Chapter 2
The guy who caught my gaze from across the room is handsome in an effortless way that makes a gal without a lot of experience forget how to form complete sentences.
His broad shoulders fill out his suit jacket perfectly, and his green eyes linger on me. A slight smile plays at the corners of his mouth, like he’s enjoying some private joke only he’s in on.
I look away quickly as heat rises to my cheeks. I tell myself that gorgeous men at parties equal trouble. This is a scientific fact, like the proper temperature for tempering chocolate or the exact timing for a perfect bread rise.
How do I know this? Because the last time I let myself be charmed by a handsome man with perfect teeth and an easy smile, I ended up dating Lewis Cartee for three months.
We originally met at a party in college, then saw each other a few days later while in line to return items to a big-box store. We thought it was funny that we were both taking back the same vacuum cleaner because, and I quote, “it sucked.” Long story short, the wait was long and we hit it off.
Or so I thought.
On paper, Lewis seemed perfect, studying to work in finance with the goal of living debt-free and buying a house, as well as having an active lifestyle, including a love for white water rafting.
In person, he seemed wonderful until I realized he expected me to drop everything whenever he called.
He’d get super irritated when I had to travel for games and griped that I was too focused on hockey and not enough on fun.
Sounds familiar.
However, to him, it was as if my life’s work, my ticket to Ohio State, and my position as opening center for the best women’s hockey team in the collegiate league at the time was a hobby for me to abandon the moment he wanted to hit the rapids for a long weekend.
Never again.
Besides, this is the NHL New Year’s Eve Toast party. Half the men here are gorgeous in a masculine, brawny way, which means they’re probably hockey players, and the other half are likely agents, coaches, or somehow connected to the sport. Either way, they’re off-limits.
Papa’s voice echoes in my mind. Hockey players think they’re the center of the universe, and they’ll expect everyone else to revolve around their careers.
The same could’ve been said about Lewis Cartee, too.
But the punctuation on Papa’s comments was, Promise me you’ll never date a hockey player, Nina.
Never mind that I was an aspiring hockey player. At least in college. Then I had to go and bust my ankle.
Viggo Bruun wasn’t one to talk about his feelings, but after doing some deductive reasoning, I’ve gleaned that he fit that exact description in his prime—the whole “takes one to know one” concept.
He knew firsthand what hockey players were after, and my mother was all too keen to take advantage of the benefits that came along with that.
When I found out she had left him—and by default, me—for several other hockey players afterward, it became clear.
He didn’t want me anywhere near that world, with the subtext that he didn’t want me to become the kind of woman who chased it.
Bottom line: I can’t date a hockey player.
But my breath hitches. This particular man is built like he could be one—tall and athletic, with the kind of upright, confident posture that speaks of someone comfortable on solid ground and on the ice.
The way he holds himself, the breadth of his back, and even the way he grips his drink suggest strength and control.
These should all be red flags, so why do I feel like waving the white one of surrender? I must be tired from my early morning wake-up time and traveling.
“Is it warm in here?” Emerson fans herself dramatically with her cocktail napkin. “Or did someone just turn up the heat?”
I follow her gaze and realize she’s looking at the same man. Of course she is. Probably half of the single women in this ballroom have noticed him by now.
Trying to sound relaxed, I say, “It’s January in Vegas. It’s always warm.”
“Not that kind of warm,” she sighs dreamily, her voice taking on the tone of someone who’s been reading too many romance novels—we only have Gracie to blame—or thank, depending on how I look at it.
I do my best to heed my father’s warning and remain casually aloof.
Meanwhile, it’s as if Emerson struggles to remain upright, and I don’t think it’s because she’s been drinking. “Auld lang swoon, you know what I mean?”
I do know what she means, which is exactly the problem.
Despite every rational thought in my head, despite Papa’s warnings and my own hard-learned lessons about charming men, I feel that telltale flutter in my chest. The kind that makes a woman like me do stupid things like agree to late-night dates when I should be sleeping, so I can function at a hockey rink the next day.
Or believe someone when they say the sport won’t always come first. Papa made me a priority, but his career dominated our lives, and I can see how easy it would be to get sucked into the thrill of dating someone famous with all its trappings, then turn away from the things that really matter.
