One-Timer (Carolina Comets)
One-Timer: Chapter 3

“Oh my gosh, you should have seen the way you two walked down the aisle. You were so stiff! I still can’t believe you hit him.”

“He deserved it! You could have warned me about him, you know,” I gripe to Emilia as we slide up to one of the many bars this place has.

“Oh, come on. He’s not that bad,” she says. “In fact, he’s actually really nice. Probably one of the nicer guys on the team if I’m being honest. He’s always game for charity stuff, and he’s so good with all the kids.”

“You sound like you have a crush on him.”

“Ha. Hardly. I mean is the man insanely hot? Yes. Obviously. Duh. But you don’t want to mess around with hockey players.” She says it like she’s speaking from experience, and I have a feeling she is.

Emilia moved out here a couple of years ago after she discovered her boyfriend was living a double life with her and the neighbor next door. Much like me, she had to bail. Though I missed her, I couldn’t blame her for doing it. Especially not when she was offered a social media manager position with a professional hockey team.

The very first weekend she lived here, she had a two-night stand with a mystery guy, and something in my gut tells me it was one of the players she works with, though she won’t confirm it.

“Wait…it’s not him, is it?”

“Uh…no.” Though her cheeks flush a bright red. “Order me a wine, will you? I’m going to run to the bathroom really quick.”

I plop down onto a stool and sigh. My feet are killing me, and I want nothing more than to run a hot bath, then soak in it for hours.

“Long day?” the bartender asks, setting a napkin in front of me.

“The longest.”

I woke up this morning with an awful headache, no doubt from all the crying I did yesterday. Then when I checked my bank account—like I do every morning because I’m responsible like that—I realized somebody had made not one, not two, but three purchases on my card without my authorization. Guess who got to spend the morning on the phone with the bank dealing with that? Me.

Then the coffee I had delivered for room service—a splurge on its own—didn’t come with cream, and when I called down to the front desk to request some, they told me they were out. Which meant I was stuck with black coffee, and I hate black coffee.

That was all before I even got out of bed.

I also had to deal with my sister freaking out about last-minute things, my mother freaking out about last-minute things, and everyone else freaking out about last-minute things. And don’t even get me started on the pitying looks I’ve been getting from everyone who knows I just got divorced.

It has been an emotionally taxing day on so many levels.

The bartender chuckles like he’s in on the joke, even though he has no idea how long of a day it really was for me. “What can I get for you?”

“Do you have chocolate milk?”

I don’t know why I say it. I had every intention of getting drunk tonight, but wine doesn’t sound appealing right now.

He lifts his brows, then shoots a glance down the bar. “Do we have chocolate milk tonight, boss?”

Boss?

I turned on my stool to replace my least favorite person in the world right now.

Actually, probably my second least favorite person in the world right now—fuck that asshole who stole my credit card information.

I hold my breath, waiting for him to say something asinine because that’s apparently the only thing that can come out of his mouth.

But to my surprise, he doesn’t. He just looks at the bartender and nods. “Yeah, we do.”

The bartender taps the counter twice and tells me he’ll be right back, then takes off. I turn to thank him for the drink, but the words die on my tongue when I realize he’s getting up and moving two stools down to sit next to me.

Like right next to me. So close I can smell him, and he smells divine. Almost like a hint of something woodsy with just a note of orange.

I hate that I like it.

He doesn’t say anything as he takes a seat, his warmth wrapping around me like a blanket I didn’t ask for. Somehow, he seems so much taller sitting beside me than he did standing next to me. I didn’t think my heels gave me that much height, but I feel so small sitting beside him right now.

“You do know your sister and Collin paid for an open bar, right?”

“I’m aware.”

He lifts a brow, waiting for me to elaborate. I don’t because all I can hear is Thad’s voice in my head. He used to get so mad at me when I would order at his work functions because it was “embarrassing.”

“Chocolate milk, Hollis? Really? You’re an adult—adults don’t drink chocolate milk. Grow up.”

