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SIX

lauren

When I find a table at Magnolia Brew early the next morning, the smell of cinnamon fills the air, mingling with the nutty aroma of fresh-brewed coffee. Since I live in the apartment above the cafe, this is my usual hangout when I’m not in the office at the Crushers.

“Do you want your usual, Lauren?” Scarlett calls out from behind the barista bar.

“Yes, plus one black coffee. No cream or sugar. And two cinnamon rolls.”

She raises one eyebrow.

“Not all for me,” I say, joining her at the counter. Jeneva and Delilah are already dishing out gossip at their corner table, so I lower my voice. “I’m meeting someone. And just for the record, it’s for work. Not a date.”

She looks at me. “That sounds like a pre-date disclaimer. Who is it?”

“Tate,” I whisper.

Her eyes widen. “Sheriff?”

“Shhh,” I say putting my finger to my lips as the two older ladies look my way.

Scarlett lowers her tone. “He doesn’t seem like the type of guy to care about PR.”

“He’s had a few public mishaps,” I say carefully.

Scarlett dishes out two cinnamon rolls with a knowing nod. “How bad are we talking?”

“Bad enough that I need to step in with a full-blown strategy, which could take all summer.”

“But we haven’t even made it to the end of the season yet.”

“I know, but this isn’t just about damage control.

If I can spin this into something positive, it’ll be a huge win for me.

I want to show the big guns I’m more than just another PR manager for an AHL team.

If I can turn Tate Foster into a fan favorite, that gets me in the door for a position with an NHL team. ”

The bell on the door jingles, and I turn to see Tate in a backward ball cap and glasses, entering the coffee shop. He pauses, looking around like he can’t believe people are awake and functional this early.

“Over here!” I call, waving to him.

Tate spots me and shakes his head slowly, clearly unimpressed with my choice of a meeting place, before striding over to join me at the barista counter. “Where else would you be but the loudest corner of the cafe? This place is too chaotic, too cheerful, and too populated.”

“That’s why I love it!” I say. “Noise, people, life! All the things you pretend give you hives.”

Tate holds up his hand and closes his eyes. “Can you just stop talking for a second? Your words feel like stabby little pick-up sticks in my brain.”

“Well, somebody’s cranky this morning.” He looks about as excited as an orangutan being interrupted by a busload of kindergartners. “It’s time to talk about the PR plan. But first, you need caffeine.” I thrust a coffee into his hands before heading to my usual table.

“Caffeine doesn’t change my feelings about the plan,” he mumbles into his coffee as he follows. “And I was up late last night…” He hesitates for a second. “Working on a project.”

“Okay, then, how about a cinnamon roll?” I offer, holding out the plate before I sit down.

Scarlett, of course, has given us only one plate for two rolls. She absolutely did this on purpose, probably hoping the shared plate would feel more like a date.

He stares at it warily before tearing off a piece. As he chews, he looks up in surprise at the barista. “What gives, Scarlett? You never told me these were this good.”

“You always order the same blueberry muffin,” she says with a shrug. “You’re a creature of habit.”

“Well, these are amazing.” Tate studies me. “You’re trying to get on my good side, aren’t you?”

“First rule of wooing people,” I say. “Find out what they like.”

“That’s why I don’t woo anyone,” he replies. “I can’t stand people.”

“Well, I don’t believe you,” I say, sliding into my chair.

“Why not?” He settles across from me.

“Because people who actually hate people don’t buy socks from kids raising money for rescue puppies,” I explain, pointing my fork at him. “You don’t dislike people. You just prefer them in limited quantities and with minimal drama.”

Tate’s mouth quirks up on one corner. “So your professional analysis is that I’m not antisocial, just selectively social?”

“Exactly. Despite your best efforts, Tate Foster, you’re extremely likable. I just need to make the rest of the world see that. Which is why I made a list for today’s meeting.” I flip open my laptop and set aside my fork.

Tate sighs. “You’re really diminishing my enjoyment of this cinnamon roll. Can’t we talk about anything else first?”

That’s when I realize I’m pushing too hard, too fast, which is classic me. I’ve always been the type to jump in the deep end first, usually well before anyone else is ready.

“Okay, fine. Let me see the socks, Sheriff.”

