Chapter 1

I climbout of my car, heels wobbling on the bumpy asphalt, and button the front of my coat. The late February air is unforgiving this early in the morning, and I suddenly wish I had my scarf, too—a missed opportunity because the dusty blue cashmere I inherited from my very fashionable grandmother is fabulous and looks great with this coat.

When I was in law school, I imagined all sorts of work scenarios in which I would be, of course, the star. In my dreams, I was brilliant and bold, savvy but respectful, firm but kind, and always, always the best-dressed person in the room.

Ahhh, to be so young.

So na?ve.

To think that anyone working in the DA's office in a tiny, tired county in Western North Carolina would ever care about the vintage Prada I'd scored at an estate sale or the Chanel jacket I'd found at Nordstrom Rack.

To be fair, the lack of fashion sense in that office was the least of my concerns. After nearly two years working there, I was doing very little shining and much more hiding.

But that's a story for another day.

I don't want to think about hiding today. Today, I'm moving forward.

New job. New city. New boss.

I look up at the Summit, the enormous glass and steel building on the opposite side of the parking lot. Even with all those scenarios I played out in my brain, I never imagined this.

I never imagined working for a hockey team, of all things.

I don't even know what to call this place. A rink? A stadium? An arena?

I probably should have studied up on my terminology before showing up for my first day of work as in-house legal counsel for the Appies.

But it's not like I'll have to talk about the actual game. At least, I hope I won't. The job description made it seem like I will mostly be reviewing contracts for endorsement deals and advising players on how to not sign their lives—or their paychecks—completely away.

A month ago, I didn't even know minor league hockey teams needed legal counsel. Though, as far as I understand it, the Appies are not your typical team.

Thanks to their very savvy social media manager, they have a social media following that rivals the most popular teams in the NHL. Many of the players have hundreds of thousands of online followers, making them easy targets for endorsement requests or offers of sponsorship that are as good or even better than those offered to major league players. Since most of the players don't have agents—at least not yet—there isn't anyone but the team to help them navigate everything.

The Summit, where the team plays and I now work, is also unique in that it's only used by the Appies. They practice here. They play here. And there are never any concerts or other events to work around. This team has a real home, and their fans love to show up and support them.

I pull the leather bag my twin sister Lucy gave me to commemorate my new job out of the back seat of my car. It's gorgeous, made of soft, luxurious leather, and absolutely way too expensive considering Lucy's salary as a nurse.

When I protested and tried to give it back, she rolled her eyes and shoved the bag into my chest. "Of course I couldn't afford it," she told me. "That's what made it so fun. Now take it and think of me every single day you carry it."

I take a deep breath, a feeble attempt to calm the nervous energy pulsing through me, and take off toward the building, head held high. I haven't even reached the end of my car when an SUV peels into the parking lot, spitting loose bits of asphalt and heading right toward me.

I jump back so I'm safely standing by my car and watch as the SUV parks a few spaces down.

The Appies have a pretty big support staff. Legal, Accounting, Public Relations. It could be anyone arriving to work for the day. But based on the make and model of the car, an army green Bronco with flashy silver wheels and heavily tinted windows, I'd put money on it being some hotshot, too-big-for-his-britches hockey player.

No, not britches. It's not 1923, so I definitely can't say britches. And this is a hockey team, so I guess I should say this guy is too big for his…ice pants? Puffy pants? Skate puffs?

Tonight. I'll study my hockey terminology tonight.

When the driver of the SUV emerges, my grip on my bag tightens, and my heart skips a few beats before resuming a rapid thump-thump in my chest.

I've only met exactly four people who work for the Appies organization.

Felix Jamison, the team goalie, is my best friend Gracie's boyfriend, so he's the one I know best. Then there's Parker. She's the social media manager and is good friends with Gracie. We've met a few times, and she was the one who connected me with Grant, the lead attorney who hired me, making him person number three.

Which brings me to the fourth and final Appie I know—the one who just climbed out of his car and made my stomach flip over.

Nathan Sanders.

Just the thought of his name makes me flush with embarrassment.

Lucy is the romantic twin—the one prone to heavy sighs and swoons. I mean, I'm as into dating as she is, and I'm down to watch a romantic comedy when the mood strikes, but you will never see me abandon logic and reason for a man. I will not be the one with heart eyes, falling in love at first sight. I need six months of steady dating before I'll even think of saying I love you, and you'd better believe I'm asking questions about personality, financial security, and temperament. I won't not listen to my heart. It definitely gets a seat in the boardroom. But my head is chief executive, and it makes every decision with careful precision.

Which is why it was so irritating when, the first time I saw Nathan signing autographs with a few of his teammates at the Harvest Hollow Farmer's Market, I basically lost my ability to speak. My body flushed with heat, my skin prickled, my heart started pounding. As stupid as it sounds, it almost seemed like I'd met him before.

I definitely hadn't—I even looked up his bio on the internet to make sure we didn't attend the same high school or something—but he still felt…familiar.

When we finally did meet in person, he didn't say more than a dozen words to me, and he didn't make eye contact a single time. I even pushed, more than I normally would, spurred by the sensation that somehow, for reasons I couldn't explain, this guy was significant. I amped up my flirting game, hinted that we should get dinner sometime, and…nothing. He didn't respond at all.

I quickly retreated and gave my brain full veto powers on the heart feelings that were clearly leading me astray.

Whatever I thought I felt, I was wrong. Maybe I'd imagined the whole thing. Or maybe fate had simply misfired—a weird, cosmic miscalculation, best ignored.

