1. Denny

1

DENNY

" Y ou miss one hundred percent of the shots you don't take."—Wayne Gretzky

"This defense isn't prepared for Denver's rookie , " the sportscaster commented. "Denny Mellon is quick and agile and—he stole the puck again! It's a breakaway for Mellon! He's blasting toward the goal. Oblinsk is ready, but this guy is lightning. Mellon fakes a pass, takes a high shot to the upper left corner, and…scores! NHL's new hotshot is on fire!"

The Bleacher Report

The hotshot is at it again. Denny Mellon, Denver's power forward, is earning his ice time and putting his team on the map.

ESPN

There are some talented rookies out there having great seasons, but Denny Mellon is arguably the best. He's an impact player with speed, skill, and poise, and Denver's hotshot is a mad scoring machine reminiscent of hockey's greatest players.

Sports Illustrated

Denny Mellon is the undisputed golden boy in Denver, scoring and assisting at will every time he takes the ice, Mellon dazzles fans, who chant, "Hotshot!" from the rafters.

"Yo, Hotshot! Welcome home!"

I waved at the shadowy figure outside the bar and sighed.

Were you supposed to get a say in a nickname? If so, I wanted a redo.

There had to be something better out there than Hotshot. It was too silly, too flighty, too showy. I was none of those things. How about Speed Demon, or Speedy, or just…Demon? I was open to all ideas and propositions.

Oh, wait. That didn't sound right. Propositions came with connotations. Nothing good ever came from an opening line like, "I have a proposition for you."

Interesting, funny, ridiculous, smarmy, terrifying…sure. But not good.

Of course, I had zero to no experience in such matters. Elmwood wasn't Vegas…or Denver. We didn't do propositions here. We dared each other to do things we'd planned on doing anyway, like climbing the roof of St. Finbarr's and chugging beers under the stars or maybe going skinny-dipping in Lake Norman at midnight.

But that was in high school, when impromptu parties and dubious decision-making had practically been badges of honor. I was old enough to know better now, and I did.

I rubbed my hands together and glanced up at the black awning over the bar attached to the Black Horse Inn, a small motel at the fringe of forest in southern Vermont. The bar advertised itself as a charming gem from a simpler time. If you were into sticky tabletops, watered-down beer, a perpetual playlist of hokey songs from the sixties and seventies, and ambient lighting so dim it was hard to see two feet in front of your face, then…yes, this was the right spot.

To me, it looked and felt like home.

And damn, it was good to be back…if only for a short time. The mellow hum of everyday life in Elmwood was a welcome respite from the reality of grueling practices, high-stakes games, and constant travel. I liked my team, and I'd met nice people in Denver. I just couldn't relax there.

Sure, I was killing it in the NHL, but a rookie had a lot to prove. I had to be a-fucking-mazing every night. I had to put in a thousand percent effort, smile through rough hits, and shake off idiotic jabs meant to fuck with my concentration on the ice. None of that was particularly challenging for me. The hardest part was not knowing who I could trust.

That wasn't the case here. The second I walked into the bar, I knew I'd be greeted with a sea of friendly faces, high fives, fist bumps, and hugs. However, I was still me, and I didn't do well with crowds or people in general. Even at home.

Awkward? Yep, that description fit.

I sucked in a fortifying breath, wiped my sweaty palms on my leather jacket, and tapped my thumbs against my upper thigh to calm my nerves before I pushed open the door, mentally preparing myself for a huge helping of unfiltered, in-your-face attention, and—well, you'll see.

"Denny!"

A whoop of applause and cheers echoed from the rafters of the old bar. Next thing I knew, the whole place was chanting the nickname a sports reporter had given me after my premier game in the NHL a few months ago.

"Hotshot! Hotshot! Hotshot!"

Ugh.

I pushed forward with my chin tucked to hide my certain blush, slapping high fives like a pro on my way to the bar.

Side note: The bartender here knew everyone's name and beverage preference. There was no waiting or overthinking your poison of choice for the night. Bill took one look at the door, gave the newcomers an up-nod, and got to work. It didn't matter how long it had been since your last visit to the Black Horse—he never forgot a name or an order.

"Denny Mellon! I saw that goal last night. Your money is no good here tonight, Hotshot," Bill boomed. "Drinks on the house for you."

