My whole life I've come out on top.

One of the finest players ever to grace the NHL? Check.

Most prolific playboy with an enviable reputation between the sheets? Check.

Award for the cockiest athlete in America? Also check, and well deserved I'd say.

So why does my life feel anything but the perfect image I project?

And why won't the one woman who came crashing into my life and knocked me on my six-foot-four ass take me seriously?

She doesn't even recognize me, let alone worship the ground I walk on.

I'm in uncharted territory, tearing up my rule book and unearthing buried demons in my pursuit of her affection.

I always get what I want in life, but apparently, Felicity Thompson didn't get the memo. I want her in my bed, but all she offers me is her witty British tongue and no-nonsense attitude.

It isn't supposed to be this way. She's supposed to unravel for me. Yet the harder I pursue her, the more my own layers peel away.

Felicity Thompson is fast becoming not just what I want but the very woman I need in my life, and I'm terrified to admit that when it truly matters, I might not be coming out on top after all.

After the way she broke me, I've made one promise to myself: never again will I put my heart out there.

Apparently, she loved me, but that still didn't stop her from doing what she did. And frankly, I'm done with relationships, and I'm done with searching for love when it has no interest in finding me.

After the hit I took last season, I plan to focus on rehabilitation and getting my mind back into the game I've loved for so many years. I don't need distractions, and I don't need another woman in my bed or my head. I've got enough complications to last me a lifetime.

But I didn't expect her sunshine, and I wasn't prepared for how Luna Johnson has worked her way into my heart and thawed its frosty state.

I keep trying to resist her, knowing this will only end badly—she's one of my oldest friends, and I have to keep it that way. But, man, am I attracted to her, and the more we reconnect, the more I feel the happiness that's been missing from my life for so long.

My new next-door neighbor seems to have everything figured out. Small town golden boy? Check. Single dad extraordinaire? Check. Hot baker forearms? I didn't notice them, I swear.

I, on the other hand, don't–at all–have anything figured out.

Trust me, I didn't think taking over my mom's dream bed and breakfast in Copper Run Vermont was going to be easy. It should be a good place to heal after my divorce. But apparently my scones belong in the garbage with my small talk skills. As pointed out by none other than Cliff.

Cliff is inescapable. He knows exactly what people need–always. His charm, the way he wears flannel, and even his pastries, make not wanting to be friends with Cliff and his daughters pretty hard.

Friends? I can make friends. That's safe.

Except I'm leaving in three months to pass the inn off to my little sister and get the promotion in Seattle I've been working towards.

So ask me why I'm thinking about kissing my hot neighbor.