Chapter 1

Chapter One

Jamie

I carefully placed the last mini sandwiches onto the colorful platter, stepping back to admire the spread of finger food that Scarlett, Daisy, and I had managed to whip up. The table was an artful mess of snacks created by me. I'd channeled my British father and my mom, former Miss Maine, who'd taken to living near London and being a Brit with extreme enthusiasm. They'd given me a mathematical brain, dual passports, an English accent, and a love of afternoon tea. I'd made tiny sandwiches, crudités, dips, small cakes, and, of course, scones and all the extras—ready for the afternoon crowd of ravenous hockey players and their families.

"Looks like we could feed an army, huh?" I chuckled, glancing down at Scarlett, who meticulously rearranged the carrot sticks.

She beamed up at me, her blue eyes sparkling with pride. "Dad's going to eat at least half of these," she declared confidently, her gaze sliding over to the sandwiches.

With her light blonde hair bouncing as she nodded vigorously, Daisy added, "And Jackson likes the sandwiches best. He told me last time!" Her tiny finger pointed toward the pile of sandwiches adorned with various toppings.

I smiled at their excitement. "Well, then, I think we've done a stellar job. High five, team!" I raised my hand, and they both smacked it with giggles.

Loud clattering on the stairs announced Oliver and Jackson's arrival from upstairs. I turned to see them descending the staircase, ready with a joke about a herd of elephants, Oliver's hand briefly clasping Jackson's. The two men, hopelessly in love, shared a quick, tender kiss at the bottom—a simple moment of affection that sent an unexpected twinge of envy through my chest.

I turned back to the table, arranging the LA Storm napkins to distract myself—I'd spent two hours sourcing the perfect purple for the table and the balloons. It's not that I expected people to notice this, but as my dad said, if something is worth doing, then it's worth doing right. I'd chosen an afternoon tea motif. I'd even hung bunting over the counters, and there were sandwiches, proper crisps I'd found in a trendy shop in Santa Monica, plus scones with pots of jam and cream. Or jelly, as Oli liked to call it, which is weird given that jelly is what I used to have as a kid. Back in the UK, our jelly was wobbly and sweet, unlike what Americans called jam. There was also a barbecue, but that was for later. First, the heathens making up the LA Storm would be introduced to the more sophisticated side of British cuisine—the perfect scone.

"Looks good, guys," Oliver said and clapped my shoulder.

I sent him my trademark smile, the one that said I wasn't jealous at all. It wasn't as if I wanted Oliver . He was my best friend, and I was genuinely happy for him, but we were always going to be just that—friends. Only witnessing that moment between him and Jackson highlighted the space beside me—a space I hadn't realized I was yearning to fill until Jackson had moved in and the four of us, Oliver, Scarlett, Daisy, and me, had become five. I couldn't even hate Jackson. He was a hot mess, all intense and scowling at times, but Oli loved him, and his love was smoothing all of Jackson's rough edges. I liked Jackson. I like Jackson for Oli.

But I missed holding hands, kissing, or sharing a coffee and crossword with someone.

I thought I'd had that with Sean.

Arsehole-wanker-Sean, fellow mathematics genius and my former boyfriend, who proved everyone right by not only ruining my entire bloody life but, more importantly, stealing my research and undermining my credibility.

Jackson caught my eye and smiled as they approached. "London! This spread looks fantastic!"

That was a new thing Jackson had started doing, calling me London. He gave everyone nicknames, and he'd chosen mine because of being a Brit, of drinking tea, and calling everyone a wanker.

He's the wanker.

Still, part of me liked the moniker, even if I sent him my best haughty Lord-of-the-manor snarl every time he used it—not that my reaction had any effect.

He wrinkled his nose at me but carried on talking. "The girls have been bragging about their chef skills all morning," he said.

Oliver ruffled Scarlett's hair, surveying the table. "Looks like you've outdone yourselves again. Thanks, Jamie."

I shrugged, a half-smile playing on my lips. "It's nothing. It keeps me busy, and I enjoy it." Glancing over at Jackson, who was already reaching for a sandwich, I teased, "Make sure you save some for the others, Columbo."

Jackson blinked at me, "Columbo? Really?"

I tilted my chin. "It was the most derogatory nickname I could think of," I announced.

Jackson bit his lip, probably trying to hold back a laugh. "I love it," he said and knuckled my arm, which, ouch, he didn't know his strength. Then he laughed and popped the sandwich into his mouth. "And no promises on the food, London," he mumbled through a mouthful, earning him an eye roll from Oliver and giggles from the girls.

The doorbell chimed, signaling the arrival of the first guests. Daisy sprinted to the door, Scarlett on her heels, their laughter trailing behind them as they raced to open it.

I gave the snack arrangement one last tweak as Oli and Jackson headed to the door. Would people hate my idea? They were here for a barbecue, and me making all of this was probably going to end up being the butt of jokes. For a moment, I panicked and thought about swiping the whole lot into the trash. The colorful food seemed small, overshadowed by the buzzing energy filling the house as big hockey players arrived, partners in tow, kids shouting, laughing. I felt a familiar pang of nerves. I liked people in general, but I wasn't good with chaos. People streamed in, shedding jackets and greeting each other with enthusiastic handshakes and warm hugs. The room was loud, with a mixture of laughter and conversations, plus the faint sounds of a hockey game on the TV in the background. It didn't take long for hockey to be front and center.

