ZOE

My heart hammers in my chest as I step inside Andre’s home.

I hate the way he can push me to my limits within just five minutes of being in his presence. I hate the way he can turn my dislike for him into something that feels a lot more like lust. Want.

More.

All right, I’ll be honest—I want more of Andre, more of the guy who stuck up for me in front of Walter Collins, more of the guy who makes me feel giddy with laughter. But he’s not willing to open up, so wanting anything more really doesn’t do much for me.

My gaze latches onto a photograph on an entryway table, and the sound of my stilettos beating into the marble floor quiets as I roll to a stop. Bright blue eyes blink back at me from within the frame. The kid is maybe two years old, more toddler than anything else, with a bright smile and messy brown hair.

“Your nephew?” I ask Andre over my shoulder. “He’s cute.”

Andre moves silently toward the table, his hand outreached. His long, tapered fingers pause mere inches from the black frame, before curling into a fist. “Yeah.” His arm falls back to his side. “He is.”

One quick look at his face tells me that he’s uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. I want to pry, to dig a little deeper into why his mouth has flat-lined, but I doubt I’ll get anywhere.

Andre Beaumont is not a talker, something I learned quite well in his car the other night.

With one last glance at the young boy, I twist away and motion to the house’s grand entryway. The ceiling is twenty-feet tall, and a wrought-iron spiral staircase winds up to the second floor. A decorative chandelier hangs about four feet above my head. “You sure decided to live in style when you came to Boston, didn’t you?”

His house back in Detroit was a lot more modest. A historic Victorian that had seen better days, but it was cozy and sleepy, a perfect place for a man who spent the majority of his year on the road.

“It works for now,” Andre tells me. He shows me his back as he heads into the room next door, which turns out to be the kitchen.

To hell with it—I can’t help but pry, just a little. “Because this is your last season? And you have no plans to stick around?”

The look he gives me would probably cower a lesser person, but I know Andre, both as a person as well as in the biblical sense. So, I stand my ground and wait him out. He’ll give in. He always does.

With a sigh, he runs his fingers through his messy, black hair. “You’re annoying as all hell sometimes, you know that?”

I’ll take that as a compliment, thank you very much. Out loud, I say, “Someone sounds cranky this morning.”

His mouth pulls down. “I just worked out.”

Against my better judgment, I let myself drink in his appearance. He wasn’t lying when he said he was sweaty. His cheeks are still flushed from activity, his T-shirt damp with perspiration. As always, his jaw is unshaven, and I have the absurd urge to walk up to him and run my hand over the stubble. To see if it’s as abrasive to the touch as it looks.

“If you only came here to ogle me, Zoe, I would have at least showered for you.”

The sound of Andre’s voice snaps me out of my (ahem) blatant perusal, and heat warms my cheeks. “That’s not—I mean, I’m not . . . ”

“You are,” he returns silkily, “and you did.”

I wave my hand at his body, as if that’s answer enough. Words, beautiful things that they are, have fled my brain.

Andre’s mouth tugs up into a rare grin, and he kicks away from the counter to swagger over to me. And, yes, it’s a swagger. Hips slung low, chin dipped down. At the look of intent in his dark eyes, alarm bells spring into magnifying gongs, warning me to back the hell up and escape.

I don’t have the chance.

Before I can even recognize what’s going on, his arm wraps around my waist and pulls me in close. My cheek ends up plastered to his hard-as-a-rock pectoral muscles.

“Oh, my God,” I whisper.

His palms settle on my shoulder blades. “Say it with me now, honey—Andre, you are a god among men.”

I don’t know whether to laugh or to stab him with the closest sharp object. It’s a tough decision, made even tougher because the longer that we stand here together, the faster my heart pounds and the want spreads throughout my body like an infestation.

An infestation that I doubt will ever be curable.

Confession: I miss him, in more ways than one.

One of his large hands moves south, just enough that I feel his palm skate the ridges of my spine. His other stays firmly planted on my upper back, keeping me tied to him, keeping me from fleeing.

Which is the ironic thing, as Andre Beaumont is the one who’s in the habit of running.

Forcing steel into my voice, I say, “Are you done with pulling the macho act?”

His rich laughter rustles the top of my hair. “Not a chance in hell.”

I inhale sharply, grappling with the decision to stay in his embrace or to push my way to freedom. Briefly, I let my eyes fall shut. Just for a moment. “You never used to hug me.”

The words leave me on a shuddered breath, unintentional, and I know the minute they register in his brain because his chest flinches under my cheek. “It wasn’t allowed.”

“It’s not allowed now either.”

He doesn’t answer, not right away, and I wonder if I’ve made a disastrous mistake bringing up our muddled past. Then, so quietly I barely hear him, he says, “You’re smart for turning me away the other night, Zo. Trust me on that. We’re better off as friends.”

The word lands like lead in my belly. “Is that what we are?” I lick my top lip nervously. “Friends?”

His arms tighten around me. “I’ve been a shitty one.”

“You did stick up for me in front of Walter . . . thank you for that.”

“That’s the thing, Zo, you shouldn’t even be saying thank you in the first place. It should be expected that I have your back, always.”

I’m struggling to find breath, because even though he’s telling me everything I’ve wanted to hear for months now . . . the words aren’t enough. Because you want more. So stupid, but yes, I want more. “What if . . . ” Trailing off, I swallow past the lump in my throat, my nails digging into his back. “What if I don’t—”

“I want to be friends with you again, Zoe. You calling me at two in the morning just to talk, us going for runs, that sort of thing.”

Something in his voice doesn’t ring quite right. My fingers find his shirt, and I push back just enough so that I can peer up at his rugged face. “Then why bother doing this? Why bother telling me that there’s no way we’ll have sex again, only for you to try and kiss me the other day? And now this.”

