Chapter 1 #3
“Later,” I echo. “Maybe.”
Theo waves goodbye to the man he hopes is his new buddy, before he shuffles back toward his corner, glancing over his shoulder every few steps like Sawyer might disappear if he stops looking.
And then it’s back to me and this six-foot-something embodiment of everything I’ve been trying to avoid for the past three years. Hockey. Attention. Risk. The ghost of my ex-husband’s obsession standing in my shop wearing a hoodie with a cardinal on it and an apologetic smile.
“So,” Sawyer says, shifting the bag on his shoulder. “I know this is...unexpected. Judging by the reception I’m getting, it’s also probably not ideal. But I’m here, and I’m trying to do this right.” He pauses, then adds, “I promise I won’t break anything.”
I stare at him. “You broke a plant into a thousand pieces four days ago.”
“Okay, fair.” He winces. “But in my defense, that was an accident.”
“Was the metaphor an accident, too?”
His mouth twitches. “The metaphor was ambitious.”
“The metaphor was a disaster.”
“Also fair.” He’s grinning now, like my irritation is amusing rather than intimidating. “Look, I know I’m not exactly employee of the month material. But I’m a fast learner. I’m good with my hands.”
The second the words leave his mouth, his eyes widen slightly. “That came out wrong.”
“You think?”
Charlie coughs loudly behind me. I’d almost forgotten he was there.
Sawyer rubs the back of his neck, and for the first time since he walked in, he looks genuinely uncomfortable. “Can we start over? I’ll just stand here. You tell me what not to touch. I won’t touch it. Simple.”
“I have a lot of fragile items in this shop.”
“Then I won’t touch any of them.”
“Your job is touching things. Aggressively.”
His grin returns, slow and dangerous. “Only on the ice.”
My face heats. Charlie coughs again. I’m going to kill him.
“Look,” I say, crossing my arms, “I don’t know what Carol told you, but this shop is barely staying afloat. I can’t afford chaos. I can’t afford the attention that comes with bad press. And I definitely can’t afford you breaking something that costs more than your hockey stick.”
“My stick costs four hundred dollars.”
I blink. “What?”
“Custom curve. Specific flex. They’re not cheap.”
“That’s insane.” Also further proof I will need to rob a bank or sell ten thousand plants if Theo insists on lessons eventually.
“That’s hockey.” He shrugs, unfazed. “But your point stands. I get it. You don’t want me here. I’m a liability. A walking disaster who doesn’t know a fern from another kind of fern.”
“Succulent,” I say automatically.
“What?”
“You said ‘another kind of fern’ but you should say something opposite, like a succulent.”
“A succulent, huh?” His smile goes soft at the edges. “See? I’m learning already."
Darn it. I’m not supposed to find him charming.
“Fine,” I hear myself say, even though every instinct is screaming at me to throw him out. “You can stay.”
“Really?”
“For now. But we’re establishing rules.”
“I love rules,” he says with a nod. “Give ‘em to me.”
Despite everything—the panic, the financial pressure, the way my son is currently peeking around the corner with hearts in his eyes—I almost smile. Almost.
“Rule one,” I say firmly. “You don’t touch anything unless I explicitly tell you to.”
Sawyer nods solemnly. “Got it.”
“Rule two: You show up on time. Not early. Not late. On time.”
“Noted.”
“Rule three—” I pause, trying to figure out what rule three should be, and Sawyer leans against the counter—carefully, not touching any plants—and waits.
“Rule three,” I finally say, “is that when this doesn’t work out, you leave quietly and don’t make it my problem.”
Something shifts in his expression. The amusement fades, replaced by something more serious. More real.
“Okay,” he says quietly. “I hear you on all of these. No touching, be on time, and that last point…well, just know I plan on making sure this works out here, so maybe let’s not give this whole scenario any more negative energy, yeah?”
We stare at each other. I think he just subtly dug at me and called me negative, but as a single mother I’m gonna let that slide.
This time. Around us, the shop is still and quiet except for Vivaldi drifting through the speakers and the sound of papers shuffling while Theo continues to pretend he’s not eavesdropping from the back of the room.
Charlie, thankfully, clears his throat. “I’m going to check on the rosemary,” he announces before he disappears, leaving us alone. Bless his heart. That’s twice today I forgot he was in the room.
Sawyer shifts his weight. “So. When do I start?”
I look at the man who’s just crashed into my carefully controlled life like a hockey puck through glass—smiling, unbothered, already standing in the wreckage like it’s exactly where he belongs.
At the hopeful tilt of his mouth. The way he looks at me like we’re old friends being reintroduced after years apart instead of two strangers one bad decision away from disaster.
And at the tiny, traitorous part of me that wants to believe him when he says it’s all going to work out.
“We start,” I say slowly, because caution is my love language, “after the weekend. This coming Monday. Can you do that?”
His grin returns—bright, devastating, and wildly unconcerned with my emotional survival. “Deal.”
I watch him walk away, my shop still standing, my heart absolutely not, and realize two things at once.
One: I’ve just agreed to let a professional hockey player into my life.
Two: Monday suddenly feels way too close.