Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Zena

I approached Island Prime from the parking lot, the familiar sight of the rustic wooden structure over the bay never failing to impress me. The restaurant seemed to float on the water on its stilts, its large windows already aglow with soft light, even though it was only ten before six.

I entered the restaurant and walked past the busy hostess in the front lobby, since I knew where I was going. Always the same table in the far corner. The restaurant's interior was a stunning blend of modern elegance and coastal charm with its dark hardwood floor and accents, aqua chairs, and warm, amber lighting. The place was already packed, the ambiance a mix of lively conversations and the clinking of glasses and cutlery.

As I approached our table, the floor-to-ceiling windows commanded my attention, with the San Diego skyline shimmering across the bay. It was the view that made you pause, even if you'd seen it a hundred times before, which I had since this was Dad's restaurant of choice for all special occasions and celebrations for the last twenty years.

"Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad." My parents stood as I reached them, my mother's Clinique Happy perfume enveloping me as we hugged.

"Hi, darling," she said, smoothing my hair as if I were still twelve.

"Hello, Zena." Dad gave me his customary greeting. Never a hug, always a kiss on the cheek. He glanced at his vintage Patek Philippe, his brow furrowing. "Where's Nolan?"

"Relax—he's not supposed to be here yet," I replied, trying to sound nonchalant. "I told him to arrive ten minutes late. Nolan is going to make a grand entrance to surprise Mitch and catch him off guard."

A grin spread across Dad's face. "Now that's thinking like a Dalton."

We took our seats at the round table with seven chairs and settings, with my mother to my left and my father next to her. It didn't take long before Mom was engrossed in her phone. She suddenly let out a small gasp, her head shaking in amusement as she continued to watch something.

"More cute dog videos on Instagram?" I asked, rolling my eyes.

She smirked, not looking up. "Not quite, though it looks like puppy love. It's a viral video of you and Nolan kissing at that taco shop yesterday."

"What?" Dad and I exclaimed in unison.

Mom leaned closer, tilting her phone, so I could see it. I watched in surprised embarrassment as the video replayed. I wondered who had shot it since the photographer we'd hired had already left the taqueria. And was that really what I looked like when I kissed someone? I appeared to be a famished woman who'd discovered an all-you-can-eat buffet, practically devouring poor Nolan with my mouth. I still couldn't believe we had such amazing chemistry after meeting for the first time, and I needed to figure out a way to control myself.

"Let me see that," Dad demanded.

Mom passed him the phone, and he ground his teeth as he viewed the footage. He handed the phone back to Mom without a word and took a long swig of his whiskey.

"Go ahead. Say it. Let's get it out of the way before everyone arrives," I prodded, bracing myself for another lecture.

Dad's eyes met mine, his gaze sharp. "That lunch was to go over the plan and get to know each other, not for him to perform an impromptu tonsillectomy. Why did you let him do that to you? He's taking advantage of the situation and I won't stand for it."

Mom smirked as she watched the video again. "Sorry, honey, but there is no doubt in my mind that Zena was a very willing participant."

"Is this true?" Dad asked.

"Yes," I admitted, lifting my chin defiantly. "I told him to kiss me."

Dad froze, his glass halfway to his lips. "Have you lost your mind?"

"He needs to look convincingly in love with me for this plan to work," I explained, my voice low but firm. "I had to see if he was up for the task. We were trying our acting skills and were caught on camera. It meant nothing."

Mom smirked. "He was more than up for the task. Nolan rose to the occasion."

Dad grimaced. "Elena, please ... I told him no hanky-panky. You don't need to be all over each other to prove you are a couple."

"Which explains why you haven't touched me in over a year," Mom interjected, her eyes fixed on the restaurant's entrance. "Okay, let's forget about it. The guest of honor has arrived."

We stood as Coach Quinn, General Manager Steve Barlow, and Mitch approached our table, all of them wearing dark suits that almost matched Dad's. Coach Quinn looked like he'd rather be anywhere else, his face set in its perpetual scowl. Barlow wore a practiced smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. Mitch looked like he'd stepped out of a photoshoot, his tailored European suit accentuating his athletic build. Nobody would ever know his two front teeth were fake, both lost in a scuffle against Ryan Reaves of the Toronto Maple Leafs three years ago.

"Now, there's a sight I never get tired of," Mitch said, his voice as cocky as ever as he ogled my cleavage. "Lookin' good, Zena. Can't wait to catch up with you." He winked, then moved even closer.

The man didn't waste any time, but I stepped back and held out my hand before he tried to kiss me.

"Welcome back to San Diego, Mitch." I aimed for casual but landed somewhere closer to straining. "I hope this won't be awkward for you."

He hesitated, then finally shook my hand as a wry smile played on his lips. "Why would it be awkward? I'm a man on a mission and I've got laser-sharp focus. I always get what I want, on and off the ice."

I pulled my hand away from his grip. "Let's keep our eyes on the prize, Mitch. The Stanley Cup."

