Page 13 of At First Smile

I swallow and take in his words. Since meeting this morning, Pen’s only known me. The fame that comes with what I do hasn’t clouded her vision about me. She doesn’t even know I’m in the NHL. Not yet at least.

“Dude, if you won’t give it a shot for yourself, at least do it for her. Give her a chance to decide if she wants to sign up for the Rowan Iverson boyfriend train.”

“Boyfriend.” The word is a slow pronouncement on my lips as if I’m trying it out like shoes I may buy. That’s exactly what I’m considering, because if I let Pen in that’s where this is heading. I wouldn’t be casual about this… not about her.

“A button-up shirt with jeans. Blue, if you have one – the shirt, not the jeans. Though those can be blue too. Untuck the shirt and roll up the sleeves. Ladies love that look. It’s like the male version of cleavage,” Wes drawls, pulling my attention back to him.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s my suggestion for what to wear when you head down to the lobby to meet Pen. Now, get your ass moving before someone else swoops in and steals your lady.”

Fifteen minutes later, I stride down the hall towards the inn’s lobby.

Clusters of small round tables surround the bar’s tiny stage.

A half-wall separates it from the small seating area in front of the reception desk.

A young woman with short black hair stands behind the dark oak desk, scrolling on her phone.

Scanning the area, I look for Pen. Guests mingle with drinks in hand between the lobby’s antique furniture and bar. The quiet hum of instrumental jazz music underscores murmured conversations.

Lola, who’s changed from the blazer she wore when we checked in into a canary-yellow dress, bends talking to someone I assume from close-cropped ginger-hair is her nephew, Harley, the sexy Ed Sheeran.

A large grin stretches over his chiseled features.

I guess I can see the appeal, if you’re into Greek god-esque good looks.

His blue eyes peer past his aunt at someone or something else, obscured by Lola.

Laughing, Lola turns towards the bar and my eyes drop onto what…who…drew Harley’s attention. Breath rushes out of me as if I was checked into a rink’s boards by a two-hundred-fifty-pound defenseman hurling into me like a bullet train.

Pen sits opposite of Michigan Ed Sheeran.

A glossy pink colors her lips, which lift in a sweet smile.

A delicate rose glow rouges her cheeks. Her auburn hair is loose, draping around her bare shoulders.

The flash of a silver necklace pulls my attention to a hint of cleavage. Her gaze locked with his.

Jealousy explodes inside me. I want to storm over there, take her hand, pull her into my arms, and kiss her. I swipe my hand down my face, knowing that this is partly due to pure envy that her sunshine is directed toward someone else’s orbit, but mostly it’s simple desire.

To kiss her because she looks so pretty sitting there. The way her skin glows against the Caribbean blue of her dress. How the candlelight from the center of the table dances in the irises of her eyes, making them almost shimmer.

Her hand reaches across the table and touches his arm. An unbridled laugh belts from her.

And I want to fucking die. My jaw clenches and I take a step toward the bar but stop.

You can’t do this. I’m ready to walk over there and punch him.

He’s done nothing wrong. He just sees what I see.

How can I expect anyone to be around Pen and not fall into her pull.

I’ve seen it all day. The way her smile disarms and attracts.

The cashier at Tim Hortons. The flight attendant.

Lola. Hell, even the teenager who made our sandwiches at the deli had a starry-eyed expression as Pen chatted him up about his favorite sandwiches to make.

“Rowan! There you are,” Lola shouts across the bar, waving with one hand and carrying a tray of drinks.

Pen breaks eye contact with Harley, scanning the space. A giant grin brightens her features. He doesn’t make her smile like that. I do.

Buoyed, I straighten my spine and saunter to the table. “Lola.” I tip my head to the woman, then turn to Pen. Placing my hand on her shoulder, the caress of her bare skin against my palm shoots warmth up my arm, I bend and whisper, “Pen, you look lovely.”

“Thanks.” That rose in her cheeks deepens. “You look nice too.”

Taking Wes’s advice – sort of – I paired a black button-up with blue jeans, the fitted shirt accentuates my muscular physique.

My sleeves are rolled to my elbows, just as Wes suggested.

I felt foolish talking to him about wardrobe options, but seeing Pen’s appreciative gaze sweep over me, I let go of that embarrassment.

Thanks to the chandelier above the table, there’s enough illumination for her to take me in.

Hand still resting on her bare shoulder, I straighten and face the knockoff crooner. “You must be Lola’s nephew, Marley.”

“Harley,” he says, right eyebrow arched.

I give him a “like it matters” look. My expression is similar to the face I wear for games. The one that lets competitors know whose house this is. Yep, I’m being a territorial dick. I should be embarrassed. Mam would scowl at my caveman antics.