I probably should have insisted that was unnecessary, but I'd done this dance a few times and knew Bill wouldn't relent. There was no point in expending my finite amount of social energy on an argument I wouldn't win. So I thanked the older man before heading toward the high table near the ancient jukebox in a dark corner of the bar where my idiot friends were screaming their lungs out.

"Hotshot! Hotshot! Hotshot!" Abe and Micah chanted, standing to greet me with high fives and fist bumps.

"Yeah, yeah. Very funny," I grumbled without heat, flashing my first honest-to-God smile of the night.

Niall slugged my left biceps hard and slung his arm around my neck. "Good to see you, man. You're fuckin' kickin' ass on the ice. How many goals do you have already this season? Twenty-nine?"

"Thirty-two," Mary-Kate corrected, lunging for me. "Get over here! I missed you, Den."

I hugged her, breathing in the scent of her favorite Jo Malone fragrance, something with wild bluebells…whatever that meant. Didn't matter. MK always smelled amazing.

"Missed you too." I kissed MK's cheek and let her drag me to the stool next to hers.

Someone slid a beer in front of me. Someone else across the bar called out a greeting and asked me to say hi to Grams. And some wise guy belted out the first line of Queen's "We Are the Champions" and raised their glass in a toast. So yeah, my cheeks were now on fire.

I buried my nose in my beer and took a big gulp.

If you haven't caught on…I was one of those weird athletes who wanted to be the best player on the ice but didn't want the spotlight off the rink. Coach Smitty, my old high school coach, called me a contrary conundrum, which was probably fair. The way he said it inferred that I was an interesting puzzle to crack or a mystery to solve.

Nothing could be further from the truth. I wasn't mysterious in the slightest. I was just…extremely reserved—even amongst people I cared about and had known for years. Like this motley crew.

Niall, Abe, Micah, and MK were some of my closest friends from high school. We'd fought many battles together during our pivotal adolescent years when every little injustice had seemed like a call to arms. Dramatic, but hey, a gaggle of hormonal sixteen-year-olds with a chip on their collective shoulders was either a pitiful cliché or a powerful force to be reckoned with.

We'd been a little of both. As founding members of the first men's and women's teams to take the ice at Elmwood High, we'd all had something to prove. And we'd done it.

Actually, we'd been terrible.

However, we'd gelled at the right time and won the Four Forest Championship titles our senior year—a gigantic feat, and we fully credited Coach Smitty for making it happen. We'd formed unbreakable bonds and had promised each other we wouldn't lose touch after we graduated, no matter what.

That was four and a half years ago now, and so far so good.

Sure, we'd all gone our separate ways and our lives no longer revolved around high school bullshit, practices, and games, but we'd stayed connected. Niall and Micah worked at the mill in Wood Hollow, Abe was an accountant at his dad's firm, and MK ran the bookstore her uncles owned. She also coached women's varsity hockey at the high school.

And me…well, I was an NHL rookie forward for the Colorado Condors. Life was good. Intense and sometimes terrifying, but good.

"How long are you home?" MK asked, nudging my elbow.

"One night. I have a meeting Sunday and practice Monday morning."

Micah scoffed, brushing his longish brown hair from his eyes. "Don't you guys know this shit about each other? I thought it was a mandatory boyfriend-girlfriend info exchange. Ally wants to know my schedule down to the minute. I swear to God, we might as well be married."

That drew a few howls and wolf whistles and thankfully, a topic change. MK and I exchanged a look while our buddies teased Micah about the possibility of impending wedding bells.

I linked my pinky finger around hers and squeezed, sipping my beer as I studied her profile.

Mary-Kate Moore was petite but tough with long brown hair, pretty blue eyes, and a killer smile. She was also a fast skater and one of the most accurate shooters I'd ever met.

She'd been so good in high school that Coach Smitty used to ask her to join our practices a couple of times a week. He'd paired us up for drills because no one on either of our teams could match our speed. Maybe there hadn't been a real competition at stake, but we'd chased each other like whirling dervishes on the ice, taking no prisoners.

MK was and always had been a badass—the uber-feminine version who wore bright-pink lipstick, tight jeans, and V-neck sweaters that accentuated her tits. Like tonight.

"You look good," I commented in a low tone.

Mary-Kate grinned, whispering, "So do you. How've you been?"

