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I try to reroute my focus to the tiny stovetop, resting my hand on it.

“If this isn’t enough for you, you can come upstairs and use the main kitchen.

I’m happy to show you that too,” I say as I turn around, while tension rattles through me.

It’s intense being near someone I’m so attracted to in so many ways.

It hangs between us—the things that can never be.

Or maybe it just hangs in front of me—my own reminder.

“Tyler, I love it all,” she says, her tone genuine and no longer teasing.

I look back at her as she gestures to the sea of suitcases, boxes, and milk crates. “I’ve been living in a micro-studio without a shower. This feels like a mansion to me.”

The heartfelt tone in her voice makes my chest squeeze, but her prior situation pisses me off. “Why? What happened?”

Sure, I know what happened on her wedding day and night. But I mean it more specifically—what went down the morning after.

Trouble is, now I feel terrible that I never really asked how she was doing— really doing—all the times I saw her at skating lessons.

I didn’t truly check in with her. We agreed to pretend that night never happened and somehow, I took that to the letter, never asking about the other things that went wrong.

Like with her other job, and her parents.

“I mean, how did you wind up there? In that place?” I ask quickly, trying to course correct.

She brushes some errant blonde strands off her cheek. “Rhonda,” she says brightly.

It takes me a few seconds to connect the dots. “The…Lyft driver? With the mismatched slides?”

“Yes! She had a friend who rented me the place. It was all I could afford in the city, since, well…I no longer had a job to supplement my skating business.”

“Right. Your parents…” I begin, but it pisses me off to fi nish the sentence. Fired you. So I don’t. Because I don’t want to let on that I despise her parents for how they treated her.

“Ironic, too, because my mother was the one who was so excited that my run at Glacé was ending at just the right time—her words—for me to devote my energy to wedding planning with her and doing some freelance accounting for my dad.” Sabrina waves a hand like she’s dismissing all of that.

“But it’s fine. Really, it’s fine. I’d been living with Chad on and off for some time and making extra cash from my parents.

I needed to do life on my own. That’s what I did this summer. ”

My throat tightens with unexpected emotions. I’m…a little proud of her. That’s hard to do these days.

“And you did it?” I ask, focusing on the details she’s sharing.

“Somehow, I pulled it all off. I call it…The Summer of Odd Jobs and Moving On.”

Oh, hell. I try not to latch onto those last two words. Moving on. But man, are they ever music to my ears. “I couldn’t be happier that you’ve moved on beyond…Fuck Chad.”

A smile lights up her pretty face, making her freckles almost shine. “I haven’t heard that name in a while.”

“Good,” I say. “It’s best if he’s out of your head and out of your life.” It comes out sharper, harsher, than it probably should, but hell, that’s how I feel. That guy doesn’t deserve to be spoken of ever.

“How are things with your parents?” I ask, though I’m honestly dreading the answer for her.

She winces but then seems to do her best to erase the sadness as she swallows, then says evenly, “We don’t really talk. I mean, I went to pick up my things and my skating costumes, and my father kind of made it clear…I was a disappointment.”

I hiss .

I want to march up to her father and tell him what an ass he is. There’s a special place in hell for dads who treat their kids like that. “He’s wrong. You’re not,” I bite out.

When her eyes widen, I try to get a better hold of my reaction, holding up my hands. “Sorry, but I can’t stand parents who don’t support their kids. Who aren’t there for their kids. Who hurt their kids.”

She gives a sad smile. “Sounds like you’re speaking from experience?”

“My dad walked out on us when I was ten.” I don’t normally serve up my biggest hurt, but there it is. Something about Sabrina’s patent honesty makes me give her some of my own.

“I’m sorry, Tyler. That’s terrible.”

“It was, and he’s gone now. But I learned I never want to be like him.”

“Pretty sure you’re not,” she says.

And hell, I didn’t mean to make this conversation about me.

And I probably shouldn’t be kicking so much dirt on her dad.

I hardly know her. “I’m really sorry he said that to you, Sabrina,” I say as calmly as I can though my jaw is ticking with irritation.

I hate that she went through this, but I’m impressed by how she handled it.

But that’s not enough, so I add, “You’re a legend. ”

Like I said in the note I left her the morning after her wedding.

The softness in her eyes tells me she remembers.

