CHAPTER 3 (JAMIE)

PIPPA HARTLEY IS STANDING in my living room, playing with the

dog, and I can’t breathe. When I opened the door, I thought I was

hallucinating.

Her hair is longer. Same shy smile, same sparkling blue-gray

eyes that make me forget my own name. Same soft, musical voice

that I’d strain to hear back in high school while she was talking and

laughing with the other band kids.

Grown up, though, she’s fucking gorgeous. A knockout. Freckles

over her nose and cheekbones from the summer sun and strands of

gold in her caramel hair that’s neither brown nor blond. Although her

braces were cute back in high school, her smile today nearly

stopped my heart.

I’m Pippa, she said at the door, like she didn’t remember me. I

don’t know why that made me so disappointed.

“Do you want me to help you unpack?” she asks, playing tug-ofwar

with the dog. “Or I can get groceries or meal prep for you.”

I watch the pretty curve of her mouth as she speaks. Her lips are

soft-looking, the perfect shade of pink. They always have been.

Fuck.

“No.” The word comes out harsher than I mean, but I’m rattled.

I can’t fucking think around Pippa Hartley. It’s always been like

this.

In an instant, my mind is back in that hallway outside the school

music room, listening as she sang. She had the most beautiful,

captivating, spellbinding voice I’d ever heard—sweet, but when she

hit certain notes, raspy. Strong, but at certain parts, soft. Always

controlled. Pippa knew exactly how to use her voice. She never sang

in public, though. It was always that fucking Zach guy singing, and

she’d play guitar as his backup.

I wonder if she still sings.

I wonder if she’s still with him, and my nostrils flare. Over the

summer, I saw his stupid, punchable face on a billboard and nearly

drove off the highway. That guy is the opener on a tour? He could

barely play the guitar. His voice was average.

Not like Pippa. She’s talented.

Eight years later, I still think about that moment in the hallway all

the time. I don’t know why—it doesn’t matter.

The dog shakes the toy while Pippa holds on, and she laughs.

I need to get out of here.

“I have to go to practice.” I snatch my keys off the counter and

haul my bag over my shoulder.

“Bye,” she calls as I step through the door.

After practice that afternoon, I’m about to open the front door when a

noise in my apartment stops me with my hand on the door handle.

Singing. Fleetwood Mac plays inside my apartment. Over the

tune, her voice rings out, clear, bright, and melodic. She hits all the

notes, but there’s something special to the way she sings it.

Something uniquely Pippa.

I can’t move. If I go inside, she’ll stop singing.

Alarm rattles through me, because this is exactly what I shouldn’t

be doing. She was supposed to leave before I got home.

I can’t have Pippa around this year. It’s only been a few hours,

and she’s already gotten inside my head.

When I open the door, my new assistant is unpacking the kitchen

boxes, reaching up to set a glass on the shelf, leaning forward on the

counter, giving me a clear view of her incredible ass.

Irritation tightens in my chest. This is the last thing I need.

My gaze sweeps around the apartment. Most of the boxes are

unpacked. She’s set up my living room, and the photo of my mom

and me sits on the bookshelf. She’s arranged the living room

furniture differently than my apartment back in New York. The Eames

chair faces the windows, overlooking the city lights in North

Vancouver, across the water. The dog is sleeping on the couch,

curled up in a ball.

I fold my arms over my chest, feeling a mix of relief and

confusion. The apartment looks nice. It feels like a home. I was

dreading unpacking, but now it’s almost done.

I don’t even mind that the dog is on the furniture.

Her singing stops and she glances over her shoulder. “Oh, hi.”

She gasps and looks at her phone on the counter before her eyes

dart to mine. “Sorry. I didn’t realize what time it was.” She dusts her

hands off and walks to the door. “How was practice?” she asks while

pulling her sneakers on.

The sweet, curious way she asks makes my chest feel funny.

Warm and liquid. I don’t like it. I have the weird urge to tell her how

nervous I am about this season.

“Fine,” I say instead, and her eyes widen at my sharp tone. Fuck.

See? This is why this isn’t going to work. I care too much about what

she thinks.

“Daisy and I went for a two-hour walk around Stanley Park, and

then I spent most of the evening training her to do tricks.”

My eyebrows pull together. “Daisy?”

She shrugs, smiling over at the dog on the couch. “She needs a

name.” She picks her bag up. “I took her out an hour ago, so you

don’t need to.”

I try to say something like thanks, but it’s just a low noise of

acknowledgment in my throat.

She smooths a delicate hand over her ponytail, blinks twice, and

gives me that bright smile from before, the one I thought about

during my entire practice.

Her cheeks are going pink and she looks embarrassed. “I’ll get

out of your hair.” She loops the strap of her bag over her shoulder

and gives me another quick, shy smile. “I’ll be here tomorrow

morning after you leave for practice. Good night, Jamie.”

My gaze drops to her pretty lips, and I’m tongue-tied. She

probably thinks I’ve been hit in the head with the puck too many

times.

She leaves and I stand there, staring at the door.

Maybe I don’t have to—

I crush the thought, like slapping a mosquito off my arm. Pippa

has to go. I know from my mom and from the one relationship I

attempted in my first year in the NHL that if there are too many balls

in the air, I’m going to drop one. I always do.

The second she leaves, I pull my phone out and call Ward.

“Streicher,” he answers.

“Coach.” I rake my hand through my hair. “I need a new

assistant.”

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