As the days turned into weeks, then months, I made every effort to forget him. There are not enough hours in a day to waste a single one of them pining after a man who isn't interested back.

Still, as Nathan pulls a bag from the backseat of his SUV, then closes and locks his car, a familiar stirring in my midsection sends heat pumping to my limbs, making my fingertips tingle.

I press a hand to my gut. "Stop it," I whisper to my flipping stomach. "He's not for you."

I take a few steps forward, faking a confidence I don't feel, and smile as Nathan makes eye contact.

Okay. He is definitely not smiling back. He might even be frowning. Like, wrinkled forehead, stern, heavy eyebrows, lips turned completely down. His expression doesn't look sad, though. It's more…menacing.

I consider the ramifications of turning on my heel and going the opposite direction. I could just go back to my car, climb in, and drive away like this entire morning didn't happen.

Maybe my first day of work can be tomorrow. I'm sure I can come up with a good excuse.

Something like: the water at my new apartment hasn't been turned on yet, and I have too much respect for the Appies to come to work without a shower.

Or maybe: my neighbor's dog got lost, and since I'm new to the neighborhood, traipsing through the woods to look for poor little Rufus felt like a great way to make new friends.

Better yet: my period started, and I need at least twenty-four more hours of hard exercise and Reese's peanut butter cups (don't question my methodology—I swear it's sound) before I have the mental fortitude to deal with very big, very brutish, very frowny hockey players.

But no. Summer Callahan is not a quitter. And Nathan Sanders does not get to put me in a bad mood on what's supposed to be a very good first day.

I square my shoulders and fall into step next to Nathan, who is heading toward the Summit door like he could not care even a little bit that I'm in the parking lot with him.

"Nathan, right? I think we met last fall?"

His eyes dart my way just long enough for me to know he heard me, but otherwise, he doesn't respond.

"I'm Gracie's friend?" I say, trying again. "Gracie, Felix's girlfriend?"

Still no acknowledgment.

Is this guy actually for real?

"As in…your teammate, Felix? The goalie?"

Finally, Nathan stops and turns to face me, forcing me to stop or run smack into him. I plant my feet, willing my ankles not to wobble in the heels that really do not like the uneven gravel-strewn surface of the Summit parking lot, and breathe in a deep breath of Nathan-scented air.

If I'm trying to keep my cool, that was a very bad move, because Nathan smells heavenly. Like clean laundry and fresh cedar.

My eyes track upward, skimming over Nathan's dark joggers and the light gray thermal that's stretched across his chest, clinging to the dips and curves of his muscles like it was painted onto him. His long, light brown hair is knotted at the back of his head, and freckles dot the fair skin on his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. His face is locked into the same frown he was wearing when we first made eye contact.

Still, there's some sense of recognition in his blue eyes, so at a minimum, I know he remembers meeting me. He and Felix are friends. Good friends. He had to have heard I was moving to Harvest Hollow and joining the Appies' legal team.

But then, maybe he doesn't know. Could that be why he's frowning? He's just confused about what I'm doing here?

Oh, no. Could he think I'm here for him?

There are women who do that sort of thing. Who hang out in parking lots outside of games and hotels hoping to meet the players. Not that one of them could have gotten past the security gate here—the guard checked a very official-looking list before he waved me through—but who knows what's happened in the past.

Maybe someone has gotten through. Maybe Nathan has dealt with crazy fans stalking him, hiding out and pouncing every time he gets out of his car. And I was pretty forward the last time we met. If he thinks I was only in the parking lot because I was waiting for him, that might explain his frown.

I take a tiny step backward, creating a little more space between us. "I don't know if you heard," I say, "but I'm the new lawyer for the team. Today is my first day."

His face is inscrutable—a mask of emotionless stoicism. Then he looks back at my car.

"You stole my parking space," he finally says with a tilt of his head, gesturing toward my car as if to punctuate his words.

I blink. "What?"

"That's my space," he repeats. His voice isn't cold, exactly. He doesn't sound angry, more like he's just making a casual observation. Still. I don't even get a hello first?

I turn and scan the parking lot. None of the spaces are marked. Not with signs. Not with numbers. Not with anything that gives any indication I shouldn't just park wherever I want.

"It doesn't look like the spaces are marked," I say slowly, doing my best to tamp down my growing irritation, or at least keep it from leaching into my voice.

"Still mine, though," he says. "Nobody parks there but me."

I lift my eyebrows. Maybe it's the leftover sting of his rejection when I asked him out all those months ago. Or maybe it's my certainty that assigned parking is not a thing at the Summit. But I'm not about to back down, no matter how much I love the smooth rumble of his deep voice.

I hoist my bag a little higher on my shoulder, then fold my arms across my chest. "Are you asking me to move my car? Because I really like that parking space. I might even park there tomorrow too."

Nathan's lips twitch, but he otherwise doesn't respond.

I have no idea what I'm doing. Why I'm arguing about something so inconsequential with a man I hardly know. But he's the one who started it. He's the one who couldn't even say hello before pointing out that he didn't get to park his monstrous, gas-guzzling SUV in his usual spot.

"Speaking of, you almost killed me when you sped in here like some kind of race car driver," I add. "Maybe be a little more cautious next time?"

A slight exaggeration, but he was driving too fast. I stand by that point.

His eyes flash with something that could be humor but could just as easily be annoyance, then he turns his back to me and pushes into the Summit without so much as a backward glance.

I stare after him as he goes, hating that despite my annoyance, I can't help but admire the way his muscles shift and move as he opens the door.

Well.

Happy freaking first day.