Tate doesn’t say a word. Just pulls up his pants to reveal gray socks with pancakes on them.

I give a smile of approval. “Breakfast socks?”

“Appropriate, don’t you think?” he says, the hint of a smirk on his lips.

“How many breakfast socks do you own?”

“Hmm,” he says, thinking about it. “Telling you would be far less amusing than seeing your reaction.”

“Then I guess I’ll have to invite you to breakfast again,” I say, lifting my coffee. “Strictly for research purposes.”

“You mean for the sock data.”

“Exactly,” I reply, nodding solemnly. “My PR plan depends on understanding your entire breakfast-themed wardrobe. It’s very scientific.”

He lets out a low chuckle and takes another bite of his cinnamon roll.

My phone buzzes, and my stomach sinks. It’s probably my sister since I’ve been dodging her texts all week.

Olivia

You still haven’t RSVP’d to the family reunion, so I’m taking your silence as a yes.

I turn my phone face-down on the table and let out a short sigh.

Tate studies me over his coffee. “What’s that about?”

“Nothing,” I say, avoiding his obvious stare.

“For a PR person, you’re terrible at lying.”

I glance up from my computer. “It was just a text from my sister.”

“A text that clearly bothers you,” he concludes. “You’re easy to read.”

“Easy? Well, at least I don’t hide my emotions.” I’m dodging his question now, but it’s better than explaining the situation I’m in with my family .

“I’m not emotionless,” he counters. “I’m just steady, like a boat on smooth waters.”

I let out a laugh. “Is that what you call it?”

“Yeah, I don’t let other people affect my mood.”

“Your mood being…avoiding feelings with logic?”

He grins, and a deep, unexpected laugh slips out, completely at odds with the usual stoic Sheriff. “It’s not about mood. It’s about approach. I analyze before I react. Everyone calls that grumpy, but it’s just”—he searches for the word—“methodical.”

“You over-analyze everything,” I suggest.

“I process thoroughly,” he corrects. “There’s a difference.”

“Really? Do tell,” I ask, propping my chin on my hand, genuinely curious about this side of him.

“People see quiet and think detached. They see careful and think cold. What they don’t see is that I’m cataloging every variable, considering every outcome. I don’t avoid feelings. I just don’t let them cloud my judgment when there’s a logical solution available.”

“So you’re saying you’re misunderstood?” I tease.

“I’m saying most people don’t have the patience to understand.” He leans back in his chair, thoughtful. “It’s easier to make quick assumptions than to accept someone might just see the world differently.”

“Well, right now, you’re not exactly coming across the way you need to in the public eye and that’s a problem.”

He leans back, arms crossed. “You think I care about what the public thinks?”

“No, but you need to start caring. You don’t smile for pictures, you avoid interviews, and you talk like your goal in life is to drive away your fans. That’s why you’ve become my next project.”

He groans. “Can you please stop calling me your ‘project’?”

“Fine,” I say. “But if you want a career in the NHL, we need to make you newsworthy—for the right reasons. ”

“I thought I already was. That’s what got me in trouble in the first place.” He gives me a dry grimace.

“There’s no magic fix. But we’ve got the summer to show people who you are outside of hockey.”

“Wait— all summer?” He shakes his head. “You don’t get it. I’m private. I don’t share personal stuff online. And I usually spend the summer hiding out at my parents’ place in California.”

“Okay, we’ll work around the trip,” I say. “But we are going to show people the real you.”

“Well, the real me hates this.” He pulls off his cap and drags a hand through his hair before jamming it back on. “But apparently, the real me also agreed to meet you before nine a.m., so clearly I’ve lost all control of my life.”

My phone buzzes against the table top again, and I give Tate an apologetic smile before picking it up.

Olivia

So you’re ghosting your own sister now? At least send a thumbs-up so I know you’re not in a ditch somewhere. Also, I have news. Call me or I’m showing up at your office with two adorable rug rats who will color with Sharpies on your walls.

With a sigh, I tap the thumbs-up emoji. “I get the wanting-to-be-left-alone part.”

“Is someone else giving you grief today other than me?” The corner of his lips lift, his gaze on me.

