Chapter 6
More than a string of failures
Kazimir
After filing a non-consensual videotaping report with the police, I suggested we stop by one of my restaurants in Brooklyn for a late lunch.
Harley didn’t argue.
“This has to be the best craft burger I’ve ever had in my life,” she says. “And these hand-cut fries…” She does a chef’s kiss.
Her spirits have lifted.
Good food is salvation for the soul. “Everything tastes better over open flames.”
“I believe you.” She takes the last bite of her burger.
Watching her eat food from one of my restaurants with such gusto is the greatest compliment.
“Dee-licious.” She wipes her mouth with a napkin.
“Glad it hit the spot.”
“So, how does a hockey legend become a restaurateur?”
“The restaurants and brewery were an investment while I was still collecting Stanley Cups. I have great staff and my CEO was kickass. It so happened she got married to an Australian wine maker and moved Down Under at the same time I had to come to the conclusion that if I didn’t retire from playing hockey, the next injury might be one I wouldn’t recover from.
I was too young to spend the rest of my life walking around with a cane.
So, eleven months ago, when I hung up my hockey jersey, I took over the management of my restaurants and the brewery.
It was a steep learning curve, but thank God, I belong to a club that allows me to tap into the knowledge of some of the most successful businessmen and women in New York. ”
“And at the end of the last hockey season, a couple months after Number 22 retired, you made history off the ice.”
“Yeah, I made history for having the most acrimonious divorce ever. My ex-wife was a godsend for gossip sites.” A pro at tarnishing my reputation.
“That was pretty off the charts,” Harley says, “but I’m talking about the reason why your ex-wife dragged out your divorce.”
My ex is the poster child for why greed is one of the seven deadly sins.
I wince at the memory of the day that placed my name in the Guinness World Records, and it had nothing to do with my athletic prowess on the ice. “The best way to flip my mood is to bring my ex-wife up in a conversation.”
“I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Nothing good comes out of talking about Devlyn Frostburg.”
“Same goes for Chett Frostburg,” she says.
“Things didn’t work out between the two of you?”
She shakes her head.
Good.
“Remember the incident at the beach in the Hamptons?”
“You mean when my selfish ex-stepson threw a tantrum because I wouldn’t allow him and his drunk friends to use the hot tub and I didn’t want to babysit grown ass men and their girlfriends?”
She nods. “I was so irate by his childish attitude, when we got to the hotel you booked for us, I asked for a separate room.”
I sit a little straighter.
“I was told, I’d have to pay for it, as the only room left was an upgrade that was on your no-go list. I agreed. I didn’t want to hear Chett rant. Poor baby didn’t get his way after his stepdad opened his Hamptons cottage for him and his friends.” She rolls her eyes.
I like this woman even more.
“Chett was pissed off, but there was no way I was going to sleep in the same bed as someone who was that entitled.”
She didn’t sleep with him that night?
The thought was driving me out of my fucking mind.
“The next morning, as I was having breakfast, his mother sat in front of me and had the audacity to inform me I wasn’t good enough for her soon-to-be-Stanley-Cup-winning son because I didn’t have any hockey affiliations, therefore, I could never further his career.
I’m the type who would manipulate her son into knocking me up––so I could mooch off him––but he’d get nothing in return.
I was a liability. I stared at her in disbelief. ”
“That’s Devlyn for you. She manages every aspect of her son’s hockey career––even who he hooks up with. In fact, she manages his hookup schedule. And vets every woman.”
Her jaw drops.
“My ex-wife is a piece of work.”
“And a cheating bitch.”
I arch a brow. “You followed the circus that was my divorce?”
“With rapt attention.”
“So, you’ve been stalking me?”
She brushes a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “You made quite the impression on me the first time I met you.”
“Was it my dazzling smile?”
She frowns. “I must’ve checked at least a thousand of your photos online, and you never smile.”
“Should I be worried, Miss Lancaster of your stalker tendencies?”
Her cheeks blush to a pretty shade of pink. “Chett was the first hockey player I ever dated––I guess, hooked up with––and when he mentioned his stepdad was a hockey legend, I wanted to make sure I came prepared to your Hamptons cottage.”
