Page 1

Chapter 1

Lucy

T he Pine Harbor Community Center hums with energy, a lively blend of laughter, chatter, and the scuffle of hurried footsteps filling its halls. Today, it’s not just the regular hustle of yoga classes, knitting groups, and hockey practices; it’s also the site of the Paws for Love adoption event—the highlight of my month.

I weave through clusters of people—mostly kids begging their parents to let them adopt a dog or a cat—with a practiced smile and a clipboard clutched in my hands. The makeshift adoption station teems with wagging tails and delighted squeals, a whirlwind of happy chaos that warms my heart. The faint scent of popcorn from the snack table mixes with the warm, earthy smell of hay from the kitten pens. It’s perfect, even if my feet already ache from running around.

“Lucy!” Kate’s voice calls from across the room. She’s at the kitten station, her red curls bouncing as she waves me over. “We’ve got a kitten escape artist! Mr. Whiskers keeps sneaking out of his pen and into the puppy section. Can you bring over the carrier before he causes a riot?”

“On it,” I shout back, darting toward our supply table. I’m halfway there when I hear it—the telltale clink clink clink of hockey sticks striking the rink. My heart drops, and my gaze flies to the large double doors leading to the ice arena.

Sure enough, there he is.

Logan Mitchell, Pine Harbor’s very own brooding bad boy of hockey, steps through the doors with a presence impossible to ignore.

He steps through the doors, his imposing frame cutting an effortlessly commanding figure. Logan’s dark, wavy hair peeks out from under his team cap, and his hazel eyes sweep the room with the precision of a sniper. He’s tall—easily over six feet—and built like he was carved from stone. His jawline is sharp enough to cut glass, and the faint scruff along his chin only adds to his rugged appeal. Even in casual sweats, he looks every bit the professional athlete he is—though the permanent scowl he wears makes him about as approachable as a cactus.

“Excuse me,” Logan growls, his voice carrying just enough gravel to turn heads as he approaches the information table near the arena entrance. “Why is this setup blocking the arena access?”

I’m already walking toward him, my clipboard now a makeshift shield. “Good morning to you too, sunshine,” I say brightly, stopping just short of his towering frame. “It’s not blocking anything. People can still get through.”

Logan glances at the swarm of kids and dogs around the entrance, his eyes narrowing slightly. "This setup is disorganized. My team has practice in fifteen minutes, and we’re going to end up dodging leashes and tripping over kittens."

I raise an eyebrow, resisting the urge to cross my arms. “And your practice couldn’t possibly wait? These animals are looking for forever homes. I’m sure your puck-slapping can hold off for a worthy cause.”

He folds his arms across his chest, his biceps straining against his jacket. “I’m not here to debate with you, Hart. Move the table.”

The audacity.

“Listen, Mitchell,” I say, stepping closer and lowering my voice so the spectators don’t get a front-row seat to our clash. “This event was booked weeks ago. If your team can’t navigate around a couple of tables and adoptable kittens, maybe you’re not as coordinated as everyone thinks.”

Logan’s jaw tightens briefly, his hazel eyes meeting mine with an intensity that’s impossible to decipher. A faint trace of his cologne—warm cedar mingled with crisp citrus—drifts into the air, but I force myself to refocus on the conversation instead of the unexpected detail. I hate that it’s unexpectedly pleasant, catching me off guard just like him. I’m almost certain I’ve won this round when a voice pipes up behind him.

“Mom, look! A puppy!”

A little girl darts between Logan and me, her eyes wide with excitement as she points at Bella, one of the shelter’s puppies. Logan steps back instinctively, making space for her, and the faintest flicker of softness crosses his face. He doesn’t say anything, but the way his gaze lingers on the child’s joy is…unexpected.

“Fine,” he mutters, his voice tight but not as sharp. “But if one of my players trips over a leash, we’re moving everything.”

“Noted,” I reply, plastering on a saccharine smile as he turns and stalks back toward the rink. His broad shoulders disappear through the double doors, leaving a faint trail of tension in the air.

Kate sidles up beside me, her red curls framing a mischievous grin, her eyes sparkling like she’s just uncovered the juiciest secret in Pine Harbor. “Wow, that was a masterclass in tension.”

“Oh, stop,” I say, though my cheeks warm under her knowing gaze. “He’s intolerable.”

“Intolerable or intriguing?” Kate wiggles her eyebrows. “You two have this whole enemies-to-lovers thing brewing, and I am here for it.”

I roll my eyes, but the thought lingers. There’s nothing intriguing about Logan Mitchell…except maybe the way he looks at you like he’s trying to figure out your next move. Or how he’s always composed, even when irritated. Or…

No. Focus, Lucy.