But he never knew I love chocolate milk so much because it reminds me of early mornings with my father. He’d get up and have a pot of coffee and read the newspaper. He’d pour me a glass of chocolate milk and hand me the crossword section. We’d sit quietly at the kitchen table while he read and I worked.

It’s always been a comfort thing for me. Whenever I’m in a high-stress situation, I have a glass of chocolate milk to calm my nerves. It helps take me back to simpler times, times when I was young and hopeful and didn’t realize how cruel the world can be.

Before my husband turned out to be no better than any other man in my life and cheated on me.

“Okay,” he says, and—shockingly—drops the subject. He lifts his own beverage of choice—it looks like a cocktail of some sort—and takes a healthy sip.

We sit next to each other quietly for a long time. How long, I have no idea, but it would feel too wrong to ask the guy to go away after what he just did for me with the chocolate milk.

Besides, I guess I owe him after yesterday. I try not to cringe thinking about it. That was not one of the finer moments in my life.

I have no idea what happened. My emotions got the best of me. I was already stressed heading into the situation, and he and his smug attitude didn’t make it any better.

“Look, about yesterday,” he says as if he can read my mind. “I’m—”

I hold my hand up, stopping him. “There’s no need to apologize. I’m the one who should be saying sorry. I was completely out of line on many accounts, and I regret that. I’ve been going through a tough time, but I shouldn’t have taken that out on you.”

“I wasn’t going to apologize.”

I jerk my head back. “Excuse me?”

“I wasn’t going to apologize. I was just going to say I’m sorry you’re going through whatever it is you’re going through, but I forgive you for your actions yesterday.”

Oh man, this guy is rich.

“Are you serious?”

“Are you serious? Because as I remember it, I was doing nothing but minding my own business yesterday. You were the one who attacked me. Both times.”

“You prodded.”

“Okay, fine,” he says with a shrug. “I concede to that.”

“And I concede that I might have been a little…”

“Crazy? Erratic? Completely fucking batshit?”

I narrow my eyes at him, even though he’s not wrong. I was the one who attacked yesterday—literally, even though I didn’t intend to. But he’s the one who provoked me. He should take the blame too.

I’m too tired to keep arguing and care though.

I blow out a long breath. “Look, it’s obvious we got off on the wrong foot, and yeah, maybe I was a little”—I emphasize the word so he knows I’m not the only one at fault here—“crazy yesterday, but can we start over?”

He eyes me carefully, those captivating green eyes of his bouncing back and forth between my own blue ones. Watching me. Waiting. I don’t know what for, but his penetrating gaze is intense enough to make me shift in my seat. I don’t like how it brings me neither comfort nor discomfort.

If anything, I feel seen for the first time in a long time.

After what seems like forever, he gives me a slow nod. “Yeah, we can start over.” He lifts his drink just as the bartender sets a glass of chocolate milk in front of me. “To starting over?”

“To starting over.”

We clink our glasses together.

I take a sip of my chocolate milk as he downs the rest of his drink, then motions to the bartender for another.

“You didn’t shrink away from me after the ceremony,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “I’m impressed. And impressed that you didn’t hit me or throw champagne on me.”

“Well, the night is still young,” I say.

“That’s fair.” He clears his throat and runs a hand over the five o’clock shadow on his face. “I guess I should say I’m sorry. I was a little…antagonistic myself.”

“A little?”

“Okay, a lot. I’m just…I’m not really into weddings.”

“Not into weddings? Don’t you own this venue?”

“Co-own.” He nods. “With my sister, actually. She’s the one who wanted to use the extra property for weddings. I thought we should just build an activity area or open space for food trucks to come by, but she was right about the numbers for a wedding venue. It’s much more lucrative than any of that.”

Ah, so he’s one of those guys—always about the money.

Thad was like that too. He wanted the latest and greatest, and he wanted it before anyone else could have it.

“Yes, I’m sure you’re hurting for money, Mr. NHL Superstar.”

“Oh, so you do know my name, then. I was starting to wonder.”

I roll my eyes. “I know your name, Lowell.”

Even though the room is dimly lit, I don’t miss the way his eyes flare when I say his name for the first time, testing it on my lips and his ears.

