Page 1

Chapter One

Lucy

H ere's the thing about escaping a high-society charity gala in Iron Ridge - you have to nail the execution.

Lucky for me, I've had twenty-five years of practice.

I sink deeper into my favorite velvet armchair at Chapter it's sanctuary.

I love my family.

I do.

Mostly.

When they're not trying to marry me off to this weeks flavor of the week.

But the thing about being a Daniels is that you're never just yourself. You're a legacy, a portfolio, a carefully curated Instagram feed without the fun filters.

"You know what the worst part is?" I say, breaking the silence as Emma sorts through the new arrivals over by a large bookshelf. "There were a hundred people in that room tonight, and not one of them knows anything real about me. They know my family's net worth, my father's golf handicap, and which sorority I was in. But if someone asked what makes me happy..."

Emma raises an eyebrow. "Besides escaping to my bookstore?"

"See! You get me," I laugh, but it fades quickly. "Even Ethan wasn't there tonight."

My brother. My once-upon-a-time partner in crime. Mom's golden boy who taught me how to climb trees in designer clothes and sneak extra desserts during formal dinners.

All of that before he saw the dollar signs and crossed over to the dark side.

"He was supposed to fly in yesterday." I frown, picking at a loose thread on my sweater. "Dad said he had 'work commitments' that kept him in Monaco, but..."

But Ethan hasn't returned my texts in three months.

His Instagram shows yachts and champagne and beautiful girls, but I see more than that. I see how my brother's eyes look hollow in every photo. The world which has consumed my parents is slowly taking him too.

And it breaks my heart.

"When was the last time you actually spoke to him?" Emma asks, her voice gentle.

"A few months ago? Maybe three?" I stare into my mug. "He called at 3 AM, sounded weird. But, anyway…"

Emma nods and I'm about to dive into my book when my phone buzzes against the side table. The screen illuminates with a photo of my mother in her garden, looking immaculate as always.

For the fourth time tonight… I decline the call with a fast swipe.

I can picture her exact expression right now. That pinched look that says I'm ruining years of careful social engineering.

"Your mom again?" Emma asks, glancing up from where she's arranging a new series of romantasy books with gold glittered edges.

"Who else?"

I sink deeper into my chair, lifting my book back up to eye level. The heroine is about to tell off the brooding hero, and honestly, I need that energy in my life right now.

My phone buzzes again, and I nearly ignore it, assuming Mom has switched to her favorite tactic: rapid-fire calls until I answer.

But something in the corner of my eye makes me glance at the screen.

The book slips from my fingers.

I sit up so fast I nearly spill what's left of my mocha. My heart jumps into my throat, and I must look like I've seen a ghost because Emma immediately abandons her books and crosses the room.

"Lucy? What's wrong?"

I stare at the screen, at the name I haven't seen light up my phone in months. The profile picture shows a younger version of us—Ethan with his arm around my shoulders at my college graduation, both of us grinning like we had the world figured out.

"It's... Ethan."

Emma's eyes widen. She knows all about my brother's disappearing act, knows how worried I've been beneath my casual mentions of him.

The phone continues to buzz in my palm, and for a second, I'm frozen.

My thumb hovers over the green button. I press accept.

"Lucy! Where are you?" Ethan's voice cuts through the line, sharp enough to make me flinch.

Something's wrong. The words tumble from his mouth too fast, too harsh. This isn't my smooth-talking big brother who can charm his way through any situation.

"Why aren't you at the party?!"

"Well, hello to you too." I force lightness into my voice, even as my stomach knots. "And before you take Mom's side, you weren't there either!"

A scoff crackles through the speaker. "I had... business to take care of when I landed in Iron Ridge. I'm here now. Where the fuck are you?"

Emma leans closer, her brow furrowed.

I press the phone tighter against my ear, trying to decode what's different about his voice.

