When the maitre d’ led the impeccably dressed man to her table, Ally almost sent him away, certain he’d brought her the wrong dinner companion.

But then the man smiled, and that dimpled grin brought her right back to that moment on the ice when they’d first met, his strong hands firm around her arms, steadying her as he gazed into her eyes and set her mind spinning with fantasies she had no business imagining.

Roscoe LeGrand. In a suit. A dark blue number that fit him so well, she could see the outline of his muscled arms and thighs through the fabric, the distinct bulge of his—

Oh my God.

Ally grabbed her water glass, sucked down a long drink.

“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long,” he said, sliding gracefully into his chair. They’d agreed to meet at seven at the restaurant he’d suggested, but she’d arrived at 6:40, too anxious to do anything but sit and wait. The alone time had done nothing to settle her nerves. Didn’t help that the place was so nice, so intimate.

“It’s okay,” she said. “I’m usually early.”

“Good to know.”

Despite the awkward formality of meeting in a social setting like this, off the ice, the lights dim, ambient music floating on the air, Roscoe’s hazel eyes glittered with a playful mischief that drew Ally in like a moth to a flame.

Keep it up, girl, and you’ll get singed…

Remembering what Clarissa had told her about the bachelorette party video, she set her glass back on the table and took a deep breath. She wasn’t here to ogle the man. She needed to stay on point.

“Thank you for meeting me,” she managed, finally daring to look at him again.

Damn. Still smiling. Still all dimples and sparkle and brain-melting hotness.

“Oh, it’s my pleasure,” Roscoe said, leaning in a little closer. When he’d done so at the rink, she’d chalked it off to the acoustics; with all the kids goofing around, it was harder to hear. But here in the intimate space of the restaurant, there was only one reason to lean in. He wanted to be closer to her. “But I gotta admit—I wasn’t expecting you to ask me out.”

“Ask you… What?” Ally blinked rapidly, her cheeks going hot. Too late, she realized her mistake.

He thinks this is a date. Like, a romantic kind of date.

Then, immediately after, another realization dawned.

He thought I asked him out on an actual date… and he accepted.

Not only had he accepted, but he’d upped the stakes. When she thought about it now, she realized that technically, he’d asked her out. Coffee was one thing—safe, friendly, professional. Lots of people had non-date coffee. But dinner? In a place like this?

She looked around now as if for the first time, realizing just how romantic the restaurant really was. The decor was rich and elegant, shaded in deep browns and reds and burgundies, like dark chocolate and wine and those ridiculously lush canopy beds they kept in castles. White tablecloths adorned the tables, and in the center of each, a candle flickered in a glass jar. There were no children in the restaurant, no families, no business associates. Everyone here was paired off, sharing soft laughter or sweet little murmurs, heads bent close as they scanned menus or nibbled on a piece of chocolate cake.

Ally’s skin felt hot and blotchy. She had been out of the dating game for decades, and even before that, she’d never had much experience. Dan was the only man she’d ever truly been with—physically or emotionally. All she had to go on now were the horror stories Clarissa had shared about her own dating disasters, and Ally wanted no part of that. Since her arrival in Buffalo, Clarissa had even tried to set her up a few times with “nice, normal” guys from her firm, but Ally had always turned her down, reasoning that if they were so nice and normal, why wasn’t Clarissa going out with them?

“Not that I’m complaining,” Roscoe said now, jumping into her thoughts.

Ally blinked, unsure how to respond. She tried to remember what the grief books had said about getting back into the social scene. They’d all talked about how grief was unpredictable and immense, how no one could say just how long the process would take because everyone dealt with loss differently. But they’d also warned her not to use her grief as a shield, or as an excuse to isolate herself. The books were just like the grief pamphlets the funeral director had given her, which were just like the podcasts, just like the websites. They all said the same things: Embrace your inner goddess! Speak your truth! Be confident and bold! Be brave!

But how could she be brave in the presence of this strong, powerful, incredibly gorgeous, and—if Reggie was to be believed—famous athlete? How could she embrace her inner goddess when this man’s intense, piercing gaze was currently turning her insides into pudding?

She didn’t know how to date, how to flirt, how to do… whatever Roscoe thought this was. She’d come here straight from work, still dressed in the same boring white blouse and navy slacks she’d had on when she’d dropped Reggie at the rink this morning.

She needed to get her head out of the clouds and hit the reset button on this night before she made any more of a mess.

“Mr. LeGrand,” she said, summoning her courage, “this isn’t—”

“Mr. LeGrand is what my PR manager calls me when I’m in trouble. Call me Roscoe. Please.”