I shrugged nonchalantly. "Not bad, I guess."

"Not bad? You're on fire. The Condors must be falling all over themselves to make sure their new star forward is a happy camper." She cocked her chin and fixed me with a shrewd once-over. " Are you happy?"

I frowned at her sudden intensity and cast a wary glance across the table at our friends currently arguing over the score of the Bruins game last night. If one of them caught her concerned expression, they'd wonder what was wrong or if I'd said something to piss my girl off. And MK wasn't my girl anymore.

"Sure. Why do you ask?"

"Twenty-four hours in Elmwood a month before playoffs…color me suspicious. If I hadn't just run into Annie at the bakery, I'd have been worried there was something wrong and that you'd hurried home for her sake."

I rolled my eyes. "You think I'd take a detour at the Black Horse Inn instead of checking on my poor, helpless granny?"

MK smacked my arm. "Watch the sarcasm, or I'll tell her you called her helpless."

Ouch . Grams was sharp as a tack, prickly as a porcupine, and definitely wouldn't take kindly to the notion that she'd slowed down…even though she was in her late eighties.

I snickered. "Grams is fine and I'm fine. I'm just…"

"Homesick?" she supplied.

"Something like that."

Okay, so yes, I was homesick.

Really fucking homesick.

MK smiled sweetly and rested her head against my arm. "Ya big ol' marshmallow. I bought my plane ticket for the Seattle game next month. My dad and my uncles are going too. Uncle Vinnie may be rooting for the bad guys, but since he played for them for forever, I think we need to give him a hall pass."

I took a swig of beer and cast my gaze around the bar, aware that Niall and Abe had rejoined the conversation while Micah was texting his girlfriend.

"Seattle's tougher now than they used to be," Abe chimed in. "They have that big guy…what's his name? Grotski or Gorski or…"

"Not even close. Kawalski. I know this shit," Niall corrected confidently.

Micah looked up from his cell. "Kawalski plays for Montreal."

"Chicago," MK said. "You're thinking of the hottie with the tats and…"

I tuned them out, basking in the nostalgic sweet vibes of familiar voices and welcoming spaces. Some might say that spending half a day traveling wasn't a great use of free time, but they'd be wrong. A quick infusion of small-town life where everything and everyone was recognizable was good for the soul.

Like now…

Our old teammate, Harry Cromer's parents were at the bar chatting with Mrs. Sullivan, our eleventh-grade biology teacher, and her husband. The Kinneys were at the high table closer to the window and a couple a grade ahead of us in high school were canoodling in one of the booths. I couldn't remember if they'd gotten married. I couldn't remember their names, either. Jason and Abby or maybe Jack and Alicia? Didn't matter. It was just…cool.

I was suddenly very happy about my impulsive detour home. I'd needed this more than I'd realized.

The conversation at our table devolved into good-natured taunting about "cute hockey players." I chuckled softly, nodding hello to one of Grams's neighbors as I twisted in my seat to add my two cents—just as the door swung open and a tall dude wearing a cowboy hat strode inside, trailing a blast of cold winter air behind him.

That was the second my whole life changed.

Dramatic, right? But also true.

I didn't know that, of course. Not really. But the atmosphere in the bar suddenly felt charged. I was aware of his presence the way I was aware on the ice, surrounded and battling from the boards with a puck at the end of my stick.

This was different. It was visceral awareness mixed with the kind of attraction I'd staved off for years.

And my God, the guy was a fucking cowboy .

The whole bar went silent for a beat. In fact, his reception was the exact opposite of the frenzied welcome I'd received half an hour ago. No one was rude, per se. Elmwood prided itself on being a friendly haven. The stares and whispers were a product of bald-faced curiosity.

See, no one wore cowboy hats around here. Not like it never happened, but Elmwood was more of a beanie or baseball cap kind of town. Trust me on that one. I had a hat fetish. And a cowboy fetish.

On the right guy, or girl—cowboy hats were hot as fuck. So yeah…the stranger had my attention.

Other than the hat and his expensive-looking boots, he sort of blended in with his puffy winter jacket, green plaid flannel, and standard-issue 501s that accentuated his package to perfection.

Eyes up, asshole.

I made myself glance away, but it wasn't easy.