"Hiding," I say finally, because despite everything, despite the radio silence and missed birthdays and unanswered texts, he's still Ethan. Still the person who knows all my secrets. Understands our world like no one else.

"Perfect. I'll meet you there."

I blink at the empty air. My heart stutters because of course he knows exactly where I am. How many times did he find me curled up in this same corner of Chapter & Grind when things got too much? How many times did he bring me hot chocolate and sit while I ranted about Mom's latest schemes?

"Um, okay."

I stare at my phone, mind racing as Ethan hangs up.

Three months of silence, and now Ethan's rushing to meet me? Something doesn't add up. My brother doesn't do anything without a reason, and whatever this is, it feels urgent.

"He's coming here?" Emma whispers, eyebrows raised.

I'm about to respond when the bell above the door chimes. My eyes dart up automatically.

And my heart stops.

It's not Ethan.

Fuck.

It's worse than that.

Connor Walsh, championship winning Goalie for the Iron Ridge Icehawks strides in, all six-foot-three of him, shaking snow from his messy hair. His leather jacket hugs broad shoulders, and that goddamn playoff beard he's been growing is wilder than ever.

He scans the café with devastating amber eyes—the same eyes that miss nothing on the ice.

Then his gaze locks with mine.

His lips curve into that smirk that's been irritating me ever since I started working for the Icehawks a few months back. The one that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners, the one that's graced countless magazine covers and haunted my dreams for years.

And he's walking straight toward me.

Emma looks at me. I look at her.

And then, before I can even process what’s happening, Connor drops into my chair like he owns the damn thing.

I make a strangled noise beneath his weight. "Connor!"

His very large, very muscular frame presses against mine, trapping me between six-foot-three of smug hockey player and the armrest that is currently my only lifeline.

He grins, stretching his arms behind his head like he’s on a beach somewhere, completely ignoring the fact that he is literally on top of me.

"Missed me, sunshine?"

I slap his chest and push him out of my face. "What are you doing here, Walsh?"

" Ouch . Back to last names?" He shifts closer, if that's even possible. "And here I thought we had something special after our…" Those dangerous eyes drift down my body and my skin heats. "…special cup-winning celebrations in Vegas."

I snap my eyes at him, then to Emma who's humming to herself in an attempt to pretend like she's not listening.

I freeze, wide eyes warning Connor.

Vegas. Oh god. The V-word has been officially dropped in public.

Let's be clear: nobody is supposed to know about Vegas. Not Emma. Not Ethan. Not the entire population of Iron Ridge who haven't stopped partying since the Icehawks lifted the trophy.

Vegas was my one moment of weakness where I almost— almost —gave in to years of Connor Walsh fantasies. And trust me, those fantasies are extensive, detailed, and would make my brother have a coronary if he knew.

But I can't.

Not with him. Not with Ethan's best friend… or, former best friend? The whole mess is complicated enough without adding whatever this is between Connor and me into the mix.

But to this day, I haven't given in.

I've been a paragon of self-control.

Okay, maybe I've been a tiny bit flirtatious. And maybe I did let him kiss me. And maybe his hands went... places.

But I drew the line! No goods were delivered, despite how desperately I wanted to rip that smug smile off his face with my mouth.

"We agreed not to talk about Vegas."

"Did we? Must've missed that memo." Connor's fingers brush my arm, sending sparks through my sweater. "You've been dodging my calls."

"I've been busy."

"Too busy for your favorite goalie?"

I roll my eyes, but my heart hammers against my ribs. "Connor, you're not my favorite anything."

Connor leans in, his lips grazing my ear. "Your pulse says otherwise, Lucy Lou."

The nickname rolls of his tongue like a dirty promise, and I hate how fast my body reacts. God… He knows what it does to me, knows exactly how to push my buttons and get me all riled up.

And God help me, part of me wants him to keep pushing.

Instead, I push against Connor's chest, trying to create some breathing room between us. It doesn't help that every time my hand makes contact with his solid frame, memories flash through my mind like a highlight reel of torture.

