Declan: Sorry. Not up for it this time.
Moving on, he saw a text from a number he didn’t recognize. It was a Wyoming area code. He opened it.
Heard about you from Luc. I’m a D-man, second line. Having a hard time turning retrievals into breakouts. Think you can give me some time?
Declan: Who is this?
Ha ha. This is Maxwell Scott. Left defenseman for the Renegades.
Huh. The Renegades had their own coaches.
Declan: Assume you’re able to come to Calamity? Work at the Elite West rink?
Absolutely.
Declan: Happy to help.
Cool. I’ll send you a couple dates, and you can let me know what works.
If he lost the job with the Comets, could he get one with the Renegades? He’d be crazy to give up ownership of an NHL team to be its assistant coach. He knew that, but still. The idea held some appeal. Yeah, okay. A lot.
Just as he went to open the next text message, the fire alarm screeched. Racing out of the office, he rounded the corner into the living room to find smoke wafting out from the kitchen.
When he got there, he saw Phinny opening the back door and a cookie sheet in the sink, water running. “Everything okay?” he shouted over the piercing alarm.
As she grabbed another cookie sheet, she held it over her head and waved it underneath the alarm, dispelling the smoke. He opened a few more windows and turned on the fan.
A few moments later, the alarm stopped, but an acrid scent filled the room. Rattled, Phinny headed to the sink to turn off the faucet. “That was my garlic bread.”
Before he could say anything, the house phone rang, and Declan crossed the kitchen to answer it. “Hello?”
“This is Mountain Alarm. We got an alert that your alarm went off.”
He cut a glance to Phinny who was dumping the soggy bread into the garbage bin. “It was just a kitchen disaster, but we’re all good. Thanks for the call.”
“No problem. Have a good night.”
After hanging up, Declan couldn’t help but notice how dejected she was.
She gave him a weak smile. “Sorry about that.”
“It’s no big deal. As long as we answer the phone, they won’t send out fire trucks.” He didn’t see anything else cooking. “So…just garlic bread?”
“Yeah, well, I couldn’t find any ramen packets.” She tried again for a smile. “Today, this man stopped at the farm stand and wanted to buy honey, but he didn’t have any cash, so he traded me a loaf of bread.”
“He happened to have a loaf of bread in his car?”
“Turns out he’s a Cooter. He’s taken up baking bread in his spare time, and he was bringing some loaves to his friends. I’m not sure how to make French toast, and I didn’t want a sandwich, so I thought I’d make garlic bread.” She angled away from him but not before he caught her cheeks turning pink.
He didn’t like seeing her embarrassed. “You want French toast?”
“Yes. Will you make it for us?”
“Sure. Do you have more bread?”
That energized her. She reached into a tote bag and pulled out a loaf.
“Okay, so this is a ciabatta, and we probably wouldn’t want to make French toast out of it. I like brioche for French toast.”
“You cook?”
“Well, sure. I’m single, and I like to eat.”
“So, what do we do with ciabatta?”
“You said you didn’t want a sandwich, but what about a panini?”
She grinned at him. There it was. That weird snap of connection. Other women could offer him no-strings sex. They could be kinky as fuck, but it had nothing on actually liking someone. Feeling this…spark.
Was it weird that at twenty-eight, he was only now feeling it? He grabbed a serrated knife from the block and pulled a cutting board out from under the sink.
She came up beside him. “What can I do to help?”
“Depends on what you like in it.”
“What do you like?” she asked.
“Ham? Gruyere cheese?”
She crinkled her nose. “I’m not a big fan of ham.”
“We could do fresh mozzarella and tomato.”
“Oh, my God, yes. I would love a caprese panini.”
“Cool.” While he plugged in the panini press, she grabbed the cheese from the refrigerator.
“Do you see any basil?” When she didn’t answer, he turned to find her lifting bundles of herbs and sniffing them. He waited, not wanting to make her uncomfortable but pretty sure she didn’t know the difference between them.
As she stood there in her cotton shorts, her perfect peach-shaped ass tilted, and his hands itched to grab hold of those cheeks and squeeze. Her hair—normally straight and sleek—looked a little untidy, and he found he liked the more natural version of her.
It made him wonder what she was like in bed. Maybe Cameron had tried, but she just lay there like a limp noodle. But no. He remembered that kiss. The way she’d gotten hot so fast, her hands threading through his hair. The way they’d fisted tight enough to make his scalp sting.
Arousal fired in his dick, as he fell back into the memory of her floral scent and the press of her plump tits on his chest.
“Is this it?” She brought the basil right under his nose.
“Yep.” Shake it off. He grabbed the knife and cut into the loaf.
“Do we need butter?”
“Yeah, that’ll make it crunchy. Or olive oil. Up to you.”
“I really have no idea, so just tell me which to get.”
When those blue eyes connected with his, it stirred him up. Made him want to get his hands on her waist, lift her onto the counter, and peel off her shirt. “Let’s just use olive oil.” He wanted to see her plump breasts in that lacy bra more than he wanted to eat. Pretty much more than anything.
She didn’t move right away. She stood beside him, reading his face like a map, tracing connections between his features. And then she pressed her hand on his forearm. “Thank you.”
Every cell in his body exploded. His heart…it was like a stalled-out engine suddenly igniting, sparking, roaring to life. “For what?”
“Not making me feel stupid for burning garlic bread. For stepping right in and making dinner.”
He hunched a shoulder like he didn’t care. But that was a lie. He liked making her happy.
He liked…fuck. He had to turn away from her. These feelings were too big. They didn’t make sense. He hardly knew her.
And yet…he’d never felt closer to anyone in his life.
“I don’t even own butter or oil. The refrigerator at my house is stuffed with the weirdest things. Pickled radishes and fermented fish—I mean, nothing I’d ever eat. And it’s a mess. I’ve got four roommates who’d rather play video games than clean up after themselves. Still, I know I should learn the basics.”
“Hey.” He cupped her chin. “If you grew up with a chef, why would you know how to cook?”
“I’ve been on my own for almost a year. There are things I should be able to make.”
“And you’ll learn them. There’s no timeline.”
“You’re absolutely right.” She smiled brightly. “I like the way you think. Okay, what’s next?”