Page 91 of Defensive Desire

She doesn't deny it. "In life… security matters, Emma."

"So does happiness," I counter gently. "I wouldn't be happy doing anything else. Not accounting. Not marketing. This—" I gesture around the café, "—this is who I am."

Something flickers in her eyes.

"And your hockey player… Logan," she corrects herself, "he understands this? What this place means to you?"

I think of Logan's hands building shelves, carrying supplies, fixing everything I need without being asked. How he trulyseesme. The way he looked at me when I cried about not feeling good enough, and how he told me I was already more than enough.

"He does. Better than anyone."

She nods slowly. "I worry about you, Emma. Even though you probably think I don't."

The admission catches me off guard. "Mom..."

"No, let me finish." She raises a hand. "I worry because I know how much it hurts when dreams don't work out. But..." she glances around the café again, "it seems yours is working quite well."

It's not quite approval, but it's the closest we've ever come. I swallow against the unexpected tightness in my throat.

"Would you like to try the coffee, Mom?" I offer. "On the house."

She hesitates, then nods. "Well, alright. A small cup. No sugar."

As I prepare a perfect pour-over, I watch my mother from the corner of my eye. Cynthia Carter stands stiffly among the mismatched furniture and literary paraphernalia. Completely out of place, yet somehow, for the first time, making an effort to belong.

"Here," I say, sliding the cup across the counter. "My signature blend. They went crazy for it at the Charity Game a few weeks ago. I called itHat Trick."

She takes a careful sip, her eyebrows lifting slightly. "Oooo, yes. This is quite good."

"You sound surprised," I observe, unable to keep the edge from my voice.

"I am," she admits, and the honesty is so unexpected I almost drop the cloth I'm holding. After another contemplative sip, she adds, "Your father mentioned this Arena Day event. When is it exactly?"

"This weekend," I reply, still processing the fact that my parents are apparently discussing my business at home. "Saturday morning at the arena."

"Hmm." She takes another sip. "And Logan will be there?"

"Of course."

I try to keep my voice steady, pushing away the nagging worry about the trade rumors that have been swirling around him. Logan hasn't said anything about an official meeting yet, but the locker room talk is getting louder.

"Well," she says, adjusting her purse. "It would be nice to see what all the fuss is about. And perhaps meet Logan properly."

I nearly choke on air. "You want to come?"

The words escape before I can stop them, shock overriding my usual filter.

"Is that so surprising?"

There's a defensive note in her voice.

Yes, I want to say.Yes, it's as surprising as if you showed up with a tattoo and announced you're joining a motorcycle gang.

Instead, I manage, "I'd like that."

And the strange thing is, I mean it.

After seeing Logan with his brothers, the easy way they communicate despite their differences, I find myself wanting something like that with my own family. Not perfect, not Instagram-worthy, but real.