Break the Ice (Colorado Storm #3)

Chapter 1

Chapter one

No orgasm, no moan

Lulu

“Welcome to Clit Talk Confidential, where we believe mediocre men should never be allowed near your vulva or your taxes.”

Amen.

I nod along, bouncing slightly on my toes as I stroll down a sun-drenched sidewalk in one of Denver’s newer suburbs, sipping a Green Goddess Explosion smoothie the exact color of pond scum. In my other hand, the leash of the most opinionated Mini Schnauzer in North America.

Miso, with the body of a stuffed toy and the attitude of a war general, marches ahead like she’s leading a military parade. Her tail is high, her jaw is set, and if she could flip off the squirrel on the corner, she would.

Technically, this is her neighborhood, not mine.

I’m dog-sitting for Eli—my big brother and resident pain in my ass—who plays for the Colorado Storm.

He and his wife, Tamara, are off on one last “just us” vacation before the new hockey season kicks off.

They claimed it was for rest and connection, but the way Tamara winked when she handed me the keys tells me it’s less about sightseeing and more about horizontal cardio with a view.

And honestly, good for them. The further away from my eyeballs and earholes, the better.

Meanwhile, I’m twenty-three, single, and listening to sex-positive affirmations. Hanging out with a schnauzer who growls at mailboxes. Trying to pretend I’m not in a full-blown spiral about how my love life is a carousel of disappointment.

“This week,” the podcast host continues in my headphones, “we’re talking pleasure. More specifically, how to stop settling for orgasms that feel like drive-thru coffee—quick, lukewarm, and forgettable.”

I snort-laugh into my smoothie.

Too late. I’ve already got the punch card for those.

If orgasms were a grading system, I’ve been stuck in remedial classes for the last…

forever. And it’s not because I don’t try.

I do the work, I ask for what I want. I’ve got the damn anatomy memorized.

The problem is, I keep attracting the same type: guys who see me as Eli’s pretty little sister, the blonde with a sparkly phone case and long legs.

They flirt, they flatter, they pretend to care, but it always ends the same.

First, they ask what it’s like having an NHL player in the family.

Then they ask for tickets, or maybe merch.

Then they try to hang out at Eli’s place, like I’m some kind of concierge for Storm access.

And all the while, they treat me as arm candy—smiling at my jokes without actually hearing them, calling me babe in bed while skipping over every part of me that isn’t directly connected to their dick.

It’s exhausting. And infuriating. And I’m not nearly as good at pretending it doesn’t hurt as I used to be.

So I’m doing the work. Listening to the podcasts and reclaiming my body. Buying toys. Saying words like yoni with a straight face. Unsubscribing from the idea that wanting pleasure makes me needy.

I’m also swiping. My new dating app strategy is brutally simple: I’m not looking for the one.

I’m looking for someone who at least tries to make me come before they do.

Maybe I’m setting the bar low, but if I’m not finding true love, I can at least find a true orgasm.

Something that doesn’t end with me fake-moaning into a pillow while the guy on top congratulates himself.

Because I’m worth it.

I am a vibrant, confident, sexually empowered woman.

I am in charge of my body.

I am—

“ARF!”

Miso lunges, and my headphones disconnect with a loud blip as I’m jolted forward.

“And don’t fake it, honey! If he hasn’t earned the orgasm, he doesn’t get the moan!”

The podcast host’s gleeful voice blasts from my phone speaker at full volume, echoing into the quiet suburban street.

“Miso, no!” I shriek, stumbling forward to chase her, my smoothie, my phone, and every damn law of physics all but forgotten.

Thunk.

I grunt as I slam into a solid wall of six-foot-something, sweat-drenched jogger. Chest meets chest. Smoothie meets aerodynamics. Ass meets pavement.

An arch of green spirulina sails through the air, while my phone smacks the concrete and bounces into a hedge, still playing the podcast at a volume that would make my grandmother cross herself.

I blink up from the pavement, heart pounding, and immediately wish I could crawl into the gutter. Because I know this jogger, and the dog at his side wagging his tail.

Logan Miller. Defenseman for the Colorado Storm, my brother’s teammate, and member of our unofficial Sunday brunch club. Affectionately known as Pookie to those who can get away with it.

Dusty, his golden retriever, yips happily as Miso rockets toward him, squeaking with joy. But the second Logan leans down, Miso switches from adoration to war cry, snapping at his shoelace.

I flop back on my elbows, stare up at the sky, and wonder if faking my death would be too dramatic.

“…and that’s why you need to stop prioritizing his orgasm over yours, babe. You deserve the fireworks, the whole damn parade! The yes yes YESSS!”

My arm darts out to grope for the phone in the hedge, smacking my hand against twigs until I finally grab it and stab at the volume button.

Logan looks down at me, one brow raised over steady brown eyes, his light sandy brown hair darkened with sweat and plastered to his forehead. His shadow cuts over me, the sunlight haloing the edges of his shoulders in a way that makes my chest feel inconveniently warm.

My eyes wander to his sculpted torso, then lower to those ridges of thigh muscle that every hockey player seems to have peeking out from under their shorts.

“You good, Lu?”

Shit.

The way he says my name does ridiculous things to my stomach.

I lurch up and clear my throat, feeling as flustered as roadkill Barbie. “Define good.”

He glances at his shirt, now sopping in the irony of Green Goddess Explosion, and his mouth does that twitch thing that I swear is him trying not to laugh.