Truth is, Connor Walsh has been my personal kryptonite since the moment Ethan first brought him home during high school. I was just an innocent teenage girl back then, and suddenly there was this ridiculously gorgeous hockey player sitting on our couch.

What else was I supposed to do?!

For years, I told myself it was just a silly crush. The kind every girl gets on her brother's hot friend. Something I'd outgrow, like my obsession with boy bands or strawberry lip gloss.

But I didn't outgrow it.

And then Ethan left Iron Ridge.

Suddenly Connor was just... there. Not as Ethan's friend, but as himself. We'd run into each other at coffee shops, at Icehawks events where I was working or cheering the team on, at Emma's bookstore or at Summit Café on Saturday mornings.

We started talking. Really talking.

"Well, you're no fun tonight. So where is the bastard?"

Connor's expression shifts, his playful smirk fading into something more serious.

I freeze. "What?"

"Ethan. He told me to meet him here."

My stomach drops. Of course Ethan called Connor too. I should have known those two come as a package deal.

The doorbell chimes again and my fucking stomach drops as I look up over Connor's rounded shoulder.

"Ethan…" I breathe my brother's name under my breath.

He stands in the doorway, snowflakes melting in his dark hair. For a split second, relief floods through me.

He's alive . He's here.

And he looks... okay.

Thinner maybe, with shadows under his eyes that weren't there before, but he's standing upright.

Our eyes lock across the café. His face softens for just a moment—that look he's given me since we were kids, the one that says "Hey, Luce" without words.

Then his gaze shifts to Connor.

And his expression instantly darkens at the sight of his best friend sitting on my fucking lap.

I don’t move. Connor doesn’t either. He stays right where he is, smug and fucking unbothered, like he hasn’t just been caught getting way too cozy with his best friend’s little sister.

I swear, I hear Emma suck in a breath behind the counter.

Ethan blinks once. Twice. A flicker of confusion flashes across his face, like his brain is glitching out, trying to process what the fuck he’s looking at.

And then Connor—because he’s a menace to my well-being—does the worst possible thing.

He shifts. Just enough. His fingers skim my knee like it’s casual, like it’s normal, like he’s not playing with goddamn fire.

"Well, well. Look who finally decided to show up."

He stands, slow and infuriatingly confident, before clapping Ethan on the back like nothing is amiss. They shake hands and grin silently at each other.

Like this isn’t weird. Like he didn’t just have his hand dangerously close to my inner thigh.

I stare at my brother and Connor, frozen in place while my mind races back to Vegas. The memory of Connor's breath hot against my neck in that darkened hallway, his fingers tracing the edge of my dress, our bodies pressed together as he whispered exactly what he wanted to do to me.

One heated kiss that left me dizzy before I pulled away, mumbling excuses about Ethan and team boundaries.

God, I've thought about it constantly since then.

I've imagined him showing up at my door, pushing me against the wall, finishing what we started. I've dreamed about straddling him in the Icehawks locker room, about hotel rooms with soundproof walls where I could finally let go completely.

It's ridiculous how badly I want Connor.

How I catch myself staring at his lips during team meetings, wondering if he's as good with his mouth as I suspect he is. How a single text from him makes my whole body flush hot.

"Good to see you, man," Connor drawls. "What’s it been? A year? Two?"

Ethan doesn’t answer right away. He just looks at him.

"Yeah," he says, tone measured. "Long time."

I barely take a breath before Ethan exhales sharply, raking a hand through his dark hair and shifting his weight like he’s trying to keep himself steady.

"Well," he says, looking me over. His eyes flick to the oversized sweater, the abandoned heels, the book in my lap. "At least some things never change."

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Because I know him. I know that tone.

That’s not a brother making small talk.

That’s a brother piecing shit together.

Connecting dots he shouldn’t be connecting.

And realizing… he just walked in on something he never should have seen.