“Would you believe me if I said that I have a hard time resisting you?”

“No, I wouldn’t. I think you have a hard time resisting temptation, whether it’s on or off the ice. No matter what you do, you’re always aiming for the sin bin.”

At that, the pads of his fingers tighten on my back before he lets me go completely. His expression is unreadable, so it’s not much of a surprise when he rolls his big shoulders in a shrug, and says, “You’re right. I guess I get a thrill out of the chase.”

Do not react.

Do not react.

Do not react.

As much as I want to curl into myself at his words, I force a bright smile onto my face. Stand strong, girl. “Makes sense,” I tell him.

His dark eyes meet mine, questioning. “Does it?” he asks, his voice low.

No, it doesn’t. “Sure.”

“Right.”

I tear my gaze away from his, and seat myself at his kitchen island. We need to get back on track. Slipping my hot-pink bag from my shoulder, I place it on the table and rifle through the contents. Out comes my laptop, as well as my day planner. I find my hot-pink pen in one of the zippered side compartments.

Andre’s brows pull low. “You came prepared.”

Prepared for what, though? Prepared to feel desire twine through my limbs? To feel warm and secure and loved even when he’s telling me that I’m better off without him?

Somehow, I don’t think that’s what he means.

“We have a lot to talk about,” I say instead, opening my laptop and turning it on. “I have a plan.”

He takes the seat opposite mine, his big shoulders bunching as he plants his forearms on the kitchen island’s counter. “You mentioned that earlier.”

Well, isn’t he paying attention for once? With a few clicks on my touchpad, I pull up the document I worked on all last night. “How do you feel about kids?” I ask.

When he doesn’t answer, I glance up and note his horrified expression. “Feel free to stop cupping your testicles, Beaumont. If I needed a sperm donor, you wouldn’t be my first choice.”

His frown cracks, just as I intended it to, but the weirded-out expression on his face stays in place. “I’d be anyone’s first choice,” he says gruffly.

I nod sagely. “Ah, yes, I forgot—you’re a god among men.” Rolling my eyes, I flip open my day planner to today’s date, and then uncap my pen. All right, we’re ready for business. “Like I said, I’m not after your little guys. I’m talking about in general. Are you okay with kids? I mean—your sister’s little boy is cute.”

“Yeah, I’m . . . ” He coughs into a closed fist. “I’m good with them.”

“Great!” I slide my laptop around, and then use the tip of my pen to tap on the screen. “Right there.”

Andre’s mouth moves as he reads the words to himself. One second passes, two seconds pass . . . by the time we’re nearing ten seconds, I’m squirming in my seat with nervous anticipation. “So? What do you think?”

Dark eyes blink slowly. “You want us to hold a hockey camp?”

Nerves bundle in my throat, and I push them down and away. “It’s the sort of event that most teams do,” I say, trying my very best not to let my insecurities rise. “You did it with the Red Wings every year. The Boston Bruins do it, too. But the Blades never have, not once since the franchise started.”

His teeth momentarily settle over his lower lip, and, boy, I wish that one look wasn’t so potent. “This is a big undertaking, Zoe.”

“Sure it is—but it’s also brilliant. What better way to show the world that you’re not completely heartless than by hanging with kids for the afternoon, doing what you do best?”

“Zoe, what I do best is an adults-only party.”

My mouth opens, and I go so far as to lift a finger, only to realize that I have nothing to say to that, except for, “Get your mind out of the gutter.”

“I’m just being honest.”

“Stop being honest, then.”

The corners of Andre’s eyes crease when he flashes a smile. “I think you might be the only woman who has ever said that to me.”

“Glad to be the first,” I reply, before tapping my pen against the laptop screen again. “Really, though, if you think about it, this is great. We’ll get the Blades together—the whole team—and invite the media. Instead of barking at them—”

“I don’t bark.”

“Okay, instead of growling at them, you’ll have a nice, polite conversation, just like you did at Fame. Maybe we can get the local news station out there, too. Get the whole thing catered.”

“Will this be held at the Garden?” The panicked look has lessened a little, and unless I’m mistaken, he looks . . . intrigued.

Intrigued is good.

Intrigued is better than what I had expected.

In answer to his question, I shake my head. “No, I don’t think so. If I have my way, and I’m fully aware that this might not happen, I don’t want any of this taking place on Blades turf. It needs to be at a local rink, a place where kids can feel like they’re really playing one-on-one with you guys. At the Blades’ practice rink or at the Garden . . . it’s too formal.”

“I agree.”

For the first time, I think he does agree. And, even stranger than that, we might even be on the same page for once.

“I know it’s not a particularly innovative idea,” I say quietly, wishing that I didn’t sound so uncertain. “It’s been done before plenty of times, and it really isn’t re-inventing the wheel, but—”

Andre surprises me by reaching out and placing a hand over mine. “It’s a great idea, Zoe.”

I blink back my shock. “You really think so?”

“Yeah, I do,” he says, nodding solemnly. Removing his hand from mine, he scrubs it over his face and then blows out a big breath. “What grades are you thinking?”

I want to know what he’s thinking, what has him suddenly avoiding eye contact.

I slam the door on that want, and say, “Kindergarten to eighth grade. Both girls and boys. I want everyone to have the chance to take part, and I don’t want anyone feeling excluded.”

“Okay.” Andre shifts on the barstool. “Let’s invite the high school kids, too. They can run personal practices with some of the vets.”

“Like you?”

His gaze meets mine. “You want me to stick around with the younger kids instead?”

Nodding, I say, “I think it’ll have the most impact on the public’s perception of you.”

“Okay.”

That’s all he says, but after a week of arguing back and forth, and a year of silence before that, it’s enough.