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Chapter Three

Logan

C hapter & Grind is quiet when I push through the door after practice. The scent of coffee and old books hits me immediately, oddly comforting for a guy who grew up in hockey rinks that smell like sweat and ice.

The familiar aroma reminds me of my mother, somehow.

Anja Kane was never without a mug in her hand—strong Finnish coffee, the kind that could strip paint. Growing up in the United States, we didn't have Finland's endless winter nights, but she kept the coffee-loving tradition alive anyway.

I push the memory away before it stings too much.

It's been five years since she passed. Since I missed her funeral because I was on the road with my first NHL team. too damn afraid to ask for the time off to mourn the woman who made all this possible.

My jaw tightens at the thought. There are just some things you don't forgive yourself for.

Emma is behind the counter, hair caught up in some messy knot thing, a pencil stuck through it. She's got flour on her cheek and a smudge of what looks like chocolate on her forearm. She's muttering to herself as she scribbles in a notebook.

Something in my chest loosens at the sight of her.

She turns to reach for a mug on the top shelf, her shirt riding up to reveal a sliver of smooth skin above her jeans.

Christ.

I can't tear my eyes away from that exposed strip, my mind instantly imagining how it would feel under my fingertips, under my tongue.

When I finally drag my gaze up, she's watching me, those warm brown eyes darkening as she registers exactly what I was staring at.

She clears her throat, a flush spreading across her cheeks as she looks up at the sound of the bell.

"Logan? What are you—oh! The shelves. Right. I didn't think you'd come by so soon after the—"

"We're partners," I interrupt, walking toward the counter, fighting to keep my voice steady.

She blinks at me. "Excuse me?"

"The community outreach program Sophia's putting on. We're partners."

Her mouth opens, then closes, then opens again. "Okay… you're gonna have to talk me through it, Big Guy. The what now?"

I shake my head and take a breath.

Right. She wouldn't know about the meeting yet. I probably should have led with that.

Why am I always like this around her? Too fucking nervous to think straight.

"Icehawks community initiative," I explain, leaning against the counter. "Us players are partnering with local businesses to kick off the new season. Sophia's idea."

"And... you chose me?" Emma asks, clearly struggling to process. "I mean, my shop?"

I shrug. "Made sense."

It did make sense. Her coffee is already a hit with the team. Her shop is becoming a gathering spot in town. And she's... she's Emma. Smart. Driven. Beautiful in that quiet way that sneaks up on you.

Not that I'm thinking about that.

"But wouldn't you rather partner with, I don't know, a sporting goods store? Or a gym? Or literally anything that doesn't involve books and coffee?"

I raise an eyebrow, stepping closer, slightly enjoying the way her eyes need to lift as they track how I tower over her. "You saying you don't want to partner with me, Carter?"

"No! I mean, yes—I mean..." She takes a deep breath. "I'm saying I'm surprised, that's all."

"Why?"

"Because you're..." She gestures vaguely at all of me. "You. And I'm me."

"Very observant, Em," I deadpan.

A flush creeps up her neck, and I fight back a smile. Emma flustered is a damn sight to behold.

My eyes drop to her mouth. Her teeth catch her bottom lip, and fuck if that doesn't send heat straight through my body.

Full, pink lips that part slightly under my gaze.

I wonder if they taste like the coffee she's always sampling.

Wonder what sounds she'd make if I backed her up against that counter and. ..

Fuck.

I grip the edge of the counter, forcing those thoughts away.

She shifts her weight too, and the movement draws my attention to her hips, to the way those jeans hug every curve. The same curves I've been pretending not to notice every time she reaches for books on high shelves or bends to grab supplies from under the counter.

"Logan?"

Her voice… it does things to me.

Shit… I really need to get it together.

"You know what I mean, right?" she huffs. "You're Logan Kane. The Iron Wall. Iron Ridge's favorite enforcer. And I'm just the local coffee witch."

My lips twitch at the nickname. "Witch? Is that why your coffee's so addictive? Witchcraft?"

"Ha ha," she says dryly, but I catch the smile she's trying to hide. "Seriously though, are you sure about this?"

"Wouldn't be here if I wasn't," I reply simply.

"Well, okay then. Partners."

She extends her hand across the counter, and I take it. Her palm is soft against my calloused one, but there's strength in her grip.

"Partners," I agree, holding on perhaps a moment too long before letting go.

Emma tilts her head, studying me. "You know, I don't think I've ever heard you string together this many sentences before. You're usually more of a grunt-and-nod kind of guy."

"I talk when it matters," I say quietly.

"And this matters?" she asks, something vulnerable flashing in her eyes.

I think about giving her my usual non-answer, but the twinkle in her eyes makes me want to try harder. To be better.

"Yeah. It does."

A small, genuine smile spreads across her face, and it hits me like a check into the boards.

