Page 4 of The Labor Date
I only know one thing for sure?—
I’ll never forget Holly and our Labor Day holidate.
3
SCOTT
One year later
New team,new town, new season. The expansion team of the major hockey league, the Montana Frostbite, afforded me an opportunity. My agent jumped on it and cut me a sweet deal.
Yes, people, Scott Sanderson has finally arrived in the professional league.
Now I can’t screw it up. Gotta keep my head on straight, and stay out of trouble.
As I drive down the road, Montana feels like another planet compared to Vancouver—less people, wide blue skies, crisp air, and the kind of quiet that settles into your bones. A ways out of town from the new hockey arena in Billings, I park in front of an expansive log mansion out in the middle of nowhere. I can’t even call it a cabin because this thing belongs in some architectural digest, sitting with the mountains as a perfect backdrop.
I expect a middle-aged woman with a welcoming smile to answer when I knock. An old friend of my mother’s. She’ll point me toward the room I rented and maybe offer me iced tea.
She’ll stay out of my business as I work my ass off for the Montana Frostbite. I’ll stay out of hers. Eventually, I’ll befriend a couple of the guys on the team and get a place closer to the arena we can share.
But when the door swings open, it’s—Holly?
My unforgettable one-night crush from a ritzy event involving champagne, sequins and tuxes?
I almost reach out to ensure she’s not a mirage. For a second, my brain blanks, like a puck just slammed into my helmet, knocking me out.
Blonde hair. Crystal blue eyes. That mouth surrounded by pink pouty lips. She really stands before me, and all I can think isfuck yes, there is a God.
She blinks at me, just as stunned.
We stand there in the doorway, staring. One year gone, and yet it’s like that gala in Vancouver ended five minutes ago. I’m back in a tux with her hand on my arm, watching her own the night with her voice and her passion. And suddenly, with every fiber of my being, desiring her more than I should.
“Scott?” she breathes.
My throat goes dry. I clear it. “Holly.”
For months I convinced myself I’d never see her again. That she was a once-in-a-lifetime swipe on a stupid app. A perfect night wrapped in mystery, meant to disappear when the car door shut.
Of course I searched online for her, found her social media and scoured it for what little she showed of her life. Occasional photos would appear of her daily coffee habit at a place on Melrose. Plenty of poses with her cat, a fluffy white thing. But it was the bikini photos on a girls’ trip to Tahiti that kept me aroused.
Unfortunately, she had turned off the ability to receive messages, so I had no way of getting in touch with her, and my texts remained unanswered as if she had blocked me.
And now she’s standing here, sunlight spilling over her shoulders, looking at me like maybe fate isn’t sealed after all. We have a chance.
I should say something normal, but the words slip out before I can stop them. “Maybe it’s a sign,” I murmur.
Her brow furrows. “A sign?”
“That we weren’t supposed to be just one night,” I say. “Another time, another place—remember? Looks like the universe just handed us both.”
Her lips press together, fighting a smile. Fighting me. But I’m already certain of one thing—this time, I’m not letting her walk away so easily.
In Vancouver, she wore a gown that hugged her curves. Here she is in Montana, on a late and hot August day, and this time the buxom blonde with breasts barely being held up by a white string bikini—no, let’s call it what it truly is, dental floss—greets me.
She has only one flaw that I can see. It’s not her taut, tan skin, over those curvy hips I could caress with my lips for days. Or the fact that the scrap of triangle fabric and floss are all that stands in the way of my dick jumping out of my pants and entering her pussy.
Nope, the problem with the woman who greets me at the door—she holds a cat in her arms. Yes, the huge fluffy white one with gray-tipped ears, paws, and tail, who regards me with a resting grumpy face and steely blue eyes like I’m nothing better than the litter in its box.