“Roscoe.” She lowered her eyes, heat spreading from her cheeks down to her neck as Clarissa’s warnings echoed through her mind again. Her upper lip felt sweaty. “I didn’t mean to imply…” She gestured quickly between the two of them, nearly knocking over her water glass. Gripping it tight before it toppled into her lap, she took another steadying breath, ignoring the water that had splashed onto her hand. Being around this man robbed her of all coordination, and they hadn’t even ordered dinner yet. “This isn’t a date. I didn’t—”

“Good evening, Mr. LeGrand.” A waiter appeared at their table with a bottle of wine, uncorking it with ease.

“Hey, Jackson,” Roscoe said. Then, to Ally, “He’s brought my usual, and I’d love to share it with you. How do you feel about—”

“Great!” Ally grabbed her empty wine glass, thrusting it toward the waiter. “I mean, yes, please. I’d love some.”

The waiter raised an eyebrow—Ally was certain she was breaking some fancy-restaurant, fancy-wine-tasting protocol—but he reached for the glass anyway, giving her a generous pour. She swirled the glass and took a big gulp, nodding her approval.

The waiter topped off her glass, then filled Roscoe’s, before finally leaving them alone.

She was about to apologize—for the date misunderstanding, for her hijacking of the wine, for her awkwardness, for her very existence—but a perky hostess appeared at the edge the table, startling them both.

“Oh, no!” she exclaimed. “Your candle went out! I can fix that.” She picked up the jar and relit the votive, setting it down between them before scampering off to another table to do the same. God forbid a candle go out somewhere, lowering the romance quotient in the room.

Ally coughed, buying herself some time, but Roscoe’s smile stayed firmly in place, his eyes still glittering, never leaving hers for an instant.

“Okay, honestly?” she said, the wine giving her a momentary burst of courage. “I can see how I gave you the wrong impression. But I really thought this was just a… a meeting. To talk about Reggie and the hockey clinic, like we said?” She reached for the purse she’d draped over the back of her chair and dug out her notebook. “I wrote down a few questions.”

Ally took a chance, glancing up from her notes to meet his eyes. The intensity of his gaze made her feel fluttery and off-balance. She tried to remind herself that he’d probably brought many women here, had probably shared his “usual” wine with them, had probably looked at them in exactly the same way he was looking at her now: like he might just skip the menu and swallow her up instead.

But it didn’t matter. Ally’s insides went right on fluttering. She was certain he could read it in her eyes—the tell-tale signs that she wouldn’t mind being swallowed up by him.

Finally, just when she thought she’d spontaneously combust from the heat in his eyes, Roscoe broke their connection to glance at her notebook. The entire page was scrawled with questions and sub-questions, bullet points and underlines and arrows. Ally heard his intake of breath, but couldn’t bring herself to look up again. She didn’t want to know what he thought of her particular brand of neurosis—not yet.

Channeling her inner corporate marketing drone, she tapped her finger against the page and jumped right in with the first question. “Talk to me about the safety protocols. What happens if someone gets hurt on the ice?”

Seemingly undaunted, Roscoe said, “We have two onsite EMTs, and my team and I are all trained in emergency first aid.”

“Wow. Is that typical?”

“No. A few years back, the Tempest did a public awareness event with some of the Buffalo first responders, and a bunch of us decided to take the course after that. Coach heard about it, thought it was a good idea for everyone. We make the new guys do it, too.”

In the margin next to the first question, Ally made a little check mark. “First aid training. Okay. So if something happens that you guys can’t handle, how quickly could you get someone to the hospital?”

“Ten minutes.”

“Are the kids given safety training too?”

“That’s part of our program, yes. We work with them on safe techniques for the game as well as on their general conduct. We also ensure they’re wearing the proper gear at all times, and not doing anything that puts them or their teammates—or us, for that matter—at unnecessary risk.”

Ally raised a brow. “So you’re saying there’s necessary risk?”

“Ally. It’s a competitive sport. There’s always some level of risk, but we do everything we can to minimize that.”

“And how many incidents have you had in the past?” she asked.

“Incidents? Like bruised butt cheeks?”

Oh my God.

“Well that, among other things.”

“Like?”

His smile was maddening.

“Like, kids getting hurt at the clinic,” she said. “Accidents, severed arteries, broken bones, concussions—”

“Zero. This is our first clinic.” He sipped his wine, set his glass back on the table. “But they run these youth camps all over the country. They’re no more dangerous than any other sport, and we’ve taken precautions for all scenarios.”

“I’ve seen hockey games, Roscoe. Guys losing their teeth. Gushing blood. Getting carried out on stretchers.”