Something in the way he moved, slow and sure with just the right amount of swagger, set him apart. He was tall and thick—built like a brick house…or an athlete. I assumed he had brown hair based on his end-of-day scruff, and that he was at least a few years older than me, but there was no way of knowing without getting closer. And I definitely wouldn't be doing that.

Still, I wondered who he was. We didn't get many tourists in the middle of March. Not like summertime when the hockey community converged on Elmwood for our internationally renowned youth camps. But New England was cold as fuck this time of year, and Elmwood was remote with a series of winding roads separating the Four Forest area from the main interstate. You had to want to visit.

Mary-Kate hummed in a low tone. " Day-um . He's dreamy."

Affirmative. And you know what? He looked familiar.

Weird.

I picked up my glass, welcoming the cool condensation dripping between my thumb and forefinger as I watched the newcomer belly up to the bar, seemingly unaware of the buzz he'd caused.

"Who is he?" I asked.

Micah tore his gaze from his phone and squinted. "Oh, that's our new boss. At least, I think that's him."

"It's him," Niall confirmed. "Dude, you need glasses."

"Fuck off. My vision is fine."

"No, you almost hit a deer on the way over here and?—"

MK held a hand up and pointed toward the bar. "Stay on topic, knuckleheads. Tell us about your new boss."

"Hank Cunningham. His family bought the mill from the Larsons." Niall swirled the contents of his glass thoughtfully. "They were silent part owners for a while, but Mr. and Mrs. L decided to cash out when the town council approved the new construction in Wood Hollow. That's the official story, anyway. I've heard they were gently pushed out the door for a sweet pile of dough to make room for a corporate takeover."

It was tempting to roll my eyes at Niall's wary disdain, but I understood. Commerce in the four towns of the Four Forest area belonged to small business. We didn't have Starbucks or Shake Shacks here. No, siree. We bought our lattes at Rise and Grind and ate ridiculously delicious burgers and fries at the diner. The lack of big-name logos on Main Street was a source of pride to the locals.

"Corporate takeover? Oh, shit," MK murmured. "Poor Wood Hollow."

"I didn't know the Larsons sold," I piped in. "When did that happen?"

"Around the holidays. They kept it on the DL, knowing it wouldn't go down well. They cashed the check, sold their house, and caught the first flight to Fort Lauderdale," Niall reported.

"Well, since he's your boss, say hi and let's shake some info out of the corporate cowboy and assure him we don't play those games in Elmwood," MK suggested playfully.

"No, thanks. We're supposed to have fun tonight. Thinking about or talking about work is the opposite of a good time. Besides, I haven't personally met him," Niall said. "Have you, Micah?"

Micah shook his head, fingers still flying over his cell. "Not yet. I heard he bought the old Hamilton house and the land next to it, though."

MK frowned. "In Elmwood? Why wouldn't he buy something in Wood Hollow?"

"They're fancy folks, MK. Wood Hollow doesn't do fancy. Plus, the Hamiltons had a barn, so maybe he has animals?" Niall shrugged. "Fuck if I know. I'm sure he's not staying for long. He's from way out of state, like California or?—"

"No, no. The Cunninghams are from Colorado. They own the Rocky Mountain Mill in Denver," Micah reported.

Whoa. That was a coincidence.

"Maybe you know him, Den." Niall tipped his chin my way.

MK snorted. "Colorado is huge. Just because Denny lives there now doesn't mean?—"

"Denny knows Cunningham?" Micah set his phone down. "No way. How?"

I ignored MK's exasperation and the ensuing squabble as I tried to work through the puzzle pieces clicking together in my brain.

The Cunninghams, the billboards on I-70, the Rocky Mountain Mill…

I saw advertisements for the RM Mill all over town in Denver. Huh…it seemed improbable that they'd expanded this far east, but that had to be why the guy looked familiar. The hottie in the hat might just be the billboard cowboy who graced the giant sign near the off-ramp to my condo.

Picture this: a supersized cowboy perched on a horse in front of a log cabin, his shirt hugging his biceps like a glove, snug jeans with holes in the right places, snow-peaked mountains in the background advertising sustainable logging products. I mean, c'mon…how could I not notice? It was borderline obscene, and I was all for it.

Actually, the ads were perfectly tame, but they had sex appeal. I noticed. And I'd kept right on noticing something new every time I made the turn onto my off-ramp—the tilt of his hat, the slight cleft in his chin, the stretch of denim across his thighs.