I look back at my computer, bristling under his focus. Normally, it doesn’t bother me to be the center of attention, but there’s something about his that’s different. Maybe because I’ve never had anyone read me so accurately.

“My sister wants an answer about the family reunion this summer.” Granny started the reunion when Mom got married. My mother kept the Williamson name, and so did I. The women in my family are strong, opinionated, and impossible to budge—especially when it comes to things like family reunions .

“You’re trying to get out of it?” he guesses.

My head snaps up. “How’d you know?”

“You frown every time you read your texts. You don’t do that when you get work texts.”

“It’s complicated.” I exhale. “Especially when we’re all crammed together for a week in a big lodge just outside of Sully’s Beach. It’s chaotic and loud, everybody up in your business. My family drives in since most of them live a few hours away. It’s basically summer camp for grown-ups.”

“At least your family wants you there,” he comments quietly. “My family always seems like they’re too busy for me. Sometimes I think they prefer it when I stay away.”

“Really?” I ask. “Tate, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful.”

“No, it’s okay.” He shakes his head like it’s no big deal, even though I can see it bothers him. “Is that why you don’t want to go?” he asks, studying me, taking it all in without judgment.

“My mom died eight weeks after the last reunion a year ago,” I admit. “And I’m bracing for the usual questions—how I’m doing, why I’m still single and whether I’m still making those ‘cute little videos’ for work.”

He pushes his plate aside. “Do they even know what you do?”

“Not really. My dad and sister try.” I shrug. “Most of my family is usually more interested in who I’m dating.”

“So…” He leans back, studying me. “Who are you dating? Anyone I know?”

I shoot him a look. “I don’t date guys I work with. More specifically, hockey players.”

Tate nods, like he’s filing away that information. “So, basically, no one’s intrigued you enough to be worth the hassle.”

I scoff. “That’s not what I said.”

He points his fork at me. “But that’s what you meant.”

I open my mouth to argue, but he’s looking at me with that little knowing smirk—the one that shows he enjoys getting under my skin, pushing back against the assumptions others just accept .

I focus on my laptop. “It’s just not smart to date someone you work with.”

Tate sets his fork down. “I get it. If it’s not worth the risk, why bother?”

There’s something in the way he says it that feels like he pulled the words from my dating playbook. Not that I have an actual book, but if I did, that line would definitely be on page one.

“Exactly.” I glance away from his pointed gaze and turn back to my computer. “Now, enough about my life. Back to your PR problem.”

He crosses his arms. “Okay, what do you need me to do to fix my mess?”

“I want to start with a motorcycle photo shoot.”

He lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “You’re kidding.”

“Come on, Tate. You promised to consider my ideas, and the NHL commissioner’s big on motorcycle safety. We get a few shots of you on a bike, give a shout-out to his charity—it’s all a win.”

He looks around the coffee shop. “Well, I can’t right now.”

“Next week?” I try.

“I’m busy.”

“For how long?”

“The rest of my life.”

“Tate,” I say. “Let me put it in terms you’ll understand: There’s a defensive side of PR called damage control.

But there’s also an offensive side—winning people over before they turn on you.

Right now, the NHL is interested in you, but the big guys at the top want marketable.

The kind that gets jersey sales up and influences ticket sales. ”

He rubs the back of his neck. “So what? You want me to start cracking jokes in post-game interviews?”

“Oh, we’re going way beyond that,” I say with a grin. “A campaign that shows you as fun-loving and delightfully charming. You said yourself that you happen to be very fun underneath that stone face.”

“Well, I lied,” he deadpans. “I’m painfully boring. ”

I lean in, eyes narrowed. “Nice try, Sheriff, but I know the truth. The NHL is watching you. And they need a reason to believe you’re worth the risk.”

He tips his head back with a groan. “I know you’re right. But I hate that you’re right.”

I laugh and pat his arm sweetly. “Oh, the horror of being a wickedly handsome athlete. How will you endure it?”

He sighs. “Fine. Next week, I’ll sit on the bike.”

I cross my arms. “Oh, no. We’re not stopping at sitting. You’re going to ride the thing—and look good doing it.”

“I don’t even have a bike.”

I lean in, grinning. “Lucky for you, I have just the solution.”