“The clinic isn’t the NHL. We don’t let the kids play that hard, they’re all wearing plenty of protective gear, and there are at a minimum four of us on the ice at all times to keep everything under control.” Roscoe smiled. “Trust me. The only injuries I predict are all the bruised egos your daughter’s gonna give those boys.”

Ally couldn’t help her smile. She could totally picture it—Reggie showing those boys how it’s done. Not taking any of their crap. Giving her all, no matter what anyone else thought.

Total opposite of her mother, queen butt-bruiser and all-around scaredy cat.

Ally glanced down at her notes. “I’m crazy. That’s all there is to it.”

“Most parents are concerned about their kids, Ally.”

Ally capped her pen and tossed it onto the table, letting out a sigh that made the candle between them flicker. “Do most parents interrogate you by candlelight in fancy restaurants?”

At this he laughed, deep and genuine. The skin around his eyes crinkled, his big smile immediately soothing her nerves. “This is a first.”

Ally stuffed the notebook back into her purse. “I guess my track record for first impressions is pretty rocky.”

“Rocky? Not the word I was thinking, no.” He sipped his wine again, watching her over the rim of his glass, candlelight sparkling in the reflection of his eyes, the glass, the wine. When he spoke again, his tone was serious. “Ally, we care about these kids. I promise you that everyone on staff has done and continues to do everything in our power to ensure that the kids stay safe and have fun. Now, I’m happy to answer all of your questions, any time you want. But ultimately you’re gonna have to make an actual decision here. It’s not fair to Reggie or the rest of the team to keep wavering on this.”

Nodding, Ally reached for her wine again, Roscoe’s directness and the intimacy of the restaurant pressing in on her from all sides. Why hadn’t they just gone to Starbucks like she’d initially planned? She’d buy him a dark roast, perch at a formica table without even setting her purse down—that’s how quickly it would be over. She’d let him know that Reggie needed a little extra encouragement and care, a little more attention. That she might appear fearless and tough on the ice, but she was still just a little girl.

A girl who’d lost the one man in her life who’d promised he’d always be there for her, no matter what.

“I’m sorry,” she said, blinking away the tears that glazed her eyes. “I guess I didn’t really think this through.”

Roscoe didn’t say anything. He pressed his lips together, brow furrowed in concentration, probably wondering why the hell she’d wasted his time. She was about to blurt out another pathetic apology when he finally said, “With the right training and a little encouragement, she could be really great.”

Ally frowned. “And you’re the one to train her?”

“I can certainly get her started. After the clinic ends, I can recommend some top-notch private trainers. Our skating coach is another great resource—she used to teach figure skating, and she knows a lot of dedicated people in both fields.”

“Eva Bradshaw,” Ally said, remembering the names Reggie had rattled off that first day. “The Olympic medalist.”

“You’ve done your homework.”

“Reggie did it, actually. It was all part of her appeal process.”

“She probably knows more about my team than I do.” Roscoe laughed.

“Look, I know she’s talented, Roscoe. But right now I just want her to enjoy herself. Maybe make a new friend or two. She’s had a hard time…” Ally trailed off. She hadn’t meant to go down that road—not like this. But the longer she waited for Roscoe to ask another question, to redirect the conversation back to Reggie’s hockey skills, the more she realized she had to be honest about this. “I don’t know if Reggie has shared anything personal with you, but she’s been through a lot. She hasn’t been the same since… since…”

Ally’s throat tightened, choking off her words. No matter how many times she’d let the words run through her mind, she just couldn’t make them come out of her mouth.

Her father died. My husband. No warning, no goodbyes. One minute he was here, tugging on her braid and kissing her cheek as he rushed out the door for work, and then…

God. What had she been thinking? That she’d just breeze through dinner with this man—this stranger who’d thought he was in for a romantic night out—and drop all of this dead husband business in his lap?

Honestly, Ally. You are so obtuse.

“Hey. You okay?” Roscoe’s kind voice broke into her thoughts.

When Ally met his eyes, she found only compassion, only concern.

Ally offered a tiny smile.

“There you are,” he said. His voice was soft and low, his smile intimate and sweet in a way that made everything else in the room—in the whole wide world—disappear.

They sat in silence, gazing into each other’s eyes, suspended in a perfect moment outside of which nothing else existed. Time stopped. The clink of silverware, the uncorking of bottles, the soft murmurs that had only moments ago surrounded them suddenly faded.

Roscoe reached for her hand beneath the table, finding it in her lap and squeezing it tight. Every hair on her arm stood on end, and a warm current ran down her spine.

I’m safe with him.

