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HARPER

T he music from Charlie’s Bar blares from the thin walls as my heeled sandals click against the asphalt, heading to the entrance.

I pull open the door, and the second I step inside, it’s like being frozen in time.

Same black barstools lined along the counter. Same wooden tables with worn red upholstered booths. Same rock music blaring from the jukebox at an obnoxious volume, despite it being a Tuesday.

The door slams shut behind me as my eyes adjust to the dim lighting.

I make my way toward the bar, mentally rehearsing my order—honey barbeque wings, potato skins, and a double vodka soda—when a familiar voice makes my stomach clench.

“Well, if it isn’t Harper Adams.”

I cringe before I turn around, my shoulders stiffening.

Todd Matthews.

I paste a fake smile on my face and whirl around.

He’s changed a lot since I last saw him that infamous night outside the hockey rink.

“Hey, Todd. Been a long time.”

He smirks, patting the paunch of his beer belly. “Yeah, put on a few pounds since college.”

His eyes drag over me before he adds, “Looks like I’m not the only one.”

Indignant rage fills me as my mouth drops open.

Excuse me!

It takes everything in me not to launch a wing plate at his head.

Sure, I’ve filled out in the past decade, but I don’t look like a washed-up ex-jock clinging to my glory days.

Grinding my teeth, I ignore him and turn toward the bartender, prepared to order and forget Todd even exists.

But a voice from my past—deep, smooth, and unmistakable—cuts through the air.

“Harper.”

I freeze.

No.

No, no, no.

A decade may have passed, but I’ll never forget that voice.

I’ve heard it in my dreams more times than I care to admit.

Slowly, I turn my head, and my stomach drops.

Ford Brooks.

Holy hell.

He looks even better than the last time I saw him on a TV screen, dominating the ice.

In person, he’s devastating. That sharp jaw, those piercing blue eyes, the way his broad shoulders fill out his T-shirt like it was tailored for him.

So not fair.

“Ford.” His name escapes my lips on a breath, betraying me. “W-What are you doing here?”

Damn it. Why is my voice shaking?

Be calm.

Calm, cool, and collected.

His gaze drags over me, slow and deliberate.

Every inch of me ignites in response as he takes his time lingering on my curves before his eyes lock with mine.

“I’m visiting Gram.” His deep, raspy voice sends a shiver down my spine.

I nod, struggling to form a coherent thought as I take in the way his jeans hug his muscular thighs.

Why does he still have to be so freaking hot?

Ford takes a step closer, his intense gaze pinning me in place.

My pulse kicks into a sprint.

My brain scrambles for something—anything—to say, but suddenly, my body decides to betray me in a different way.

I swallow hard.

It’s fine.

He’s just someone you used to know.

Just give the guy a friendly hug and pretend he doesn’t mean anything to you.

I shift to step down from the barstool… and immediately, my heel gets caught.

Oh, shit.

The next thing I know, I’m falling, my knees hitting the sticky bar floor, right at Ford’s feet.

I don’t even have time to process my humiliation before my hands instinctively reach out for balance.

And land directly on his dick.

I freeze.

Oh. My. God.

Move your hand, Harper.

Move your freaking hand.

But I don’t.

I just sit there, kneeling before my ex like some tragic offering to the gods of mortification.

Slowly, my gaze drags up his body, meeting his shocked, slightly amused, slightly pained expression.

“Good to see you again,” Ford says, his voice rough as he reaches down to pry my death grip off his crotch.

He grabs both my hands and hauls me upright like I weigh nothing.

I wish for death.

Right here, right now.

I groan under my breath, squeezing my eyes shut.

Why couldn’t I hit my head and black out instead?