Page 8 of Home Ice

This neighborhood is a mix of old and new homes. When I was growing up, I hated the new houses. They were built by the wealthy people who moved into what used to be a middle-class neighborhood. Since they couldn't resist showing off their money, they'd tear down the old house and build a new one in its place. This is one of those houses. It must have been built in the ten years since I moved away. It's modern. White and black and all kinds of angles, but it has little things that make it different from the other new houses. The roof on one section is pitched just like an older home. And it has wooden shutters. Then there's the landscaping out front. It's not minimalist and bare the way the other new houses are. There's an actual garden out there. And—you have got to be kidding me. My eyes catch on a man holding a shovel.

Brant. A very shirtless Brant.

His eyes are locked on me. And I must be out of shape because suddenly this walk has my heart racing.

CHAPTER 7

THERE'S NOTHING BETTER THAN COFFEE

BRANT

I've always been able to sleep. On a bus traveling for juniors, on a plane traveling for the league. No matter what. No matter how noisy everything is around me. Except for the last few nights. I stare up at the ceiling above my bed. This is the first time in my career I've had to come back from a serious injury, and it's getting to me. The closer we get to camp, the more that fear creeps in. What if I'm not ready? What if I'm never going to be the same? I've gone through all the rehab in the past sixteen months. I've seen sports psychologists. I've tested it on and off the ice. It feels great. But there's no test like facing down the first line of an opposing team as they charge toward the net. And the scrimmages in training camp will be the closest I've gotten to that in over a year. As much as I love him off the ice, I'm not looking forward to seeing Kayden rush me at full speed while he lines up his shot. There's not a goalie in the league that would look forward to that, despite what they might pretend publicly.

Even if the stress of my comeback wasn't keeping me awake, she would. Every time I close my eyes, I see her. Not the look on her face when I snatched away the date I'd just asked her on. I see the look she gave me just before that. I've had a lot of time to think about that look—and a lot of fantasies about it—and the more I think about it, the more I'm sure she was just about to say yes. Sure, there was the initial panic. Then the whole choking and almost dying thing. But after that, the muscles in her face relaxed just a bit. Her lips curled up a millimeter, and even though I didn't notice it at the time, I know now what it meant. Then I turned into the stupidest fuck in North America. I need coffee.

It’s only a couple of minutes before the automatic espresso machine makes the entire kitchen smell amazing, and I inhale to pull in the scent. There's nothing better than waking up to this. The cup is sitting on the tray, waiting and perfect, and I smile as I take it, holding it to my lips and blowing before taking that first sip. Most mornings I’ll drink this cup and one more while I sit on the sofa and skim through the news. But not today.

I visited the nursery last night. Since I moved in here, I've always had plans for a wildflower garden out front. Nothing big. Just a small bed where I could grow some plants native to Utah. Something to make me feel a little more connected to this place that's become my home.

Serenity never let me plant the garden while she lived here. Wildflowers are too ugly for her. Too scraggly and rough looking. But to me, that's what makes them beautiful. Last night I finally made the trip to the nursery. When I got home, it was too dark to plant, but now it's perfect. I set down the half-finished coffee and test my knee one more time before heading to the garage and taking a shovel from the hook on the wall.

By the time I have the perimeter of the bed dug out, sweat is rolling down my neck. I spike the tip of the shovel into the earth and pull my shirt above my head, using it to dab the sweat from my face before tossing it to the side. Then I look up at the sky. Cloudless. If I don't put on sunscreen, I'll be as red as the Porsche Kayden bought last month. I just start to turn back toward the house when I see her.

She's wearing grey pajama shorts that are so short they could be panties and a pink cami dotted with rainbow hearts. But it's not the hearts that draw my eyes. It's the nipples poking through the thin fabric. I imagine ripping it off her and seeing those gorgeous breasts right here on my front lawn.

She's watching her feet as she shuffles along, and I wonder if she'll even notice me. Then she looks up. Heat flashes in my cheeks, but she's looking past me. I chuckle and rest my hand on top of the shovel. When she's finally in front of my driveway, she notices me. I've never seen anyone's body jerk to a stop so quickly.

"Morning," I smile at her.

She looks from me to my house and then back to me. "This is you?"

"This is me. You have a habit of catching me shirtless." I look for the corner of her mouth to curve up, but it doesn't. That's when I notice her eyes are red. Just like the first day I saw her. But as much as I want to rush up and fix whatever is wrong, I don't. Today, I keep my feet firmly planted.

CHAPTER 8

NEVER GOING TO HAPPEN

LILY

How can someone look so damn sexy? If I didn't learn a long time ago that life isn't fair, I would know it now. Holy hell, those forearms. The way the corded muscles bulge practically melts my underwear. And he's just holding a shovel. Imagine what they would look like if they were doing something else. If they were—nope. I refuse to think about his forearms anymore. Or about those abs. Or how his hair is just starting to darken from his sweat. There's not a part of him that doesn't get me so hot I could start a wildfire.

"So, this is where you live?" I ask.

For a second, he looks like he wants to come closer to me, but then he stops. His right eyebrow raises. "It is. Want a tour?"

I snort and look back at the house. "That certainly explains a lot." I suddenly forget all the cute little architectural details that call back to the older houses of the neighborhood, and all I can see is a house that looks like three boxes stacked crookedly on each other.

"What do you think you can tell about me from my house?" In the corner of my eye, I see him smirk.

I can tell he's the kind of person who likes to show off. No wonder he's working outside without a shirt on. He expects people to be impressed by his body and his house. That car parked in the garage probably costs more than I made in the last two years. And I can tell that he's the type of man who likes to tease women. I don't need that infuriatingly attractive smirk to tell me that.

"I need to get back," I say. "I'll be sure to skip this area from now on when I jog or take a morning walk."

His eyes glide down my body. The way he’s looking at me makes me feel naked. I want to hide, but I force myself to stand taller instead.

"Do you always go for a morning walk in your pajamas?" he asks.

"You're awfully nosy for a guy who made it clear he has no interest in me."

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