As his eyes lift back to mine, they skim lower.

Just a flicker, quick enough he could blame it on checking me for injuries, but the heat that prickles across my chest says otherwise.

“This your breakfast?”

“It was,” I mutter, scrambling to my feet and wiping my leggings. “May it rest in peace.”

I pat myself down with what’s left of my dignity. My blonde hair’s falling out of its scrunchie, my baby blue crop top has a green handprint on the boob, and I still have the ghost of the sex-positive podcast haunting my ears.

Logan bends to untangle Miso’s leash from around Dusty’s leg, not flinching when Miso bares her teeth at him, a tiny gargoyle on red alert.

He’s so calm. So casual. So annoyingly competent. I have an almost uncontrollable urge to mess up that composure just to see what happens.

“Eli and Tamara leave you in charge of this psycho again?” he asks, nodding toward Miso.

“Yep.” I shimmy the waistband of my matching leggings. “Off on another pre-season sex romp. Told me to take care of the house and keep Miso from starting fights with passing wildlife.”

His eyes slide back to Miso, who is now trying to dominate Dusty via an aggressive butt-sniffing ritual. “She’s doing great.”

“Thank you, I’ve been training her in diplomacy.”

The corners of his mouth curl, Logan’s version of a grin. A beat of silence follows, which isn’t awkward, just charged—as if he’s waiting for me to say something. Or maybe he wants to say something, but he won’t.

He didn’t used to be like this. When I first met him at Eli and Tamara’s wedding last summer, he was a bit gruff, but not this tense or unreadable.

Back then, he teased me. Made dry comments in that deep voice of his. Rolled his eyes when I made him hold my purse at brunch, got flustered if I dared to flirt in his direction.

And god help me, I liked it.

But I’m starting to think maybe I imagined it. The teasing. The flicker. The thing that sparked in my chest any time he looked at me and held my gaze for a moment too long.

With the boys, he jokes. But with me, he’s polite. Distant and irritatingly immune to my charms. I suspect I’ve been placed in the Eli’s Little Sister box and locked away for safety.

Which means I’ve obviously developed a raging crush on him.

“I’m also walking here because I’m—uh—looking at a house nearby.”

He blinks. “Around here?”

I nod, busying myself by fidgeting with Miso’s leash. “Yep. New build. Open lot on Birch Lane. Still deciding, though. It’s just so cute. Nice kitchen, a sunroom. Clawfoot tub. I’m a sucker for impractical plumbing.”

He doesn’t seem alarmed by the mention of his own street name, which is exactly what I was hoping for. Birch Lane is long. But what he doesn’t know—and what I also didn’t know until I toured it earlier—is that the house I’m considering is directly across from his.

Everyone knows I’ve been house-hunting, and technically, I didn’t pick the location to be near Logan.

I picked it because I love the neighborhood.

It’s close to the school I work for, and it’s a few streets over from Eli and Tamara.

The direct view into Logan’s bedroom, where I imagine he sometimes stands shirtless with a coffee, has nothing to do with it. Obviously.

And, okay, I can only look at houses like this because Eli insisted on gifting me the deposit—his way of saying teachers are criminally underpaid and I want my baby sister close by. He calls it an investment. I call it guilt money for all the times he’s cock-blocked my dating life.

Logan shifts his weight, a slight crease forming between his brows as his gaze dips to the headphone cord still trailing from my ears.

“What is this, 2015? Wired headphones?”

I glance down, only just remembering they’re there, and yanking them out. “Lost my AirPods in the wash. This is my penance till payday.”

He hums with amusement. “Tragic.”

“Don’t shame the classics. These babies have been with me longer than most men I’ve dated.”

“Still, that was an interesting playlist,” he says, nodding at my phone.

“Empowerment podcast,” I say, reaching to give Dusty a scratch behind his ears. “It’s very niche. Very educational. Very cringe-inducing for men.”

One of his shoulders lifts. “Heard worse.”

“Oh yeah? You’re familiar with the Clit Talk Confidential back catalogue?”

He gives me a flat look. “You always blast sex podcasts in public?”

“Only when I’m making a statement.”

“Consider it made.” His eyes drop to a splash of green on my shoulder, and he reaches out to wipe it off. The brief drag of his fingertip skating over my skin is enough to make a lick of heat rush up my spine before I can stop it.

I tilt my head. “Most guys would’ve made a joke by now. Asked if I agreed with the whole moaning thing or something.”

“Don’t need to. I already know your answer.”

Fuck.

“Wow,” I breathe. “That was dangerously close to flirting, Pookie. Should I sit back down?”

He huffs, not a laugh exactly. But before I can say anything more, he turns to go and whistles for Dusty to heel beside him. Miso trots after them like a traitor, and I tug her back.

My brain screams to let him go, to preserve what’s left of my dignity. My mouth doesn’t listen.

“See you at brunch on Sunday?” I call out to him, still buzzing with the aftermath of whatever the hell that was.

He pauses and looks over his shoulder. “Depends. You planning another broadcast of your core values?”

I grin. “Only if you earn the moan.”

His eyes widen for a beat, and his mouth ticks up again before he jogs off, those ridiculous back muscles flexing under his damp shirt as Dusty trots beside him.

My heart hammers as I stand watching him, because Logan Miller does not flirt. Not unless it slips past his defenses before he realizes he’s doing it.

And if I’m not careful, I might start hoping it happens again.