The Mistake

I knock on Grace’s door twenty minutes later, ordering myself to keep the gloating to a minimum. But damn, I’m feeling pretty fucking gloaty about the way I’ve successfully fulfilled all of her demands. It really is a shame that people don’t grasp what a stubborn motherfucker I am.

Grace doesn’t look surprised to see me when she opens the door. Probably because I texted to let her know I was coming by. I didn’t tell her why, but she takes one look at my face and sucks in a breath. “You didn’t…”

I hold out my cell in triumph. “Your celebrity endorsement, my lady.”

“Okay, get in here. I have to see this.” One hand snatches the phone while the other tugs me into the room.

Her roommate Daisy is cross-legged on the bed, and she grins when she spots me. “If it isn’t Mr. Romance himself. What have you got for us tonight, big boy?”

I grin back. “Nothing special. Just—”

“Hey, Grace,” a voice drawls out of the phone speaker. Grace has loaded the video and pressed play with impressive speed, and her roommate freezes at the sound of the cheerful male greeting.

“Shane Lukov here,” the dark-haired guy on the screen continues.

“Holy shit!” Daisy screeches. She dives off the bed and races over to Grace, while I stand in front of them smirking the smirk of all smirks.

“Coming to you from Wilmington with an important message,” announces the second-year Bruins star. Lukov took the league by storm with his explosive rookie year, and people are salivating to see what he does this upcoming season. The twenty-year-old is already being compared to Sidney Crosby, and honestly, I don’t think it’s that far off the mark.

“I’ve known Logan a long time.” Lukov winks at the camera. “And by long time, I mean five whole minutes, but what is time, really? From what I can tell, he’s a good guy. Easy on the eyes. Rumor has it he’s a total bruiser on the ice. That’s all I really need to know to give him my endorsement. So go out with him, sweetheart.” A wide grin fills the screen. “My name is Shane Lukov and I approve this message.”

The video ends. Daisy is busy picking her jaw off the floor. Grace is staring at me as if she’s never seen me before in her life.

“So.” I blink innocently. “What time should I pick you up tomorrow night?”

25

Grace

Hastings has several nice restaurants, but if you’re looking for fancy, then Ferro’s is the way to go. The Italian bistro is gorgeous—dark oak-paneled walls, secluded booths, blood-red linen tablecloths. And candlelight. Lots and lots of candlelight.

It requires a reservation at least a week in advance, and yet Logan somehow snags a table in less than twenty-four hours. When he told me where we were going, I thought maybe he’d made a reservation last week in anticipation of completing the items on my list, but on the drive over he admits to calling in a favor to get us a table.

Did I mention he’s wearing a suit?

He looks spectacular in a suit. The crisp black jacket stretches across his wide shoulders, and he decided to forgo a tie, so I have the most delicious view of his strong throat peeking from the open top button of his white dress shirt.

The waiter leads us to our booth, and Logan waits for me to slide in first, then sits right beside me.

“We’re same-siding?” I squeak. “That’s…” Intimate. It’s the kind of seating arrangement reserved for super-in-love couples who can’t keep their hands off each other.

Logan casually stretches his arm along the back of the booth, his fingers resting on my bare shoulder. He strokes lightly. Teasingly.

“That’s…?” he prompts.

“Perfectly fine by me,” I finish, and he gives a knowing chuckle.

His thigh is pressed up against mine, a hard slab of flesh that demonstrates how ripped he is. My short black dress has ridden up a bit, and I hope he doesn’t notice the goose bumps rising on my bare legs. I’m not cold. Just the opposite, in fact. His nearness, and the heat of his body, makes me feverish.

“Can I ask you something?” he hedges, after the waiter recites the specials and pours us two glasses of sparkling water.

“Sure.” I angle my body so we can actually look at each other. This same-side thing was not designed for eye contact.

“How come you don’t ask me about hockey?”

I freeze, which he obviously mistakes for discomfort, because he hurries on almost apologetically. “Not that I mind. It’s actually kind of refreshing. Most girls ask me about nothing but hockey, like they think it’s the only topic I’m capable of talking about. It’s just strange that you’ve never brought it up, not even once.”

I reach for my water glass and take a very, very long sip. Not the most brilliant stalling tactic, but it’s the only one I can think of. I knew this would come up eventually. If anything, I’m surprised it didn’t come up sooner. But that doesn’t mean I was looking forward to it.

“Well. Um. The thing is…” I inhale, then continue with rapid-fire speed. “Imnotahockeyfan.”

A wrinkle appears in his forehead. “What?”

I repeat myself, slowly this time, with actual pauses between each word. “I’m not a hockey fan.”

Then I hold my breath and await his reaction.

He blinks. Blinks again. And again. His expression is a mixture of shock and horror. “You don’t like hockey?”