"I agree!" Dad interjected, clapping him on the back before gesturing to the chair beside him. "Please, take a seat. This is your spot right next to me."

Mitch's eyes flicked to the empty seat to my right. He hesitated for a moment, then lowered himself into the chair next to Dad with a forced smile.

As everyone settled in, I found myself acutely aware of the empty seat, wondering just what kind of entrance Nolan had planned. He'd proved he could improvise with that amazing kiss that nearly knocked me off my feet, but I had no idea how he would respond when he met the legendary Mitch Redding, a 6' 4" tall man who weighed a solid 240 pounds.

"How was your first meeting and practice this morning?" Dad asked.

"All good," Mitch said. "Like I'd never left. It's great to be back." His eyes darted to me, then he quirked a brow.

"Mitch blended right in from the minute he stepped on the ice," Coach Quinn said. "The boys are glad to have him back on the team, and their energy was off the charts. This is going to be fun to watch."

"I agree," Steve said. "I was only at the rink for about twenty minutes, but I don't think I have ever seen the team this motivated to make a run for the playoffs. And it all starts tomorrow against San Jose."

"The Sharks won't know what hit them," Mitch said with a confident grin.

"That's what I want to hear!" Dad said. "I have high hopes for the last twenty games."

After we suffered some conversation about the weather and real estate in San Diego, our server appeared and took orders for drinks and appetizers.

A few minutes later, Mom's eyes went wide. "There he is!"

I turned as Nolan swaggered past the hostess and headed in our direction with his head held high, his entrance a perfect blend of confidence and style. He wore dark wash jeans that hugged his athletic legs, paired with a crisp white button-down shirt that was untucked under the perfectly tailored navy blazer that accentuated his broad shoulders. His hair was artfully tousled, and a hint of stubble along his jaw added a rugged charm to his polished look.

Mitch scrutinized Nolan with his eyes from head to toe as he approached. "Who is that, exactly?"

"That's Zena's boyfriend!" Mom said with a peppy zing worthy of a double shot of espresso.

"Zena's …" Mitch glanced at me with his nose up. "Seriously? That guy?"

"I know—I'm so lucky," I said as Nolan stopped in front of my parents.

"Nice of you to dress up," Dad said, eyeing Nolan's outfit with concealed disdain as he stood and held out his hand.

"Dad, leave him alone," I interjected. "He looks great."

"Very stylish," Mom said.

Nolan shook Dad's hand firmly, his eyes twinkling. "Last time I wore a suit was on my wedding day. That didn't end well, so …" He shrugged playfully. "Lesson learned. No more suits."

Mom stepped forward with an amused look to greet him. "Can't blame you at all. I avoid black cats and hotel rooms on the thirteenth floor."

Nolan's face lit up. "Mrs. Dalton, always a pleasure to see you. I swear, if your smile were any more radiant, I would get third-degree burns on my face."

"Oh, you are always the charmer," Mom waved him off, beaming like they'd known each other for years. "And how many times do I have to tell you to call me Elena?"

"Ask me again tomorrow," Nolan said before kissing her cheek. He turned to Mitch and extended his hand. "We're all excited to have you back on the Sea Lions, Mitch. Ready to break that playoff drought?"

Mitch stood, towering over Nolan as they shook hands. "That's what I'm here for."

"Well, I'm here for the shrimp linguini," Nolan joked.

I smiled. "Me, too."

Mitch glared at Nolan, his grip visibly tightening as he stuck out his chest further. "I'm talking about hockey. I came to San Diego to do a job, and I'm going to do it. And win."

"Let's hope so or Mr. Dalton just flushed fifty million dollars down the toilet," Nolan said.

Everyone laughed, except for Mitch, whose jaw clenched while a vein pulsed in his temple. This plan to irritate him was already working like a charm.

"There's my girl!" Nolan exclaimed, sweeping me into his arms.

As Nolan kissed me, I had a sudden flashback to our Lucha Libre lip-lock fiesta. For a split second, I wondered if we were about to give the diners at Island Prime a show worthy of pay-per-view. Would I need to fake a fainting spell to avoid turning our fancy dinner into an impromptu burlesque?

Luckily, Nolan had the presence of mind to keep things short and rated PG. He pulled away just as I was calculating how many buttons I could undo on his shirt before Mom passed out and Dad suffered an aneurysm. Crisis averted, shirt intact, and parents still standing. I'd call that a success.

"With a sweet kiss like that, who needs dessert?" Nolan said.

Everyone laughed, except for Mitch.

Nolan took his seat next to me. His hand found mine under the table, giving it a reassuring squeeze. I was immensely impressed with him so far. This wasn't just Nolan the Zamboni driver; this was Nolan the charmer, and I had to admit, he was playing the part flawlessly.

Next, the appetizers arrived—a spread of lobster bisque, crab cakes, and charred octopus that would make any foodie swoon. As we dug in, the conversation predictably gravitated to hockey, with Mom and me exchanging knowing glances across the table. As the main course was served, Mitch's gaze locked onto Nolan, his eyes narrowing with curiosity.