I tried to tell myself the ads only caught my attention because they were ridiculous—too big and kind of corny. Real cowboys weren't that hot, were they? He was like…a model, for fuck's sake. A modern-day Marlboro man minus nicotine and carcinogen hazards. As far as advertising went, it was a hit.

Folks talked about that billboard everywhere in the city. I overheard the baristas at my local coffee shop fawning over it, and Trinsky joked that he wanted to be the billboard cowboy for Halloween. Everyone had laughed and teased him that he wasn't handsome enough, and objectively speaking, Trinsky was a good-looking dude. Just not as hot as the cowboy who was currently sitting on a barstool in my town, chatting with my favorite bartender and my old biology teacher.

Real life was definitely stranger than fiction.

Of course, it was too dark in the bar to be sure the new guy and the billboard model were one and the same. There might be some other reason he seemed familiar, and if I were a normal person, I'd march up to him right now and ask him point blank. Even if I was dead wrong, a selfie with this guy would be worth its weight in gold. My teammates would think I was some kind of hero. As the new, quiet, awkward rookie on the team, it was social currency I desperately needed.

But introducing myself to a stranger was—no way. I'd need alcohol for that.

Well, I was in the right place for it, I mused as the decibel level returned to normal and conversation at my table resumed to the usual friendly banter and basic catch-up involving hockey, more hockey, and a little town gossip.

Abe was dating a girl from Fallbrook, Micah talked about doing a marathon in spite of the fact that he hated running, and Niall had signed on to do some coaching for the junior varsity team.

"Coach Smitty wants to spend more time with his family and I want to spend less time at the mill, so…it works out," Niall said.

"Did you hear that Coach Smitty and Mr. Milligan have another kiddo on the way?" MK reported. "How cute is that?"

"Three kids under five years old? Sounds terrifying," Micah huffed.

I nodded absently, intermittently participating in the conversation while clandestinely checking out the cowboy straddling a stool ten feet away.

Oh, and I drank.

A lot.

Our pitcher was never empty, and shots showed up with alarming regularity. I usually passed my alcohol on to my friends who all had better tolerance than I did, but I was hopelessly distracted tonight.

It wasn't just the cowboy. I had shit on my mind.

My fledgling career and living up to that stupid nickname, being in Colorado and the memories it stirred, the weirdness of the new status of my relationship with MK, the homesickness…in short, I was anxious about every fucking thing lately. Were my skates tight enough? What time was my flight? Did I check Grams's smoke alarms?

I'd been told I had obsessive-compulsive tendencies and that was probably true. I had a hard time relaxing and if a little buzz shook a layer of anxiety off tonight, I was all for it.

I drank at least three more beers and powered through a few complimentary tequila shots over the next hour and damn, that shit worked!

Seriously. In my tequila-and-beer haze, life was grand and I loved everything and everyone. My new team rocked, Denver was freaking amazing, and being besties with my ex was awesome sauce. And that cowboy over there…damn, I'd do him in a heartbeat.

Or he could do me.

As long as he kept the hat on. Even better if we could do it in front of the foggy mirror on the wall leading to the restrooms. That was the kind of pornolicious hotness I'd need to see. Our jeans around our ankles, his fingers digging into my hips, my hand on my cock and?—

Oh, shit. I was drunk.

"D'ya guys 'member that time we went bowling in Pinecrest and Niall threw a strike in the lane next to ours?" I snickered. "It was so funny. I love bowling. We should go bowling. Want to go now? Let's go bowling."

Micah pushed the pitcher out of my reach and glanced at MK. "Are you taking the lightweight home?"

"Yep, I got him." MK furrowed her brow and whispered, "You okay?"

I beamed, swaying slightly on my stool. "I'm great."

" Hmm . I have to coach tomorrow morning, so…if you're ready, I'll drive you."

I nodded. "Okay, I can say hi now."

"To who?"

"You know…" I motioned for her to come closer and probably would have confessed that I was crushing pretty hard on the guy at the bar, but the room started to spin just as a wave of heat engulfed my face. "Iz me or is it really warm in here?"

MK patted my arm. "Let's go, big guy."

I said my good-byes, grabbed my jacket, and followed MK.

This was perfect. I could walk up to the stranger at the bar and say, "Yo, stranger. You're hot."