I get it. I really do.
So why do I sneak another glance in the guy’s direction?
Our gazes snap together again like a pair of magnets. This time, when our eyes meet across the crowded ballroom, he raises his drink slightly in acknowledgment—a small gesture that feels both casual and intimate. My pulse skips, and I nearly drop my own champagne glass.
Our eye contact holds for what feels like an eternity, but is probably only seconds.
It’s unnerving and thrilling all at once.
Or maybe it’s just my imagination, because although the festive atmosphere is fun for tonight, I am so far out of my element, it’s almost laughable.
If I’m not at the bakery, I’m a homebody, through and through.
Whereas right now, he sees a sparkly dress and a mountain of makeup, underneath is a flour-stained apron and sticky fingers—figuratively speaking. That’s my reality and aside from my promise to Papa, I’m not leaving my life at the bakery for a world I don’t fit into, anyway.
I don’t fit the typical hockey WAG mold. Then again, my group of girlfriends don’t necessarily either. But there has to be a limit on how many smart, beautiful, and sweet women are allotted to date hockey players—kind of like a league salary cap but for relationships.
Bree says I need to get out more. Finding a raccoon by the dumpster behind the bakery at four a.m. is plenty exciting, thank you very much.
But then the music shifts. The DJ transitions to an upbeat and danceable song. Before I can process what’s happening, Emerson grabs my hand and pulls me toward the dance floor.
“Come on! This one is for the single ladies!” She laughs, her enthusiasm overflowing and spilling all over me like New Year’s Eve fizz. “You can’t spend the whole night posing as a wallflower.”
I very much am one of those and prefer the background to the action.
“I like people watching!” I protest as we blend into the crowd of dancing couples, especially handsome people, er, person.
Busting out her dance moves, above the music, she hollers, “This is our time to shine!”
“I was just being ... observant.” I glance over my shoulder, wondering if he’s still there, but I can’t see over the throng of people.
“Come on. Let’s add a little pizzazz to that pout,” she counters, spinning me around with more energy than grace and I bump into an older gentleman.
“Oops. Sorry. Excuse me.”
Meanwhile, a roving photograph snaps pictures. I holler, “Nothing to see here!” But he can‘t hear me over the pumping music.
Emerson hollers, “This is Vegas! It’s New Year’s Eve! Let’s live a little!”
I wonder if Bree assigned her to babysit me, and by that, I mean make sure I get into a little trouble.
However, as the song builds, I can’t help but move along with the beat.
I start to relax. The pop song about letting loose is infectious.
The crowd is happy and celebratory. For the first time in months, I feel some of the constant tension in my shoulders begin to ease.
The worries about the bakery’s lease renewal, the stress of running the business solo, and the pressure of keeping Bibi’s legacy alive all start to fade.
This is exactly what the girls meant when they insisted I needed this trip. When was the last time I danced? When was the last time I did something just for fun, without calculating the monthly cost or worrying about the consequences?
Emerson spins me again, and laughter bubbles up from somewhere deep in my chest. Maybe this is what my word for the year means.
Rise.
Rise above my preoccupations and fears. Rise to meet new experiences instead of hiding behind habits and the small little life I live.
The song builds to a crescendo, and I close my eyes for a moment, letting the sound wash over me. I feel free in a way I haven’t in years, like I’m remembering a part of myself I’d forgotten existed.
That’s when I smell fresh mint and something clean, like ice and winter air with a hint of cedar. The scent is completely different from the mix of perfume and champagne that otherwise fills the ballroom, and it makes me turn around instinctively.
Time slows.
The handsome stranger from across the room stands just a few feet away in a rare break in the crowd. Our eyes meet again, and this time there aren’t any bodies between us, no distance to keep us apart. This close, he makes my belly flutter.
As if in a dream, he extends his hand toward me. Not grabbing, not presuming, just offering. An invitation.
I hesitate for exactly one heartbeat while every warning Papa ever gave me flashes through my mind. But then the music swells, Emerson gives me an encouraging push from behind, and my hand is in his before I can talk myself out of it.
We dance.