The thought came unbidden, but not unwanted. Ally couldn’t find words to describe what she felt; logically, it made no sense. She didn’t know the man. Not even his middle name or where he lived or whether he was a dog or cat person or maybe a lizard person. But there in his eyes she felt it—something real and sweet and kind and, yes, safe.

A calmness washed over her, a warmth that flickered low in her belly and radiated outward like the flame between them.

The moment was so pure, so beautiful. So intense.

Until the fear rushed in.

She slid her hand out from under his touch, grabbed her wine glass again, and forced a laugh. She had to laugh, or she’d burst into tears.

What the hell was that?

“Sorry,” she stammered, raising the glass to her lips. If there was an award for greatest number of sorries issued in a single outing, she was pretty sure she’d win.

Despite her awkwardness, Roscoe hadn’t moved. Hadn’t looked away. Even as she sipped her wine, his eyes never left hers.

The waiter returned to take their order, and by the time they’d finished picking out appetizers and main courses, the intensity in Roscoe’s eyes had finally dimmed.

Ally ignored the disappointment churning in her gut. She had no right to miss that intensity.

“Why are you so determined to keep my daughter on the ice?” she asked, wanting—no, needing—to get back on track.

“She’s the best player on the team. Skates circles around boys twice her size. Knows all the drills, fights hard to nail every single one of them, and she’s not afraid of the puck. I don’t say this often, and I don’t say it lightly. She’s got real potential.”

“So what happens once school starts and she doesn’t have time to play?”

“If she wants it badly enough, she’ll make time. Lots of kids do sports in school or through intramural programs. Right?”

“Not me.” Ally laughed, remembering her own mortifying high school career. “I spent all my free time in the art room drawing skull tattoos on my skin and painting pictures of dead birds and rotten fruit.”

“Skull tattoos?”

“It’s true. I was voted Most Likely to Marry a Vampire. And that was years before vampires became cool, so that just shows you what a freak I was.”

Roscoe grinned. That dimple was going to be the death of her. “You little rebel, you.”

“Not anymore,” she assured him. “Now I’m a mom, and way too practical to fall in love with vampires.” Or hockey players…

“Nah. I bet you still have a wild side.” His teasing smile split into a full-on grin. “A few skeletons. Maybe some real tattoos, not just the Sharpie ones. Right?”

Ally brought the glass to her lips and downed a big gulp of wine. Roscoe did not need to know about her tattoos.

“And there it is.” He tipped his glass toward her face. “A blush is as good as an admission, Ally Heinz.”

“What about you?” she asked. “Let me guess. All-star jock, debate team, varsity everything, teacher’s favorite.”

“That would be my three oldest brothers. Me? I was a terror. An absolute terror. I passed high school by the skin of my teeth, mostly because the teachers loved my brothers so much, they felt sorry for me.”

“Wow, three brothers?”

“Four, actually. One is younger. I have a sister, too.”

“Are you close with them?” Ally didn’t have any siblings. She was fascinated by large families. Secretly, she’d always longed to be part of one—a big, noisy, messy bunch.

Roscoe nodded, but sadness clouded his eyes, the first she’d seen his smile truly fade all night. “I don’t get to see them much, though. We live in different states, and they’re all married with kids. My sister just had a baby girl. Haven’t met her yet.”

“They’re all in Maine right now, right?” she asked, remembering what he’d said the other day about his family vacations.

“Yep.” Roscoe reached for the phone inside his pocket. “Can I be that guy? With the pictures? Doesn’t count as annoying if they’re not my kids, right?”

Ally laughed. “It totally counts, but I’d love to see them.”

He scooted his chair closer to hers and held the phone between them, swiping through a series of photos that must’ve been taken on the family’s last vacation. There were at least a dozen kids running around the beach, each one more adorable than the last, all of them carefree, the very embodiment of summer. There were a few shots with Roscoe, too—one where they’d buried him in the sand, leaving only his head and feet exposed as they climbed on top of him for the photo. Another where he was dressed in an apron and chef’s hat, a lobster clutched in each hand as he chased one of the little ones down the beach.

“Maddox,” he said, pointing at the boy running off in the distance. “Six years old in this shot. He always asks me to do the lobster voices, but then he gets totally freaked out.”

“Excuse me,” Ally said. “You have lobster voices?”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

Ally laughed, suddenly wishing she’d ordered the lobster instead of the prime rib.

As Roscoe narrated the rest of the photos, she snuck a glance at his face, wondering what she might find there. Was he lonely without them? Bitter that he was missing this year’s vacation in order to manage the hockey clinic?

