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-of-war 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.”
