Scoring the Pucking Goal (LA Vipers #3)

Chapter 1

FREYA

This is crazy.

I’m not qualified for this.

I barely even know this guy.

And yet, without instruction from my brain, I find myself climbing out of my rideshare and staring up at the building looming before me, my heart in my throat.

My hands trembling, I move forward, toward the security guard for this incredibly flashy apartment building.

He’s watching me as if he’s expecting me.

You’ve got this, Freya. Walk into that building with your head held high, confident that you can do this.

A laugh threatens to erupt.

I have no idea how to do this.

Sure, I might have been cooking almost all my life, but I’ve never done it for someone other than for fun. Certainly never for a professional athlete.

What he needs is a chef. Not a cook.

And yet, for some bizarre reason, I’m the one standing here.

Behind me, my rideshare disappears down the street, taking with it my ability to escape.

You’ve got this. He asked you here for a reason.

Gripping the plate in my hand a little tighter, I lift my chin and step up to the automatic door.

“Good afternoon, ma’am,” the kind-looking security guard says as he watches me approach his station. “What have you got there?” he asks, his wrinkled eyes dropping to the plate.

The confidence I was lacking outside suddenly appears as I lift the foil covering the cookies I made this morning.

“Oh my,” he breathes. “They smell divine.”

“You’re more than welcome to take one. I’m not sure Cole needs them all.”

His eyes flash and his smile grows. “Oh, I don’t know. I’ve seen how much takeout that man orders.”

“I’m Freya Price,” I say, holding out my spare hand.

“And I’m Melvin Baker. Mr. Hansley told me he was expecting a visitor, but he didn’t mention she’d bring treats.”

I smile at Melvin as warmth floods through me.

He isn’t as old as my grandpa was when he passed, but he has the same aura. Kind, gentle, caring. Although, considering he works security, I’d be tempted to say he has an edge, too.

“Oh, I’m sure you’re used to girls turning up here for him.”

Melvin’s smile turns knowing before he leans forward as if he’s going to tell me a secret. “That may be true, but I don’t open the door for just anyone, my dear.”

My cheeks burn.

“Mr. Hansley has been delayed slightly. He told me to send you up and to let you know that he won’t be long.”

My stomach turns over.

I look around the lobby of this building again, taking in the gold detailing, the perfectly clean mirrors and fresh flowers that fill the air with a sweet, welcoming scent.

I’m no stranger to wealth. I’ve seen it in many different forms over the last few years.

But even still, I can’t help but feel a little uncomfortable.

I can only imagine the apartment that waits for me above.

Something tells me that it doesn’t have a kitchen designed for actually cooking in.

It’s meant to look pretty while the takeout containers are unpacked.

“Oh, it’s okay. I can wait down here for—”

“Nonsense. You don’t want to be down here listening to me when you could be up there relaxing.”

I smile at him, but I fear it may look more like a grimace.

“He won’t be long, Miss Price. And anyway, I’ve got this to enjoy,” he says, holding up his cookie.

Seeing his smile reminds me why I cook. I might not be a professional or have any kind of training, but that—the happiness an incredible mouthful of food brings people—is why.

He presses a button, and the closest elevator door opens for me.

“Good luck up there, Miss Price,” Melvin calls.

“Please, call me Freya.” He smiles at me softly and nods.

Twinkling music fills the elevator as it rises through the building. As it comes to a stop, I inhale and close my eyes, steeling myself for what’s to come.

The doors slide open, revealing an entrance hall that confirms all my fears.

He lives in the penthouse.

A huge piece of colorful modern art hangs on the wall.

Honestly, it looks like something Kodie Rivers’s daughter could have done in kindergarten.

And beneath it sits a bench made from what looks like a solid piece of wood that’s been varnished and polished to within an inch of its life.

I’m pretty sure it has to be the most uncomfortable bench on the planet.

As I move toward the only door up there, even more doubt starts to creep in.

If the apartment beyond is styled similarly to out here...

I might be an okay cook, but I am not a tidy one. And if Cole Hansley is expecting me to fit into a perfectly square box, we’re going to have a problem.

I’m messy, I’m loud—or at least my singing is, when I’m in the zone—and I’m clumsy as hell. The exact kind of person who doesn’t belong in an over-designed penthouse.

I’m on the verge of turning around and giving up before I’ve even started.

My heart is racing; my hands are trembling, and I’m sweating.

None of it is a good look.

I stare at the front door and the shiny handle waiting for me to push it open.

My sweaty palms are surely going to mark it.

As I stand there debating whether to stay or to go, my cell buzzes.

Pulling it free, I find exactly what I was expecting: a message from Mom, wishing me good luck. But that’s not the only notification.