Oliver was already amid it all, clasping hands and giving hearty handshakes. "Hey, Ash!" he called out, drawing my attention to his defensive partner, who entered with a grin. They did the whole bro-hug thing, and then Ash hurried over to me, and we exchanged the customary fist bump, his grin contagious.

"I need one of those biscuit things," he announced. "Oli said you have them with jelly and heavy cream, right?"

I laughed, both at his eagerness and his description. "You mean scones, Ash. They're scones, not biscuits. And yes, we've got them—complete with jam and clotted cream, not jelly and heavy cream. It's a British delicacy, not a rodeo snack." I was lying—it wasn't a delicacy, but it was bloody delicious.

Ash raised his eyebrows, clearly amused. "Man, you Brits have a weird way of naming your food. But if it tastes as good as it looks, you can call it whatever you want."

He wandered off toward the food table. I shook my head, chuckling as Oliver approached me and clapped me on the shoulder.

"Your scones are a hit, Jamie. Even if half the team can't say ‘clotted cream' without making a face."

"It's the simple joys of educating Americans on the finer points of English cuisine," I deadpanned, the snark in my voice tinged with affection. "Someone has to elevate your culinary experiences. Can't have you living off hot dogs and popcorn forever."

Our banter was cut short as more guests arrived, each greeted by Oliver's booming voice and warm handshakes.

And there he was.

Craig.

I hadn't been watching for him at all.

Nope.

He was here, a five-foot-ten-inch cute but lethal hockey player. Fast and deadly, he was feared by defensemen all over the NHL for his crafty, squirrely speed. He was dressed in slim-fit cutoffs and a T-shirt that clung to every one of his sexy lines. He arrived alone—I think—with no sign of a girlfriend or boyfriend, and he moved through the crowd with smiles and happiness. He was already halfway through his first beer, with another in his other hand.

As his eyes met mine, the noise of the party faded into a distant murmur. I was so drawn to him, even though he was everything the men I'd previously dated were not: shorter than me, wiry, an air of easy confidence despite the chaos of fame hockey had thrust upon him. His relaxed demeanor here was a stark contrast to his on-ice reputation.

Despite how idiotic it would be to get physical with one of Oli's teammates, I wanted him.

As our gazes locked, I felt something like hope that maybe he'd come over for a scone and I could dazzle him with something witty. I straightened my favorite dark blue waistcoat. I wore them as a kind of armor, a way of breaking the ice, playing into being a Brit, having something quirky and just for me, but his gaze dropped to my fingers adjusting the fit, and when he glanced up at me, something inexplicable shadowed his expression. It wasn't discomfort, but there was a retreat, a subtle drawing back that seemed at odds with the smile he offered everyone else. He turned away, weaving through the crowd, a trail of light laughter marking his path. He was utterly unreachable, and I couldn't help but wonder what I'd done.

Because it had to be me.

My social skills were either at the level of Scarlett and Daisy—I knew all the words to every Disney movie—or at the level of fellow academics. Every other situation was fraught with danger.

We'd spoken only once before, an encounter that had started promisingly enough. He'd teased me about my accent, and in response, I had exaggerated my Britishness, rolling out my best King's English, which had drawn a laugh from him and a playful declaration that I was cute. Flustered, I'd returned the compliment, called him cute, and for a second, he'd frowned, then it had cleared, and he blushed. Maybe it was being called cute? He wasn't as big as some of the other players, so was it that I implied he was small? I recall getting flustered, but the conversation had quickly spiraled into academia—with what I thought was a light, flirty discussion about Fibonacci sequences. He'd seemed interested until suddenly, he wasn't. His words had tangled, and he'd excused himself abruptly, leaving me bewildered and concerned I'd crossed a line I hadn't seen.

Now, watching him at the party, the ease with which he interacted with others made our previous encounter all the more confusing. Did he think I wasn't cute after all? The thought nagged at me, a persistent whisper amidst the clinks of glasses and bursts of laughter.

I tried to shake off the feeling, focusing on the guests instead, explaining that jam went on the scone first and, no, clotted cream wasn't a dipping sauce and needed to be spread, but my gaze was drawn repeatedly to Craig as he moved through the room. He was in the corner with Scarlett and a couple of the wives, touching his toes, everyone laughing as they copied him. He was so… bendy… and when he went into the splits, I nearly choked on a slice of cucumber.

The things I could do to a man that flexible…

Why he seemed to avoid me now, after what had felt like a connection, was a puzzle, but after the first shot of whiskey, my edges smoothed, and with the second, I felt as if I could talk to him. After the third and fourth, with him downing beer like water, I felt as if I could take on the world.

He excused himself and headed upstairs to the bathroom, laughing and joking, taking the stairs two at a time, and, bloody hell, I was after him like a dog on a bone. I found him at the top of the stairs, nowhere near the bathroom, but instead tucked into a small reading nook the kids used, his head in one hand, a beer loose in the other. He was slumped and exhausted, and he hadn't heard me there.

"Craig?" I asked.

He lifted his gaze slowly, all kinds of resigned. "Jamie," he said in reply.

I had a hundred things I wanted to ask him or tell him, but a whiskey brain is different from a normal brain, and I yelled the first thing I could think of.

"Why do you hate me?"