C01 Take a Chance on Me

by Susan May Warren

“What was that for?”

  “For being the right bachelor to take a chance on.”

  “Ha. Right. I don’t think you’ve gotten your money’s worth yet.”

  “Not quite yet,” she said but winked.

  Claire sang the next verse, laughing, and Jensen finished it, his eyes in hers.

  The crowd went wild. Onstage, Claire went into Jensen’s arms.

  “They’re so cute,” Ivy said.

  Darek leaned over to pet Jensen’s dog. “Oh, it’s going to get better.”

  Indeed. Jensen put Claire down and took the mic from the stand. Then he took her hand and knelt in front of her.

  Yes, much, much better.

  “I can’t believe it, but I’m actually a little chilly.” Ivy sat straddling Darek’s motorcycle, her back against him as they parked on the Pincushion overlook above Deep Haven. A breeze had gathered in the woods surrounding the parking lot and now rushed over the edge, toward the inky lake below.

  “I can solve that.”

  Ivy snuggled back into Darek’s chest and he wrapped his arms around her. He smelled of the outdoors, the wind in his hair, the slightest sense of the hard work he’d done today cleaning the property. They probably had a year or more of work before they could rebuild and reopen. But Darek seemed to be leaning into it, already trying to talk his parents into the improvements that would bring new life to Evergreen Resort.

  He seemed a new man since the fire. Instead of letting it knock him over, it energized him. Turned him into a man his parents could count on to rebuild their legacy.

  He pressed his lips against her neck, and she shivered, although not from the chill.

  “Didn’t you tell me you used to bring girls up here during high school to neck?”

  “Nope,” he said. “Only you. You’re the only one, baby.”

  She gave him a playful swat. “Darek. I can find out the truth, you know. I am a lawyer—I know how to get information out of people.”

  “Okay, okay, fine. I did bring a few girls here. But it was always about the view. Really. I promise.”

  She laughed and tucked herself into the curve of his embrace. The view was beautiful, the way the town sparkled under the night sky. A thousand brilliant lights glittering against the velvet darkness. She could point out where the courthouse stood and her little rental behind the Footstep of Heaven Bookstore and of course the lighthouse at the point where he’d first kissed her. Where he’d first made her believe that she could belong here. That this might truly become . . . home.

  “Your mom said the funniest thing to me tonight. She said, ‘Welcome home.’”

  Darek lifted his head. “Huh. She said that to me, too.”

  “But you’ve lived here all your life. It’s hardly a ‘welcome home’ for you.”

  “Maybe, but it sort of feels that way right now. Like I’ve been gone for a long time, on a trip I didn’t know how to find my way back from. Until now. Until you came into my life, Ivy. Maybe you brought me home.”

  She curled her hands around his arms. “Or maybe God brought us both home.”

  “You believe that?”

  “I’m starting to. I want to.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “So do I.”

  He rested his cheek against her head, silently watching the view with her. A ship moved across the water, lights floating in the darkness. The rich scent of evergreen and pine fragranced the air as he said, “I love you, Ivy Madison. Welcome home.”

  AN EXCITING PREVIEW OF SUSAN MAY WARREN’S NEXT BOOK, WALK ON BY

  * * *

  CHAPTER 1

  EDEN CHRISTIANSEN’S CAREER, her love life—even her car battery, for that matter—were frozen stiffer than the late-January cold snap freezing the city of Minneapolis.

  The blue-mercury windchill blew through the frosted, thin-paned windows of Stub and Herbs, a restaurant located a couple blocks from the offices of her old haunt, the Minnesota Daily newspaper.

  Back then, Eden would wander over here for a burger after a week of reporting and find her cohorts gathered around a fresh issue of the paper, newsprint on their fingers, arguing over the editorials and who had landed the stories above the fold.

  Back then, it was only a matter of time before she earned herself a real byline. Maybe in the St. Paul Pioneer Press. Or the big fish—the Minneapolis Star Tribune.

  Back then, her career was hot. Her future was hot.

  Maybe, back then, even she was hot.

  Now, she looked like she lived on the northern slope of Alaska, dressed in a green down parka, a black woolen cap, and a pair of sensible black UGGs like she might be ready for dogsledding through the streets of Minneapolis.

  No wonder her date’s attention fell upon the gaggle of underdressed college coeds who pushed in through the frosted doors, young and hopeful, messenger bags over their shoulders as they thumbed the screens of their iPhones.

  “I really like the bleu cheese burger,” Eden said, perusing the menu, hoping that the cold snap might be fogging her brain. But who was she kidding? This wasn’t even a real date. She could see right through mortician Russell Hayes and his out-of-the-clear-blue offer to take her to dinner. Until last week, Russell had spoken to her as if she were his personal secretary rather than the obits clerk.

  Then the NHL lockout ended. After three months of waiting for the owners and players to reach an agreement and end the deep freeze on the hockey season, fans had games to watch, and the Xcel Energy Center was filling seats faster than hot cocoa sales in a blizzard.

  And just like that, Russell had sent her an e-mail.

  Just because he hadn’t mentioned the Minnesota Wild hockey team didn’t mean it wasn’t imprinted between his eyes. How obvious was it that she, single sister of Wild star Owen Christiansen, suddenly had a little warmth headed her way from the man whom she’d talked to three times a week for the past four years?