Ha! No, just kidding. I would never, ever, ever… But I could practice being social in a normal way and go with, "You look familiar. Do I know you?"

Nah, that sounded like a cheesy pickup line. I could do better than that.

"Good night, Denny." Mr. Kinney shoved his hand at me, congratulated me on my season, and basically said a lot of words that smooshed together in my brain. I smiled a lot and thanked him, scanning the bar for the cowboy and?—

He was gone. What the fuck?

"Denny?"

"Uh, yeah. Coming." I took one last look as I stepped under the black awning, shivering at the blast of frigid winter air. "Geez, it's cold out here. But it was hot in there and this feels better. Mush better."

MK wiggled her fingers meaningfully. "Keys."

I tossed her the keys to the ancient Bronco I'd bought my sophomore year of college with money I'd earned from coaching at the youth camp. This was my Elmwood ride. I had a brand-new, tricked out SUV in Denver courtesy of my NHL contract, but my Bronco was perfect for cruising around at home.

I slid into the passenger seat, glancing toward the bar at the sound of the creaking door, then at MK. "What's wrong?"

She grinned. "You're zazzled."

I busted up laughing. "Zazzled! I like that word. What does it mean?"

"It means you're drunk."

"Nah, I'm just a little tipsy."

"Just a little, huh? That's cute. Drunk Denny is fun and chatty," she singsonged playfully. "He tells all the secrets."

I frowned. Shit . What did I say?

"I do?"

She chuckled. "No, you reminisce about the good ol' days."

"Oh, that's 'cause I don't have any secrets," I lied.

Mary-Kate turned on the engine, blasting the Bronco's heaters and fiddling with the radio as if it were her own. Made sense. She liked driving more than I did. I used to hand over my keys and let her take over when we were in high school and college. We'd explore every inch of the forest, parking on deserted country roads and hiking for miles, and just…talking.

She was my best friend in the world and that wasn't going to change, but navigating our "ex" status was an odd one.

We'd dated so long that we'd become a habit, a catch phrase since high school…Den and MK, MK and Den. But we'd officially broken up at Thanksgiving…and no one knew. There were reasons for that, and someday they wouldn't seem important. For now, it was easier to let people think what they wanted.

Mary-Kate and I were solid. That was all that mattered.

"I do," she said softly. "I'm seeing someone."

Oh.

I accidentally tightened my seat belt like a vise around my chest in my haste to face her. "Oh. Okay, that's cool."

MK offered a wan smile. "It's not serious, Den. He lives in Burlington and it's totally new, nothing to get excited about. But it feels weird to talk about dating other people with you."

I waited for Mary-Kate to meet my gaze in the dark, then reached across the console and brushed a strand of hair from her troubled eyes. "Yeah. I get that."

She licked her lips. "I won't fuck this up for you. We had a deal, and I won't let you down."

My brain was buzzing with alcohol, but I did my best to push through the fog and give her my most sincere, no-nonsense look. "Forget about the deal and?—"

"No, this is your rookie year, and you're in the spotlight. This is important. I don't want you to worry about distractions."

"Well, if a reporter takes a picture of my girlfriend kissing another guy, that'll be a distraction," I pointed out.

"Understood, but we're friends and I like him, that's all. You and I said we'd be honest, and this is me being honest."

I wished I could be honest too. I wished I could tell her that I was bi and that lately, I couldn't stop thinking about being with a guy. But what was the point? It was never going to happen.

Not now anyway.

I regarded her in the semidark. There were a handful of people whose happiness I truly cared about, and MK was one of them. I hated the idea that I'd hurt her and that she might regret me. But she seemed fondly exasperated…not sad.

"Have I told you I think you're pretty fucking cool?" I rasped, pinching her chin.

She swatted my wrist and grinned, all traces of melancholy gone. "Have I told you I'm proud of you, Hotshot?"

I slumped in my seat and put my hands over my ears like a grouchy toddler. "Ugh. Stop."

"Why? What's wrong with being hot and making all the shots?" she teased, cranking the defrost settings to clear the windows.

"I'm feeling bullied, and you know what…I'm outta here."

MK snickered, her gaze darting my way as I opened the door. "Oh, you're serious."