“Cameron.”

“Huh?”

“My first name—it’s Cameron.”

I stick my hand out toward him. “Nice to meet you, Cameron. I’m Hollis.”

His eyes spark again as he clasps my hand. “Nice to meet you, Hollis.”

A shiver races down my spine as my name rolls off his lips. He says it like he’s cursing it and kissing it all at once.

We don’t pull our hands back immediately. In fact, it’s safe to say we sit there holding each other’s palms for far longer than is appropriate.

I can’t seem to make myself pull away, and apparently, he can’t either. I don’t get it, and based on the way his brows sink lower and lower by the second, he doesn’t either.

The bartender slides a new drink in front of Lowell, and we finally break the contact.

“So,” I say, rubbing my hand against my thigh. I’m not sure if I’m wiping his touch off or trying to savor it. “How exactly does an NHL star who doesn’t like weddings come to own a wedding venue?”

“Not just any wedding venue—a wedding venue and a brewery.” He shrugs. “Just something fun to invest in. I don’t really have much of a say around here. My sister is the real boss.”

I don’t know why, but I like that he doesn’t take all the credit for the business as most men would. I like that he focuses the attention on his sister. Though I’m sure being an NHL player, he gets plenty of attention. He doesn’t need this too.

“I suppose that makes sense, then. But if you’re not into weddings, why did you give the approval?”

“Because it was what she wanted.” He says it so matter of fact, and I like that too.

“I see. And you don’t like weddings because…”

“And you were crying in your car yesterday because…” he challenges.

Well, shit. He has me there.

Based on the way he smiles, he knows it too. He lifts his drink to his mouth, still staring at me expectantly like I’m going to spill my guts with just one glance. Not a chance.

“Gosh, I feel so much better. I had to pee throughout all those speeches. Yours was great, by the way.” Emilia plops down on the stool next to me. “Oh, good, you ordered me wine.”

Except I didn’t order her wine. I forgot about it the moment I sat down and realized Lowell was here.

I glance around, trying to figure out who it came from, and I don’t miss the way the older guy at the other end of the bar is staring intently this way, his eyes firmly on Emilia. When he finally peels his eyes from hers and realizes I’m looking at him, he flicks his gaze away.

Emilia notices none of this. She just picks up her glass, downing half of it in one go before nodding toward mine. “They have chocolate milk here?”

“I made sure they got her some.”

“Oh, hey, Lowell. Didn’t see you there.”

“Emilia.” His eyes bounce between us. “You two know one another?”

“You could say that.” Emilia elbows me lightly, grinning. “We’ve known each other since the first grade—the first day of first grade to be exact. Hollis was really shy back then and got so nervous on the bus ride to school that she threw up in her lunch sack and didn’t tell anyone about it. When lunchtime came around, I felt bad and shared half of my peanut butter and jelly with her. We’ve been best friends since.”

I try not to react to the story because even though I was just a kid, it’s still embarrassing.

“Huh,” Lowell says. “It’s hard to imagine Hollis as shy.”

“I can imagine it is for you. Heard she clocked you pretty good.”

“Sure did. She’s a fighter, that one.”

“That one is sitting right here,” I interrupt, looking pointedly at Emilia, who just smiles back at me. “Come on, let’s go dance.”

“But you hate dancing.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do. You barely even danced at your wed—” She stops midsentence, snapping her mouth shut, realizing maybe right now isn’t a good time to bring that up. “You’re right. You love to dance. Let’s go dance.” She guzzles the rest of her wine in one drink, then hops off the stool. “Besides, they’re playing Queen, and you love Queen.”

The moment she says it, my eyes replace Lowell’s, and his green gaze is dancing with laughter.

“Love them, huh?” he says. “Thought they were—what was it you called them again? Shitty?”

Emilia gasps. “She would never! She’s obsessed with them.”

“That so, Hollis?”

I shrug, and he shakes his head with a grin I replace way too charming as Emilia drags me away.

For the first time since I met him, I’m not so sure I want to get away from him.