“Well, I try. And hey, my family saying see you later all worked out in the end,” she says, brightly, and I’m not sure if she’s trying to be cheery about it all or if she really did make lemonade out of the whole situation.

Knowing her, I bet she made lemonade. “When I wasn’t teaching skating, I was a mascot for the Cougars, did some freelance accounting, cleaned the gym sometimes, sold my ring, rented a micro- studio above a restaurant, and spent all summer smelling like garlic.

And you probably noticed that during skating lessons. ”

“Not once,” I say, as I file away the fantastic fact that she ditched the ring.

She arches a brow in question. “I don’t buy that.”

“Scout’s honor,” I say, holding up three fingers.

Her brow shoots higher. “I call bullshit. You weren’t a Boy Scout,” she says, giving it right back to me like I did to her that night.

“How do you know?”

“Boy Scouts follow the rules.”

I should leave that alone. Truly, I should. And yet I step a few inches closer, lower my voice and say, “And I followed the rules that night.”

A small gasp coasts across her lips. Her chest flushes too. She rolls her lips together, and for several long and fantastic seconds, I forget the world beyond that door as I imagine kissing off that lip gloss.

Maybe she does too because she says, a little breathless, “You did, Tyler.”

She doesn’t say, What a shame , but I hear it anyway, humming in the air between us.

It drives me a little wild. Maybe the wall she built after her wedding wasn’t about me or attraction, but about her.

About timing. Because right now? The sparks from that night are back, crackling through my body.

And they’re not one-sided—I can feel that.

It’s heady, this awareness. Knowing she wasn’t just throwing herself at me because she’d had too much to drink. Every unspoken word, every jolt of electricity between us, is tempting enough to make me want to close the distance, pull her into my arms, and ask for a do-over. A sober do-over.

But what’s the point? These sparks can’t start a fire. They need to be doused .

We can’t give in to whatever this is. Not when she’s working for me. Not when she’s taking care of my kids.

I shove the thoughts aside and return to the conversation. “You’re right though. I was never a Boy Scout.”

“Too busy with hockey?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely.”

“The ice called to you,” she says.

“And you,” I add. Then, before I get lost in talking about all the things we have in common—we’re both athletes and we’re also the same type of athlete—I try to recenter myself to the moment.

To my job.

As her boss.

As her landlord.

And really, to my biggest job—being the father to the two best kids in the world.

And that means no flirting with their new nanny.

I clear my throat. “I’m glad you’re not in that micro-studio place anymore, and I’m glad this job worked out.

” For the first time, I’m really starting to mean it. “Let me show you your bedroom.”

“Can’t wait,” she says. “It’s definitely going to be better than the futon on the floor.”

“It is,” I say, pleased I can provide her with a place to call home for a while.

I guide her to the bedroom, showing her the queen-size bed with a homemade quilt my mom bought at a fundraiser for the local dog rescue. The quilt is covered in dogs and cats.

“There are fresh sheets on the bed,” I begin.

“I brought some, but wow. Thank you. It’s always good to have extra and I’m sure yours are fabulous,” she says, sounding genuinely touched, and her appreciation just makes me want to do more for her, make sure she has everything.

“You’re welcome. ”

“And there has never been a more perfect quilt," Sabrina says, running her hands over it, sighing happily, and sitting down on the bed.

And then she flops onto her back, and I fucking die.

That’s it. I just…die at the sight of this beauty on my bed. At the way her tank top rides up a little bit more, exposing more of her belly—a strip of soft, pale flesh.

It’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. This woman, so strong and so fucking vulnerable, stretched out on this bed in my house.

I fight like hell not to think about the fact that while I’ll be two floors up in my room later tonight, she’ll be down here in this bed after dark.

Does she wear sleep shorts? A T-shirt and nothing else?

A tank top and white lace panties? Fuck my brain for wandering in those directions.

But if it keeps going, that bet the guys made will be over before it started.

“So, that’s the bedroom,” I say gruffly, walking away because I can’t linger on her in there. The more I see her on the bed, the more I want to peel off those leggings and show her what the opposite of a St. Bernard is.

I scrub a hand down my face as I stalk back to the living room, trying to erase the filthy images, stat. I squeeze my eyes shut, thinking of cold water. Freezing cold water. Bone-chilling showers.

Perfect.

She joins me seconds later, and I move right back into landlord mode, looking around the mostly empty living room.