Chapter One
Emelia
Come Monday morning, I'm not even hungover anymore, but I am not mentally prepared to face Royce Elliot, either. Thanks to Ava's unhinged party games on Saturday, I folded, MASH'ed, and fuck-marry-killed my way into a future with him at least six times.
Have I mentioned that I haven't even officially met the man? Yeah, awkward.
All I've got is a highlight reel and a cache full of photos I may or may not have ogled extensively. No, I did not spell Google incorrectly. I mean, I've been staring at the man's photos for a week.
I don't even date athletes!
"This is going to be a disaster," I groan to my reflection in my compact mirror. The woman staring back at me is the picture of professional poise—blonde hair in perfect waves, not a smudge of mascara in sight, lip-liner flawless. It's a lie. I'm an anxious, sweaty mess.
I haven't been this nervous since…actually, I don't think I've ever been this nervous, not even that time I threw up on a client. For the record, that was Nova's fault. I should have known the food at that sketchy carnival she dragged me to would try to murder me.
I snap the compact closed and pick up my phone to text my mom.
Me: I have a new client coming in this morning. What are you and Dad doing?
Mom: Trade you. I'm trying to convince your father that your sister is old enough to date.
Abigail is trying to date? Interesting.
Me: Um, no, thanks. I'll stick with my new client.
Mom: I knew you were going to say that.
I send back a shrugging emoji, grinning to myself. My parents are wild about one another and always have been, but my dad drives her nuts sometimes, especially when it comes to us. As far as he's concerned, we'll never be old enough to date.
He's wildly overprotective. I guess that's just what happens when you fall for someone who has been sick her whole life, like my mom.
She was diagnosed with a form of leukemia when she was a kid.
She's fallen out of remission more than a few times over the years.
My dad lives in fear of losing her or one of us.
Mom: Who's the new client?
Me: Royce Elliot.
Mom: Oh, he's a great skater. Almost as good as your dad was.
I smile, not because she's biased, but because it's true. My dad was incredible on the ice. Royce isn't half bad, either. He's one of the biggest names in the league for a reason. He's unstoppable in front of a net.
Mom: Call me later, baby girl. I want to hear all about it. You're going to do great!
Me: I will. Thanks. I love you.
Mom: Love you too.
I power down the screen and slip my phone into my desk drawer, feeling slightly less anxious than I did before I texted her. She's magic like that. I barely have time to open Royce's file before Regina taps on my door.
"He's here," she says like she's announcing the arrival of the Pope.
Crap.
"Uh…" I cast a frantic glance around my desk, trying to make sure I've hidden all the evidence of my 'research'. Nothing immediately stands out. "Bring him back."
Regina strolls away, her heels clicking against the hardwood floor, and I spend the next three minutes trying not to panic. All I can think about is how often his name appeared during our games on Saturday.
"They were just games," I remind myself. "Just stupid, childish games. They mean nothing. You aren't actually marrying him."
"What stupid, childish games?"
"Jesus!" I jump in my seat, bashing my knee on the desk in the process. My heart pounds like it's trying to win a race. And then I spin around, my gaze landing on Royce.
Lord, have Mercy…
There's no way eyes should be that green in person.
And there's no logical reason his jaw should be that wickedly sharp, either.
And whoever gave him a smile like that just was not playing fair.
At all. The man is sexy as hell on paper.
In person, he's a level of stupid-hot that shouldn't be possible.
"Uh…"
Words, Emelia. Put sounds together into words and then place them into sentences.
Royce leans against the doorframe with his arms crossed, his gray t-shirt clinging to every muscle in his chest as he looks me over, his smile growing. "I know Kris Jónsson's kid isn't talking shit about hockey."
"What?" I stare at him blankly. My brain is broken. He broke it.
"You said something was a stupid, childish game."
"Cootie catchers," I blurt, and then deeply, deeply regret it.
"Cootie catchers?" His brows pull together. "What the fuck is a cootie catcher?"
"A stupid, childish game."
"I'm getting that, babe." He pushes away from the doorframe, taking a step into my office. It suddenly feels a whole lot smaller than it did two minutes ago. Jesus. He's big. No wonder no one can get a puck past him. "What kind of stupid, childish game?"
"Doesn't matter," I say, waving him off. I barely fight back a sigh, relieved my brain is finally firing. "You aren't here to talk about cootie catchers. You're here to talk about representation."
He cocks his head to the side and then grins. "We'll get to that, but I'm a curious motherfucker. Since you won't tell me…" He pulls out his phone, and my soul evacuates my body. Literally flees.
I don't know why I snatch the phone out of his hands. Honestly, I don't. I just dive for it as if my life depends on stopping him, wrestling it out of his hand before he even has a chance to react.
"You stole my phone."
He should be pissed. If our roles were reversed, I'd be livid.
Instead, a deep bark of laughter booms across my office, hitting me in places that are absolutely forbidden in a professional meeting.
"I…I am so sorry," I gasp, staring at him in shock, his phone clutched in my hands. "I don't know why I did that."
"Apparently, you really don't want to discuss cootie catchers." His lips twitch as I slap the phone into his hands. "Your future was that bad, huh?"
"You…I…" I gape at him, almost certain my cheeks are red enough to be mistaken for a stop sign at this point. He knows what cootie catchers are. If the floor doesn't swallow me right now, I'm killing Ava.
"So, tell me, babe," he says, taking a step into my space, so close I smell his aftershave and laundry detergent. So close, the heat rolling off his big body sears into me. "How many kids did it say you'd end up with?"
"Three," I whisper, my mouth bone-dry.
"Three, huh?" His lips curve into a panty-melting smirk. "I can work with that."
He can…what?!