But all she saw was genuine happiness, the same unadulterated joy reflected in the smiles of all of his nieces and nephews.

“They’re really sweet,” Ally said. “Thank you for showing me.”

“It’s all part of my master plan.” Roscoe slid the phone back into his jacket pocket. “You said this wasn’t a date, but I’ve already introduced you to the family. See how I did that?”

“Very smooth, Uncle Roscoe,” she admitted.

Roscoe returned her smile, but then his mouth sagged into a grimace. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he closed his eyes and groaned. “Did I really just show you my family vacation photos? Who does that?”

“You, apparently.”

“I bet this is the worst first non-date you’ve ever been on.”

“Oh, totally. But to be fair, it’s the only first non-date I’ve ever been on, so you’re kind of setting the bar.”

Their laughter faded, silence drifting between them. It wasn’t awkward, though. In the short time they’d been together, Ally was realizing how much she actually enjoyed his company.

How much she trusted him.

The waiter finally delivered their food, a mouth-watering feast of epic proportions, and when Roscoe looked at her and said, “Don’t forget to save room for dessert—the turtle pie here is killer,” Ally was pretty sure she could spend the rest of her life with him. Or at least the rest of the evening.

“Ally?” he continued. His voice was suddenly soft and low, so sexy it made her thighs clench, and when she looked up into his eyes again, she saw that same glittering intensity from before. “Let me take you out again.”

Electric tingles ran up and down her spine as Roscoe held her gaze, waiting for her answer. God, she wanted to say yes. To believe that the look in his eyes was real—was only for her.

“I’ve already decided to let Reggie play hockey,” she said, playing it cool. “And I promise not to show up at the practices and—to quote my daughter—make a big freaking drama out of everything. So you don’t have to—”

“No.” Roscoe shook his head. “This has nothing to do with Reggie. I want to take you on a proper first date—a real one. Tomorrow night.”

His voice was so sincere, so hopeful. Everything in her was screaming for her to accept the offer, despite the rattling of her nervous heart. But how could she?

First, there was the obvious risk—falling for a man in the spotlight, only to wake up one morning to a million messages from Clarissa about yet another YouTube sex scandal starring Mr. Dimples over there.

But beyond that, the idea of letting someone in again, even for a little while… God, what if she started to really like him? What if she started to feel truly happy again, and then the universe swooped in and stole him away?

No. She couldn’t risk something like that. Not again.

Ally sighed. “I’m flattered, but—”

“I promise I won’t take you ice skating, even though that would make an amazingly romantic first date, complete with matching fuzzy hats, hand-holding, and hot cocoa in a thermos, but I know how you are about skating, and I certainly don’t want to be a—wait for it—” He wriggled his eyebrows, making her crack up. “—pain in your ass about it, but—”

“You went there. You really went there.” Ally shook her head, trying to hold back a fresh wave of laughter. “I shared my private butt pain, and you mocked me.”

“You’re right.” Roscoe pressed a hand against his chest. “I’m sorry. Please allow me to make it up to you by taking you out on a date.”

“Roscoe…” She opened her mouth to say no, to make an excuse, to put an end to this before it went any further…

Do something that scares the hell out of you. How else will you know the true depths of your courage?

The voice floated suddenly through her head, something she recalled from her You Glow, Girl! podcast. She wasn’t sure if dating was quite what Savannah Hart had in mind with that advice, but to Ally, dating a man like Roscoe definitely qualified as a top-ten scary experience. Especially now that she’d agreed to let Reggie play hockey. Forget the universe stealing him away. If things went bad with Roscoe, Ally wouldn’t be able to bury her head in the sand and avoid him without hurting her daughter in the process.

But all she could think about now were those hazel eyes, that smile, that desirous gaze lighting her up from the inside. He’d made her feel entirely wanted, and Ally couldn’t deny that she’d enjoyed it. One smile from him had her heart pumping again, her body humming in ways she hadn’t felt in years.

Call it the calm after the storm, a bit of normalcy in a world that had been utterly turned upside down, but Ally wanted this. She wanted to go on dates, to feel desired by another man. Maybe even to feel the fluttery excitement of a first kiss again.

And right now, this man—charming, funny, drop-dead sexy Roscoe LeGrand—wanted to give that to her.

Courage, girl. Get it together.

“All right, Roscoe LeGrand,” she said. Saying yes to her desires despite her fears felt like a personal victory, albeit a small one, and her face split into a grin as she held up her wine glass. “But one condition—I want to hear your lobster voice.”

Roscoe grinned and picked up his glass, touching the rim to hers. “And I want to see your tattoos, so I say we negotiate a trade.”