"No, I'm messin' with you." And I was. Except now I didn't want to go home. Yeah, I was bombed, but the night was young and our friends were at the bar. So was the cowboy. I could still get that selfie for the team. "But…I'm gonna stay and hang out with the guys for a while. Take my ride."

She smiled. "All right. I'll park it at my house, so you'll have to see me tomorrow before you leave for the airport."

"Deal." I leaned over to kiss her cheek. "No joyriding."

"Do you actually think this thing goes over forty miles per hour?"

I scowled. "It goes at least fifty."

"Sure it does," she drawled sarcastically. "It's a real speed demon. Love you, Den. Be good."

"Love you, too."

I watched the red taillights of my Bronco fade, my hands buried deep in my pockets, inhaling the frosty night and exhaling in a rush. The plume of steam mesmerized me. So I did it again, freeing one hand to trace a finger through my breath.

Damn . I was really drunk. Maybe I should have gone with MK and?—

"Denny Mellon?"

I pivoted on a patch of thin ice and almost toppled over.

Holy shit.

It was him.

The cowboy.

And he knew my name.

Did I mention cowboys were my kryptonite?

Check this out: Teenage me had jacked off to a YouTube video I'd found of a cowboy stripping a T-shirt over his head while water sluiced over his cut abs. It had been a nightly ritual for weeks on end. The second that first bead of water would slide down his pecs, I was a goner, shooting so hard cum hit my chin as I panted and gasped for air.

In the aftermath, a wave of confusion would swallow me whole and I'd wonder why I wasn't thinking of my girlfriend's tits. It took a while for me to figure out that I might not be so straight after all. But cowboys were my first clue.

The Western mystique of a tough guy taking charge and being a fuckin' boss was a turn-on. The reality probably involved cow patties and a lot more manual labor than I'd ever want to do, but it was a sweet fantasy.

That might have been why those billboards resonated. They taunted me…tempted me, reminded me who I really was. Sure, I liked women, but I definitely, absolutely, positively was a hundred percent attracted to dudes too.

And no one knew.

"Uh…"

Yeah, that was me. This wasn't going to go well at all.

The stranger stopped a couple of feet away and tilted his hat. Damn, he was really fucking hot with a rockin' bod, sky-blue eyes, high cheekbones, and a perfectly square stubbled jaw. Christ, even his slightly crooked nose added to his masculine beauty.

"Hank Cunningham. I'm new here. My family recently bought the mill in Wood Hollow and?—"

"I know," I intercepted. "I, uh…I heard. My friends work for you."

"Oh, that's cool. Hey, I?—"

"I've seen your abs," I blurted nervously. "They're nice."

He cocked his head, lips curling in amusement. "My abs?"

"No, your ads , like…advertisement. You're the cowboy billboard. The billboard on the cowboy," I rambled. "I mean the—the cowboy on the billboard."

I could have sworn he frowned at first, but then something else happened. He smiled. And fuck, it was stunning. Hank's grin started on the left corner of his sexy mouth and slowly took over his face. Shit, he had killer dimples too.

"Am I?"

For someone with acute anxiety, this minor interaction was a major challenge…even with tequila. If I hadn't had a little social lubricant in my system, there was no way I'd have been able to form a full sentence. And I would have been better off.

"Yeah, I live in Denver and I play hockey. I drive by the billboard with the log cabin and the horse on my way to the rink. It's a big ad, and the horse looks like it could step onto the interstate. It's cool."

Full sentences…good. Bonus for being sort of intelligible too.

Hank pursed his lips. "Are you sure that's me?"

I motioned at his hat and smokin' bod in an "I'd know this sexy package" anywhere gesture.

"Positive. He's hot…and you're hot." Shit. The words were out, and there was no getting those fuckers back. "For a tall guy…with a horse."

"You don't like horses?"

I shook my head. "No. Wait, I mean, yes, I do like them. But from afar. I wouldn't want to ride one."

"Why not?" he asked, folding his arms over his substantial chest.

"I got thrown off a pony at the county fair when I was a kid and landed in turd. I think it was for a birthday party, and everyone thought it was hysterical. Which was fair. It's less amusing if you're the one with poop on your shirt."

And now Hank was chuckling in earnest. I couldn't blame him. I was a runaway train fueled by Patrón, passing every viable station at breakneck speed.

"You're funny."