I've seen plenty of her professional smiles. Like the ones she gives customers, the ones she pastes on when her mother visits the shop.

But this one's different. Like it's real and just for me.

Emma turns back to the espresso machine, cheeks still flushed. "So, what exactly does this partnership entail? Do we need to— shit !"

She yanks her hand back from the steamer wand, face twisted in pain.

I'm around the counter before she can blink, taking her wrist gently and guiding her to the sink. I turn on the cold water and hold her hand under the stream, my fingers curved protectively around hers.

"Keep it under for at least a minute," I instruct. "You got first aid? Burn cream?"

She nods, seemingly unable to speak as she stares at our hands.

Her pulse quickens beneath my fingers as I hold her hand under the cold water.

Standing this close, I can smell the vanilla on her skin, feel the heat radiating from her body. When she shifts slightly, her back brushes against my chest, and I have to bite back a groan.

She has to feel how hard my heart is pounding right now.

"Yeah. First aid kit is under the register," she manages.

I keep hold of her hand while reaching with my free arm to grab the kit. Our bodies are close now, too close for casual acquaintances, not close enough for... whatever the hell this tension between us is.

"Thanks," she whispers, her eyes meeting mine.

I grunt and carefully apply the burn cream, my large fingers gentle against her smaller hand.

The contrast reminds me of my first major injury. A broken hand from a fight defending my linemate. The team doctor had hands like mine, oversized but careful. He told me I had good hands for an enforcer. Too good to waste on throwing punches.

"You should be more careful," I mutter, securing a small bandage over the spot. "The burn isn't serious. Only a small mark that'll fade by morning with this cream."

"Says the guy who gets hit by pucks for a living," she retorts, finding her voice again.

"Different."

"How is that different?"

"I get paid to take hits. You don't."

She studies me for a moment. "That scar of yours… the one from the stick fight… it was from protecting someone, wasn't it?"

My hand automatically moves to touch it, surprised she remembered that detail I told her weeks ago.

"Yeah. Second year with the Icehawks. Guy from Chicago went after our rookie."

I don't mention that I'd nearly lost my eye, spent a night in the hospital, and was back on the ice two days later with seventeen stitches.

"That's what you do, isn't it, Logan?" she asks quietly, the sound of my name on her perfect lips making my breath catch. "You protect people."

The tone in her voice makes me uncomfortable, like she's seeing past the reputation I've carefully constructed, past the nickname admired by my fans.

Past every fucking wall I've built over the years.

I shift my stance, grateful for the counter between us hiding the obvious effect she has on me.

"It's my job," I say gruffly.

"On the ice, sure. But you do it everywhere. Even here, with me."

It's been like this for weeks.

One smile from her and my body responds instantly, painfully. Like a fucking teenager instead of a grown man.

Our phones buzz simultaneously, breaking the moment. I step back, immediately missing her warmth, and pull out my phone.

"It's from Sophia," Emma says, reading her screen.

I nod, looking at the same message on my phone:

Okay teams! Community Outreach Task #1: Promotional video shoot tomorrow, 10 AM at Icehawk Arena. Crew will be there at 9:30 to set up. Dress casually. Theme: "A Day in Iron Ridge." Be prepared to showcase what makes your partnership unique! —Sophia

Emma looks up at me, those beautiful big eyes wide. "They're filming us tomorrow? At The Nest?! But my hair, it's a mess! And I haven't planned anything, and—"

"It'll be fine," I interrupt her spiral, looking at her hair and wondering what the hell is wrong with it. "Just be you."

"Be me? That's your advice?" She looks up at me through those long lashes, unknowingly driving me insane. "What does that even mean?"

"Means let me see the real Emma Carter," I say, my voice dropping lower than intended. "Not the one you show everyone else."

Her breath catches. "And what makes you think there's another version of me?"

I step closer, unable to help myself. "I've seen glimpses. When you think no one's watching."

She looks like she wants to argue, but instead, she takes a deep breath. "Okay. I'll try." Another breath. "Probably."

The corner of my mouth twitches upward. "Get some sleep, Emma. Looks like we've got a big day tomorrow."

As I turn to leave, she calls after me. "Logan?"

I glance back.

"Thanks. For choosing my shop, I mean."

I hold her gaze for a long moment. "Anytime… Witch ."

As I walk out, I tell myself I’m doing this for the team. For the community. For the coffee.

But deep down, I know the truth.

I’m doing this for her.

When I reach my truck, I pause with my hand on the door.

It scares the shit out of me, this feeling. This... connection.

The last time I let someone matter this much was my mother, and losing her nearly broke me. I learned the hard way that loving someone means giving them the power to destroy you.

I'm not sure I'm brave enough to risk that again.

Not even for a woman who smells like vanilla and makes coffee that literally tastes like home.