reminds me of the icing we used on the cupcakes last night.
She turns her attention to Daisy. “And you must be Daisy,” she says, and produces an alligator puppet from behind her back.
Daisy giggles and reaches for the alligator. “Chomp. Chomp,” she squeals.
“I…uh…” I begin. “I take it you’re Samantha?”
“I am. You can call me Sam,” she
says, as I stand there like an idiot and try to think of something intelligent to say.
This gorgeous woman is Sam, the speech pathologist? When Quinn gave me her name and set up the appointment for us, I never for one second thought Sam would be young and beautiful. The vision in my mind was one of an older lady, grey hair, tall and slender, a strict disciplinarian with kids. But holy hell, this is no Nanny McPhee. Quite the opposite actually.
As she uses her puppet to nibble on Daisy’s toes, I take that moment to look her over. Yeah, okay, I know, I know. I should not be ogling my daughter’s speech pathologist. It’s been a long time since I’ve been with a woman, and this one—with her long dark hair piled high in a ponytail, her fresh girl-next-door looks, and curves to die for—quickly remind me of that. It’s not that I’ve been off women. I just had other, more important matters at hand. Like taking care of Daisy, being careful who I bring into her life, and playing hard for the Shooters.
Oh shit, she’s saying something to me.
I scratch my chin. “Ah, what was that?”
“Come on in,” she says and steps back to give us room to enter.
I step inside and set Daisy down. When I turn back I note the way Sam is struggling to get her screen door shut. “Need a hand?”
“I got it. I just have to give it a good hard tug. I think it’s the hinges. I haven’t had a chance to fix them yet.”
She fixes her own hinges?
Does that mean she doesn’t have a man in her life? Not that a woman needs a man to do her handiwork, and I’m sure she’s quite capable herself…but dammit, I’d love to get my hands on her hinges, slide them right into place for her.
She gets the door closed and turns to us. A smile lights up her face as she zeroes in on Daisy, and I already feel the connection between the two. She’s obviously great with kids. She holds her hand out to my daughter.
“Daisy, would you like to see my playroom?”
Daisy nods her head but sticks close to me. I give her a nudge to let her know it’s okay, and she takes Sam’s hand. Two ponytails bounce as I follow behind, and I go quiet as Sam engages my daughter in conversation, no doubt to gauge her lisp. I glance into the living room as we pass and take in her bookshelf, small TV, and soft leather sofa and chair. The place is small compared to mine, but homey, and I like that.
My own place is too large for just Daisy and me. Quinn insists I fill it with more kids, and I insists she’s crazy. Truthfully, I’m not about to bring anyone into my life who could possibly hurt Daisy. We’ve both had enough people run out on us.
Yeah, it’s clear I’m jaded where women are concerned.
But can you blame me? My own mom left when Quinn and I were little and much of the responsibly of raising my younger sister landed on me—not that I’m complaining. Toss in a puck bunny who used Daisy to snag herself a hockey player, and then gave up custody when her plan backfired. On top of that, my girlfriend left me when she discovered Daisy was mine. She wasn’t prepared for a ready-made family, and just up and left without so much as a backward glance.
Yeah, I’m a cynic when it comes to long term. No one ever sticks around. But sex and relationships are two different beasts, and this woman is reminding me it’s been too long since I breathed in sweet-smelling skin, found myself between a soft pair of thighs.
We go down the hall and step into a room, likely a former bedroom, that has been converted to an office.