"Said no one ever," I quipped, raking my fingers through my messy dark hair. Time to get the fuck out of here. I waved and hiked a thumb behind me. "Well, nice to meet you. I— oh . Can I get a selfie?"

He furrowed his brow. "You want a selfie with me?"

"Yeah, I have to prove to Trinsky that I mesh you—I mean, met you."

He stepped closer, thoroughly disarming me with his twinkling eyes and wicked good looks. "Sure."

I fumbled with my phone and almost dropped it on the pavement. Hank swooped in to save the day, handing it over as he scooted into my space. My mouth went dry but I managed an awkward, cheesy smile, catching a whiff of his cologne as I clicked a photo.

It was probably blurry as fuck, and my eyes were probably crossed. But hey, I'd done it. I'd talked to a hot guy. On my own.

"Thanks. It was nice to meet you." I slipped my cell into my pocket and stepped toward the door.

"Hang on. I was hoping to talk to you."

More talking. Shit .

I froze. "Talk? To me?"

"Yeah, you. I should have introduced myself at the bar, but I didn't want to disturb you while you were with your friends and your girlfriend."

"She's not my girlfriend." Wait. No one knows that. Damn it, tequila.

"Oh."

I shook my head as if to clear the cobwebs, moving to the shadowy part of the eaves when the bar door opened and customers spilled into the parking lot. It wasn't exactly private, but we were partially hidden from view.

"She's…we're—what did you want?"

Hank lifted a brow. "Well, this probably isn't a great time, but?—"

"No, this is fine." And curiosity was killing me already. "What is it?"

"I have a proposition for you."

And there it was.

That enigmatic invitational phrase I associated with indecent proposals and morally problematic ideas. At least that was how it went down in the movies. " I'll give you a million dollars to fuck a perfect stranger or your boss or your best friend or your best friend's boss." You get the picture.

I highly doubted this guy was in the market for a naked good time with yours truly, but in my tequila-addled brain, nothing made sense.

"A proposition?" I squeaked.

"More of a deal or…an arrangement." Hank pulled a card from his shirt pocket.

I glanced from the business card to the stranger and back, sorting through the clues he'd given me and coming up blank.

"For sex?" tequila asked.

Fuck me.

Oh. My. God.

For sex? Really, Denny? Really?

When future me was nursing my future hangover, wearing sunglasses on the plane, sipping Bloody Marys, and popping Advil to soothe my aching head, this would be the moment I'd relive over and over, cringing at my drunken self while swearing I'd never ever ever mix tequila shots and the Black Horse's crappy beer again.

To his credit, Hank didn't blink, flinch, or laugh this time. But he also didn't say anything and if the shadows weren't going to swallow me whole, I was going to have to arrange my own disappearing act.

Too late. He was talking now.

"I hadn't considered that," he drawled in a teasing honeyed tone that made my pulse race.

"Uh…ha. Good. I was kidding!" I spared a quick glance at the bar's entrance. "Bad joke. Sorry. Need water. Thirsty."

"Relax. It's okay." He hummed as if reassuring a spooked animal. "Why don't we go inside and grab some water at the bar?"

"No way." I waved my hands like twin flags. "People."

He frowned. "Okay, can I get your number? We can talk in the morning and?—"

"I need water," I repeated.

"Water. Right. Uh…I have water in my room. Stay here. I'll be right back."

I watched Hank traverse the stairs leading to the second level, snapping to attention at the sound of my loudmouthed buddies barreling out of the bar.

A lifeline at last. Hallelujah!

I was a drowning man, and those three goofballs had a key to the getaway car.

Except…I should have been home by now. They'd wonder why I hadn't left with MK, and they'd probably ask if everything was cool with us. And the answer was yes, but it was complicated. In my current state, I was a babbler. I wasn't ready for big truths and tequila reveals. I might even end up doing something super nutso like come out. They wouldn't care, of course.

This just wasn't the time. Not here, not now.

According to my calculations, the only way out was up.

So as quietly as possible, I traversed the stairs and met Hank in the hallway in front of room 228.

He jolted in surprise, one hand on the knob, the other hovering his key card over the lock.

I leaned my elbow on his door, darting my gaze left and right. "Okay, fine. Just…do it. Proposition me."

Half a beat later, the door swung open, and I tumbled unceremoniously into the cowboy's room.