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She strides back over to us in her sleep set and bunny slippers, frowning at the ice cream, still too hard to dig her spoon in. “Yeah, well, it's more powerful when they work it out for themselves. Plus, he can never claim I turned them against him.”

“You’re a better woman than me,” I drawl.

“And me,” Luna adds.

Felicity tucks her legs underneath her as she sits back on the couch between us. “Yeah, well, when you become moms, you’ll get it.”

“If,” Luna whispers.

“When. You’ll find a way, no matter what,” Felicity corrects her.

The players re-take the ice for the start of the second period, and we all fall silent, knowing the game is reaching its business end. The next forty minutes will be key to clinching the Stanley Cup.

“He’s been unbelievable tonight,” Luna nods and then points at number eighty-eight as he takes to the ice.

“Sorry, who’s that?”

She looks over at me, raising an unimpressed brow at my immaturity.

“You know who.”

I definitely know who she’s talking about. Despite my hatred of him, I haven’t been able to tear my eyes from the way he stretches on the ice before games. The way he humps it in all his padded glory should be illegal and isdefinitelynot suitable for family viewing.

I hate how I respond to him, even after eighteen months since the incident at Riley’s Bar—he infuriates me. He makes me want to scream into the nearest pillow with rage at his crooked and cocky smile whenever I see it. But I especially hate how he makes my body flutter whenever I see him.

“He’s been distinctly average, in my opinion. The Blades goalie has been far superior.”

Luna balks at me. “How’d you work that one out? JJ is on for a shutout, and their goalie isn’t.”

JJ.

I catch sight of Felicity’s head spinning to Luna, her eyes flaring at the use of that name.

“It’s fine,” I say, tipping my chin up. “Use that nickname all you want. It means nothing to me.”

The driveto my parents is only ten minutes. They live on one of the most exclusive streets in Seattle in an ornate mansion that has been the Monroe family home for decades, inherited through several generations.

Being only a short drive, you’d think I’d be back home to visit my family more often. The real truth is that I’m rarely here, and I have no intention of changing that any time soon.

It couldn’t be further from a family home. It’s cold and formal, which is everything my downtown apartment isn’t.

When Easton left for college, I had to wait two years before I could move out and head for Connecticut.

Two of the longest years of my life.

Study, study, study.

As I pull through the black iron gates leading up to the property, I round the driveway and pull up behind my brother’s black Porsche 911.

I haven’t been “home” in months, and I’m only here because my brother is.

The gravel crunches under my feet as I step out of my car and look around the well-manicured gardens—all tended to by a team of gardeners. Violet and Henry, my dad, would never do something as manual as gardening.

I open the trunk of my car and pull out my cocktail dress and overnight bag just as the front door to the house swings open.

I can’t help the whopping smile that breaks out across my face when I see him.

My brother’s arms are folded across his chest, and he’s leaning against one of the white pillars on the porch. His blond hair and tanned skin are blonder and darker thanks to the Arabic sun. And as I approach the bottom of the porch, I skip the final couple of steps before he wraps his arms around me in a tight bear hug.