The other has acid rushing up my throat.

A memory from about two years ago with my ex.

I thought I’d removed all of them from my storage. Clearly, one slipped the net.

But as much as I hate looking at him and thinking about the time I wasted following him around the world, in this moment, it’s exactly what I need.

Shoving my cell back into my purse, I march forward and open the door hiding what could be my future job from me.

“Oh,” I breathe as I step inside, letting the door close quietly behind me.

The scent in here is softer, more welcoming. And so is…well…everything.

I’m only in the entryway, and already I feel like I’ve stepped into an entirely different universe.

The wall beside me is almost entirely wooden doors, which I assume is storage. Opposite is a matching sideboard with a bowl on top with keys in it. And the art above it…hockey.

A smile pulls at my lips, and I find myself moving deeper into the space.

The hallway opens up to a huge open-plan living, kitchen, and dining area with a huge balcony that showcases the most incredible view of downtown LA.

But unlike what I was expecting, this place looks like a home.

The navy couch is massive and covered in gray and blue cushions.

There’s even a knitted blanket thrown over the back.

The kitchen, although pristine as if it’s never been used, is soft and welcoming.

Already, I can picture myself standing at the vast island, looking out over the city as I create all kinds of dishes and sweet treats.

My heart continues racing, but suddenly, it’s not with anxiety; it’s with excitement, and that terrifies me.

I chastise myself as I saunter toward the kitchen. I may have stereotyped Cole and this building, but clearly, I was very, very wrong. I guess that’s what happens when you spend a few years living with someone who can buy everything and anything they want to show the world how successful they are.

This penthouse isn’t something to show off. It’s a home. Somewhere he comes to relax, not to entertain.

I shiver as my fingertips connect with the cool marble countertop. Perfect for making pastry.

Instantly, recipes rattle through my head.

Pausing at the double oven, I pull it open and gaze inside. It looks like it’s straight from the showroom—not a single crumb or splash mark.

The stove and griddle are exactly the same.

No one has ever cooked in here.

Excitement shoots through me at the thought of being the first.

I begin pulling open drawers and cupboards, forgetting that this is someone’s home and that I’m totally snooping.

He has everything—every tool and gadget I could possibly need to create an array of dishes each day.

I find the cutlery, the saucepans, and the baking trays. A pantry full of unused herbs and spices, cans of beans, and bottles of sauces for cuisines of all kinds.

There is even a shelf dedicated to baking.

Curious, I pull out a bag of flour and turn it around to look at the expiration date. My eyes widen.

This has been bought recently.

When I get to the refrigerator, I find something similar. Fresh meat that’ll last until the end of the week, vegetables and fruits that are as bright as if they’ve just been dug up and picked.

I was expecting it to be empty. Maybe a couple of cans of beer and a moldy block of cheese. But…there’s everything to feed not only the man who lives here but an entire family for quite some time.

The freezer isn’t as well stocked, and I can’t help but laugh when I discover what it mostly consists of.

Ice cream.

A man after my own heart.

Cole clearly has his priorities in order.

I continue searching, so lost to discovering all the delights this place has to offer that I don’t realize I’m no longer alone.

The second a throat clears, I shriek, stand up straight, and immediately hit my head on the cupboard door I’d left open above me.

“Ow, damn it,” I curse, holding the sore spot.

“Shit, are you okay?” a familiar, deep voice asks.

Mortification burns through me.

I squeeze my eyes closed as the bump on my head continues to pound at the same increased rate as my heart.

Do not cry, Freya. It’s already bad enough.

I’m still desperately trying to get a hold of myself and my emotions when his manly scent invades my senses. The citrus scent that hit me when I walked in here mixes with something earthier, sandalwood maybe.

Whatever it is, I want more of it.

“Let me see,” he rasps, gently wrapping his fingers around my wrist and pulling my hand from my head.

My eyes fly open at his touch, and I realize I’m staring right at his throat. My eyes move down to a very fitted white T-shirt.

My temperature spikes. I haven’t been this close to a man since…well…him.

He was a perfect gentleman the night of the Valentine’s gala. But we danced and it was the first time I touched a man since…

Nope. Don’t go there, Freya.

“You’re lucky,” he mutters, interrupting my thoughts.

Based on my current situation, I can’t help but agree.

“O-oh?” My voice is all breathy, and I curse myself for it.

“You haven’t split the skin. Just a little bump. I have some painkillers, if you’d like some.”

“Um…no, I think I’ll survive.”

“Good to hear.” He moves away and pulls out one of the stools tucked under the island. He has his back to the floor-to-ceiling windows, leaving me with one incredible view. “So, do you like what you see?”