I take a deep breath and shake off the lingering thoughts about Logan. There’s still a full day ahead of me, and I can’t afford to let one grumpy hockey player derail everything. I scan the room, noting the steady stream of visitors wandering between the pet pens and adoption tables. Kids giggle as kittens playfully swat at dangling toys, and a couple leans in close to discuss adopting a Labrador mix with soulful eyes. The atmosphere here is my sanctuary—busy, yes, but filled with hope and possibility. It’s why I love what I do.

The day wears on, the adoption event in full swing. Between coordinating volunteers, soothing nervous pets, and chatting with potential adopters, I barely have a moment to breathe. Still, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t catch myself glancing at the rink doors a few too many times.

By mid-afternoon, Emma—Logan’s sister and one of my shelter colleagues—arrives to lend a hand. She’s become one of my closest friends at the shelter, always ready to step in with practical solutions and a calming presence that balances out my occasional chaos. Her brown hair is pulled into a no-nonsense ponytail, and she’s already rolling up her sleeves when she spots me.

“So,” she begins, her tone casual as she organizes paperwork on the table. “I heard Logan had words with you this morning.”

“Words?” I snort. “More like a grumpy monologue about how we’re ruining his precious hockey practice.”

Emma hides a smile. “He’s…not great at first impressions.”

“Or second ones,” I mutter, earning a laugh from her.

Emma’s loyalty to her brother runs deep, and while I know she’s only half-defending him, I decide to steer the conversation toward safer ground to avoid diving into family dynamics. “How’s Lewis doing?” I ask, referring to one of our shelter dogs she’s been fostering.

“He’s a sweetheart,” Emma says, her face lighting up. “If I didn’t already have my hands full, I’d keep him.”

As we chat, a ping on my phone draws my attention. It’s an email notification from Coach Turner, the Timberwolves’ head coach. The subject line reads: Proposal for Collaboration.

Curious, I open the email and skim the contents. My eyebrows rise as I read about the "Adopt-a-Player" campaign—a partnership between the Timberwolves and Cozy Paws to pair players with adoptable pets for promotional purposes. The idea is intriguing, but it also comes with the risk of stirring up even more tension with Logan. The campaign is meant to boost community engagement and visibility for both the shelter and the team.

“Interesting,” I murmur, my mind already racing. This could be huge for the shelter, but the thought of working with the Timberwolves also brings an uncomfortable twist to my stomach. More exposure to Logan Mitchell’s gruff attitude wasn’t exactly on my wish list after today’s clash. Still, I can’t shake the notion that the campaign’s potential outweighs my irritation.

“What’s interesting?” Emma asks, peering over my shoulder.

I show her the email, and her face brightens. “That’s a great idea! Logan’s good with animals, you know.”

“Good at scowling at them, maybe,” I quip, though Emma’s words stick with me. Could Logan actually pull off being the face of a campaign like this? More importantly, could I?

As the day winds down, Kate joins me at the supply table, where I’m folding leftover adoption brochures.

“You’ve been quiet,” she says, nudging me with her elbow. “That email got you thinking, didn’t it?”

“It’s…complicated,” I admit. “On one hand, it could be amazing for the shelter. But on the other…Logan Mitchell.”

I chew my lip, glancing at the adoption brochures I’ve been folding. "It’s not just today—he’s always been like this. Every time we’ve crossed paths, it’s the same thing: gruff, impatient, like everyone’s wasting his time. He doesn’t even try to hide it."

Kate leans her chin on her hand, smirking. "Sounds like he’s made quite an impression."

"Oh, he has," I reply, rolling my eyes. "There was that time at the charity gala when he brushed past me and nearly knocked the donation table over. Did he apologize? Nope. Just muttered something about being in a hurry and left. And last summer, when we had the town cleanup day, he showed up late and acted like he was doing us all a favor by being there."

Kate’s eyes sparkle with amusement. "You’ve got a whole highlight reel of grievances, huh?"

I sigh, realizing how much space he’s taken up in my head. "It’s not like I go looking for reasons to dislike him. He just makes it…easy."

Kate grins. “That’s not a reason to say no. If anything, it’s all the more reason to dive in. Imagine the endless sparring sessions—you’d be in your element.”

I groan. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re overthinking. Just give it a chance. Who knows? Logan might surprise you.”

The idea is laughable, yet as I pack up the event supplies and head home, the email’s words replay in my mind, stirring a mix of excitement and unease. What if this campaign could be the breakthrough the shelter needs? What if working with Logan proves I’ve underestimated him…or worse, overestimated my patience? Maybe there’s more to Logan Mitchell than his gruff exterior. Or maybe he’s exactly what he seems: a headache waiting to happen.

Either way, I can’t deny the pull of possibility. This campaign could change everything—for the shelter, for the community, and maybe even for me.