“There’s an empty table beside ours.” Harley motions to a table a foot away.

“Thanks.” I drag the chair over and place it beside Pen.

Lola’s blonde eyebrows lift into her hairline as she looks between me and Harley. No doubt we look like bucks ready to lock antlers over an innocent doe.

“Drinks,” Lola clucks, handing a bottle of water to Harley, then a flute to Pen. “Here you go, sweetheart.”

“Champagne?” I smirk.

“I like bubbles.” She bats her long eyelashes.

“And a Guinness for you,” Lola announces, reaching across the table with a frothy pint.

“How?” My head tilts.

“Pen said you’d be joining her and would want a Guinness.”

Pen winks. “I knew you’d come.”

“Guinness, though?”

“I guess I buy into Irish stereotypes.” She sips her drink.

“Perhaps I can assist with your education on Irishman.” My low voice rumbles.

“Perhaps.” A tiny hitch steals her breath. “Is Guinness okay, though? I can always get you something else.”

“It’s perfect, luv.” I take a swig and let the liquid cool my simmering blood.

Based on Pen’s reaction to being called luv, I decide in that moment I’m going to use that endearment as much as possible. Her wide eyes twinkle like starlight. That radiant smile invades every inch of her face, not a single feature untouched by that mixture of delight and bashfulness.

“Pen, what song did you win with?” Harley jumps in.

Oh yeah, this fucking guy. I drag my stare to the douche-canoe with the guitar sitting across from us.

She taps her fingers against the table’s smooth surface. “It was a slow acoustic version of Whitney Houston’s I Wanna Dance With Somebody .”

“I know it. Join me on stage. Make your Michigan debut.”

She guffaws, covering her face with her hands. “Nobody needs that.”

“You sing?” I ask.

“Pen was a show choir kid like me. We were swapping choir competition battle stories. Turns out our Pen won a New York state solo competition.”

Ours ? Not yours, buddy. I battle the snarl building in my throat over his presumption.

Pen fiddles with her bracelet, a light pink invades her cheeks. “That was a long time ago.”

“She’s beautiful and talented.” Lola winks, but I’m not entirely sure if it’s at her nephew or me.

“It will be fun,” Harley pushes.

“She doesn’t have to sing if she doesn’t want to,” I snap, glaring at Harley.

Pen’s warm palm rests on mine, but her eyes turn to Harley. “Let me think about it.”

“Alright.” He stands up, reaches across the table, and lifts Pen’s hand to his lips. “I’ll hold you to that promise.”

My fingers curl tight around the glass.

“I need to set up and I’m suddenly feeling inspired to do a different song for my opening number.” Releasing Pen’s hand, he winks, and walks away.

Lola leans in, nudging Pen’s shoulder. “Oh, I think he’s got a crush on you.”

“Of course,” I grumble under my breath.

Lola’s gray eyes drop to me. “Of course, is right. It’s a wonder this girl is single.

I hadn’t even introduced them yet, and Harley was already over here chatting her up.

I’m sure she has to use Cane Austen”—she gestures to where Pen’s cane sits folded at her feet— “to fight off all the suitors. Imagine being around her and not making a move. You’d have to be foolish.

” She glares at me, steely judgment glints in her stare.

Something swirls in my gut at the dare in her statement. “You’re right,” I murmur, my stare fixing on Pen.

Pen clears her throat and flutters her hands in the air. “Did you know Rowan owns a pub?”

“Pub owner?” Lola leans back, crossing her arms over her chest. “Is it a sports pub?”

The inflection tells me she knows exactly who I am. I shift in my seat.

“It’s a little Canadian and Irish. With his love of hockey, I’m sure that dominates the TVs,” Pen offers.

“I’m sure it does.” Lola’s face twists into a knowing expression.

“I need to check on Vicki at the front desk, but the next round will be on me. I’ll let our bartender know.

” Lola squeezes Pen’s forearm and stands up.

“Rowan, you should try the local IPA we serve. It’s from Bobcat Brewery.

You may enjoy it. It’s scrappy.” With a wry grin, she walks away.

Bobcat? She knows exactly who I am. I pull the brim of my hat low as if it would somehow erase Lola’s knowledge.

If she recognizes me, who else does? My eyes flick around the room.

Nobody is staring in our direction. The only eyes on us are Harley’s, who sets up his equipment on the small stage in the corner of the room, and that stare remains on Pen.

A small palm rests on my knee, dragging my gaze back to Pen’s open eyes. “Are you okay?” she asks, her brow wrinkled.

I need to tell her who I am. My hand blankets hers as if I’m hoping to hold her in place. “Pen, I?—”

“Oh my gosh!” An excited voice shrills. “Sorry. I know famous people hate when we do this but aren’t you?—”

Shit.