I grind my teeth at the mention of my ex-stepson, jealousy curling my stomach at the idea he had her first.
“It was research,” she says. “I didn’t want to come across ignorant in case you decided to quiz me.”
Good save, sweetheart, but you just admitted to spending way too much time checking me out online. “Smiling is overrated.”
“Right.” She offers a slow nod. “We’re going to have to disagree on that one.”
I shrug. “You keep on smiling.” And dazzling me with your perfect smile.
She shakes her head. “As I was saying, while we were on the beach in the Hamptons, even though I didn’t know you had caught your wife cheating on you in your own house with the captain of the Boston team on the day you threw a birthday party for her fortieth birthday and your stepson’s twenty-fifth birthday, and I showed up at your cottage with Chett, I was intrigued by you. ”
I’ve been described many ways, but I don’t think I’ve been intriguing to anyone before. What you see is what you get with me.
“The press dubs you the Roy Kent of hockey. They say you’re so intense, when you’re on the ice, it’s like you’re mad at the puck.
Sure, that means you’re grumpy and brooding, and you think smiling is overrated.
” She narrows her gaze at me. “But deep down inside, you have a heart of gold. Many may call you the beast on the ice, but off the ice, you’re Mr. Softy. ”
What the hell? “I’m no Mr. Softy.”
She nods. “Yes, you are. And today, I can add another title to the list.”
“Because Mr. Softy isn’t emasculating enough?”
She tilts her head back and laughs.
I’m mesmerized by the beautiful smoothness of her neck.
She reaches out and places a hand over mine.
The contact is electrifying.
Her eyes bounce up to meet mine.
She felt it too.
She clears her throat. “You, Kazimir Lindstrom, are my knight in shining armor. You saved me from the basement dungeon I was trapped in. I can’t thank you enough for opening your home to me.”
“You haven’t seen my home yet. I might be living in a dilapidated shack.”
She rolls her eyes. “Somehow, I doubt that.” She removes her hand from mine, and I miss her warmth. She glances around the restaurant. “Not bad for a second career. The food is amazing and it’s a full house during the lunch hour.”
Message received. We’re changing the subject. “This is a great location. My best friend Erik Thornton bought the three-story building on the other side of Creamy Heaven—the ice cream shop we co-own. He bought it to launch his business once he retired from hockey.”
“Did he retire due to an injury?”
“A career-ending injury forced him to hang up his skates three years ago. It was a heart-wrenching decision, but it wasn’t all bad news for Erik. He met his MD fiancée during his rehab.”
“Oh, the injured hockey player and the doctor get their happy ever after.” She claps. “Grey’s Anatomy meets Faceoff: Inside the NHL. Love it.”
I shake my head. “I forgot you read romance books.”
“I don’t read romance books, I devour them.”
I’d like to devour something… and it isn’t romance books.
I shift in my seat.
“There’s a question burning my tongue,” she says.
“Shoot.”
“Why craft beer?”
“In hockey, the details are what win games. Craft is the same way. You can taste the work that went into the brew kettle, and that beats a factory line any day of the week.”
“Someone is passionate.”
“You bet. I’m as passionate about craft beer as I am about open flame cooking—hence the two Craft Burgers and Brew locations and Number 22—the high-end restaurant I own.”
“I’m guessing you love ice cream too, if you co-own a shop with your best friend.”
“Erik could live off ice cream alone. We traveled to Italy years ago, and he ate gelato two to three times a day during the ten-day trip—he had to try every freaking shop in Rome. I razzed him about it, telling him since he had the right side of his jaw dislocated because of a blow from a hockey stick, resulting in him getting his jaw wired shut. The only dessert he could consume with ease was ice cream.”
“Gosh that’s horrible.”
“Comes with the territory.” I graze a finger over the scar between my eyebrows.
“That’s from a fight?”
“The other guy had it coming.” I got a penalty for decking the asshole, but I shut him up for bringing up my father and his then wife. “I’ve had my fair share of cuts, but this one never fully healed.”
She frowns. “Hockey is a violent sport.”