"So … what do you do for a living?" he asked, his tone deceptively casual. "It must be something quite impressive to capture the heart of one of the most eligible women in the state."

Nolan, unfazed, replied with a grin, "I tame the ice. Zamboni driver extraordinaire, at your service."

Mitch nearly choked on his crab cake. "No, seriously. What do you do?"

"He's serious," I interjected, my hand instinctively finding Nolan's arm. "A man's job does not dictate whether or not I would want to be with him. How could you not know this by now?"

"Nolan has been maintaining the ice for us for the past six seasons," Dad added. "And he does a bang-up job. Couldn't be happier with him."

"He's the best," Coach Quinn added.

Mitch's eyes ping-ponged between Nolan and me, disbelief etched on his face. "What does that gig even pay? It can't be much. Fifty K at the most?"

I felt my jaw clench. Of course, Mitch would steer the conversation to money. It was his favorite topic, right after himself. It was one of the main reasons I'd stopped seeing him after only two months. After his first big contract and signing bonus, he'd transformed into a completely different person, a materialistic, money-grubbing man, convinced that wealth was the only path to happiness.

"Nolan, you don't have to answer that," I said, squeezing his arm. "Why don't we change the subject?"

Mitch leaned back in his chair. "What's the big deal? He knows I signed a three-year contract for fifty million." He gestured to Dad. "Mr. Dalton is worth twenty-two billion."

Dad cleared his throat. "Twenty-three."

"Even better—and Coach Quinn makes a million a year." Mitch shrugged. "It's just money."

I took a deep breath, fighting to keep my voice level. "There's more to life than money, Mitch."

Dad shifted uncomfortably in his seat, suddenly more interested in his drink since all he thought about twenty-four hours a day was money, even though he had enough for a thousand lifetimes.

Nolan, cool as ever, met Mitch's gaze. "Sorry, but money's never been my motivator. I like to live my life day to day, appreciating the little things all around me that don't cost a thing, but are still priceless."

Mitch's fork clattered against his plate. "What are you, terminal or something?"

I could not believe he'd asked him that.

Nolan chuckled, the sound warm and genuine. "Nah, I'm busy living life to the fullest. You should try it sometime, Mitch. There's a whole world out there that doesn't fit on a balance sheet or inside a ten-car garage. I find my happiness in other things, like the company of a good friend, walks along the beach, or watching the caterpillars make their cocoons on my orange tree."

"You might want to look into testosterone injections," Mitch said.

"Your outlook on life is wonderful, Nolan," Mom said with a smile. "Everyone seems to be stressed out all the time, always go, go, go." She shot Dad a look. "It may sound cliché, but I think we all need to stop sometimes and smell the roses."

I nodded. "I agree. You're living a life that is fulfilling, and that's what matters most. It's one of the things I admire about you."

"Thank you," Nolan said, leaning closer and kissing me gently on the lips.

"Fulfilling? Seriously?" Mitch crossed his arms. "How is driving a Zamboni fulfilling? It's like a glorified snowplow."

"You'd be surprised," Nolan said. "There is nothing like the satisfaction of creating a perfectly smooth ice surface, so you and every other player in the NHL can actually have a long and successful career. You get all the glory, but without me, you couldn't even play five minutes without getting injured."

"You are so full of it," he spat.

Nolan leaned back, a hint of steel in his smile. "You know, Mitch, for a man with fifty million in his pocket, you don't seem content. Weren't we here to celebrate your signing?" He stood, smoothing his blazer. "If you'll excuse me, nature calls. Please try not to judge other people while I'm gone."

The table fell into a silence so thick you could have cut it with Dad's steak knife. I caught Mom's eye, and she gave me a subtle nod of approval. She took a bite of her swordfish, but her face was slightly tinged with worry.

Mitch's gaze followed Nolan until he disappeared into the restroom, then snapped back to me, his eyes narrowed. "I don't get what you see in him."

I met his stare, unflinching. "And I don't expect you to, Mitch. Can we just eat dinner in peace? This is indeed supposed to be a welcome dinner for you, not an interrogation of the man I'm seeing."

A muscle ticked in his jaw as he abruptly stood, tossing his napkin onto the table with more force than necessary.

"Where are you going?" I asked, a knot forming in my stomach since I was pretty sure I knew the answer.

"To the bathroom," Mitch replied. "Is that okay, or do I need a hall pass?"

As he strode away, following Nolan's path, alarm bells rang in my head. The restroom suddenly seemed like a room full of dynamite, with Mitch carrying the detonator. I wondered what confrontation might brew on the other side of that bathroom door, and hoped that our carefully constructed charade wouldn't come crashing down on us.

I glanced at Dad and widened my eyes at him, hoping he would go after them and intervene. He sighed, nodded, then stood and walked toward the bathroom.

My mind raced through worst-case scenarios, each one ending with the realization that if Nolan got hurt because of our plan, I'd carry that guilt forever.