“You mean, an adrenaline pumping sport.”
She scrunches her nose.
She wasn’t lying when she said she’d never watched or attended a hockey game in her life when I first met her in the Hamptons. We have to change that.
I veer back to her question. “The reason I decided to co-own the ice cream shop with Erik is because at Number 22 we’re renowned for our most sought-after dessert—the lava cake—”
“I love molten cake,” she says. “Sorry I interrupted you.”
I brush it off with a hand gesture. “We have one new lava cake flavor every month, which we serve with vanilla ice cream. We make the ice cream in-house—I’m particular about quality.
Over time, more and more patrons were asking to buy pints of the ice cream to take home, so I decided to expand.
Erik came along for the ride to score free ice cream. ”
She laughs, and the sound is so light-hearted—and such a contrast to the state I found her in earlier—that I want to bottle it up.
The waitress serving us approaches our table. “Dessert?”
Perfect timing.
I swing my gaze to the bubbly blonde sitting across from me. “Harley?”
“I’ll never say no to dessert. What do you recommend?”
I glance up at the waitress. “Creamy Heaven is working on a few new flavors. Why don’t you bring us samplers of each one. And two scoops of coffee ice cream for the lady. Also, please pack a couple pints in a cooler bag to go.”
“Got it,” the waitress says.
“Ooohhhh. Coffee ice cream?” Harley fans herself. “Be still my beating heart.”
I can do better than that, sweetheart. “Throw in a few glazed donuts so we can make donut ice cream sandwiches.”
The waitress nods. “Glazed donuts, an assortment of samplers from Creamy Heaven, two scoops of Harley’s Java Jolt for immediate enjoyment, and two pints of Harley’s Java Jolt for the road.”
Shit.
Harley tilts her head to the side. “Harley’s Java Jolt?”
“Yes,” the waitress says. “That’s the name of our coffee ice cream. It’s one of our best sellers. We use premium roasted beans and brew the espresso in-house.” She covers her mouth and tilts her head in Harley’s direction. “Creamy Heaven’s customers love knowing that about the Harley Java Jolt.”
She sounds like she’s making a presentation to board members.
In slow motion, Harley shifts her attention to me. “Harley’s Java Jolt? You named an ice cream after me?”
My obsession with this woman since meeting her after finding my cheater-ex fucking another man in my cottage wasn’t supposed to come out this way.
I shift in my seat. “You didn’t hide your love of coffee ice cream in the Hamptons. That, combined with your energy…” and how damn alive you are. I attempt to loosen the collar of my shirt. “It made for a catchy name for an ice cream flavor.”
Harley’s jaw drops.
“You’re Harley?” The waitress arches a brow.
Harley glances up at her and nods.
“You’re the lucky girl. We’ve all been wondering who the mysterious Harley was. And today, I get to meet her in the flesh.”
I scrub my forehead with my hand.
No, this isn’t embarrassing.
“I don’t know what you did to bewitch the boss, but the coffee ice cream is the only name that wasn’t up for a vote by committee. All the other ice cream flavors were.”
“Thank you, Katie,” I say.
“What?” She furrows her brows. “I think she should know.”
Too much information.
“I’m a romance girly,” Katie says, “and I’ve never read that kind of display of—”
“Oh, wow, look at the time.” I make a show of checking my watch. “It would be great if you went and grabbed our order.”
“Okay, okay. I know when I’m being dismissed.”
She rushes off.
Chatty and friendly waitresses are great way of insuring patrons come back. It’s also a great way to shine a bright light on all your deep, dark secrets.
I drum my fingers against the table.
Harley’s eyes are burning a hole in the side of my head as I pretend to study the daily specials on the chalkboard.
“Kaz?”
“Yes.” My gaze doesn’t waver from the menu.
“Kaz?”
I sigh and glance her way.
“I can’t believe you did that. That’s so… sweet. And amazing. And freaking awesome. And it makes me feel like I’m a superstar. And like I’m ten feet tall…” Sadness veils her eyes. “Your gesture makes me feel like I’m more than a string of failures.”
Harley bursts into tears.