  Russell wasn’t exactly hard on the eyes, either. Funeral directors should be short, squirrelly men, with comb-overs and bad polyester suits. But Russell didn’t fit that description. He wore a pedestrian red sweater but filled it out well, and with his brown eyes and short, curly blond hair, he could almost be an L.L. Bean model. He wasn’t a big man, but he had wide shoulders, and he’d held the car door open for her and crooked his elbow to help her across the icy parking lot.

  Yes, tonight he looked like a man who actually meant his words: “I know we haven’t really gotten to know each other over the past four years, but would you like to have dinner?”

  But she wasn’t a fool. They’d shared a sum total of four sentences since sitting down, and now—

  “Last week’s snowstorm really kept us busy,” Russell said over the top of his own menu.

  Really? They were going to talk shop? Which meant . . . tragedy, death, and obit notices for the paper.

  Fine. She’d play along. At least it would take her mind off the trouble Owen might be finding tonight.

  Oh, she’d promised herself she wouldn’t think about Owen.

  “My parents said that it would be a banner year for them, if they were finished rebuilding their resort.”

  Russell closed the menu, and his gaze caught on a couple college jocks who sauntered in and took seats on the black leather stools at the bar. One wore a U of MN sweatshirt. Hockey players. Eden could tell by the long hair dusting their collars, the hint of beard, the swagger. Minnesota grew hockey players like pine trees—big, strong, and everywhere.

  Russell turned his attention back to her. “Rebuilding?”

  “Evergreen Resort burned last summer during the wildfires.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay. My brother Darek is heading up the rebuild. It’s going to be spectacular—a sauna, a playground, Wi-Fi, and brand-new cabins—all state-of-the-art.”

  “Sounds spectacular indeed.” He leaned back in the chair. “I didn’t know you were from northern Minnesota.”

  He said it as if he meant it. As if he hadn’t
scanned the player pages online and picked out every tidbit of information about Owen. She cupped her coffee mug, warming her hands. “I went to the University of Minnesota, and I live here, but I go home as often as I can.”

  Which, for the last four years, hadn’t been often, with Owen’s junior hockey schedule and then last year’s debut on the Wild.

  The door opened and another coed came in, bringing the chill with her. Eden glanced at her and then to Russell, expecting his gaze to be on the brunette.

  Nope. He was looking at her. “I’ve been wanting to ask you out since that first day you answered the phone at the obits desk.”

  He had?

  “I’m sorry it’s taken so long.” He smiled. He had nice teeth, a warm smile. So he wasn’t a big guy—she liked guys who seemed approachable. Human.

  Maybe he wasn’t here trying to score tickets. She shrugged her parka off her shoulders.

  “When Charlotte mentioned she had hired an obits clerk, I guess I thought it would be some temp girl—”

  “Reporter.”

  Oh, why had she corrected him? She wanted to snatch it back. He was right. She wasn’t a reporter. In truth, Eden was more a classified-sales representative than a reporter. So much for her four years of education at the University of Minnesota School of Journalism.

  “Of course. Reporter.” He looked uncomfortable now, shifting in his chair. His gaze drifted to the television over the bar. The news had moved on to the sports report. No hockey game tonight, or she would have had to turn him down.

  “I wrote a couple rough drafts for the remembrance section last year, while Charlotte was in Hawaii. But she has had an iron fist on that section. I haven’t a hope of doing any serious writing.”

  He frowned. “Really?”

  “Of the three interns who passed through obits in the past four years, all of them got jobs in editorial. One with sports, one in entertainment features, and one on the police beat.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Yeah. I’m tired of getting passed over.”

  No, passed over didn’t quite cut it. Crushed. Mowed down. Flattened. Winged. Clipped. Bodychecked.

  Maybe she had a little hockey in her, too.

  In her pocket, Eden’s phone vibrated. She fished it out in time to see Owen’s number move to missed calls. She noted two previous ones and frowned.

  “Everything okay?”

  She nodded but put the phone on the table. “Owen’s at a big birthday bash for the Wild’s captain tonight. A sort of fan event. I was just . . .”

  Worried.

  She smiled and bit back her word. “I was just hoping he has a great time.”

  “I heard about that party. Private tickets for box-seat holders?”

  “How did you know?”

  He nodded toward the news. “They just reported on it.”

  Right. So maybe Russell wasn’t a crazed fan. She had her radar set way too high. But just in case . . . “I have tickets. Do you want to go?”

  He stared at her for a second; then a half smile hitched up his face. “No . . .”

  She didn’t mean to let out an audible sigh, but there it was, and along with it died more of her suspicions that he might be just like every other man she’d dated in the past year.

  Being Owen’s sister had ignited her dating life. She could wear a bag over her face, shuffle around in burlap, and she’d have a lineup of dates. But a real relationship, with a man who might like her? Listen to her? Care about her—and not hockey? Right.

  But maybe Russell was different.

  “Unless you do,” he finished.

  She forced a smile. Shook her head.

  “You know, maybe you should try to get a job as a sports reporter. With your connections, you could get exclusives with the Wild.”

  Was he serious? “Yeah, like I’m going to walk into the locker room after the game, maybe interview the players as they peel off their gear? No thanks.”

  A frown touched his eyes.

  “Sorry.” Maybe it wasn’t all Owen’s fault she couldn’t get beyond date number one. She simply walked into every relationship with her dukes up. No wonder she spent most nights alone with a good book.

  Her phone vibrated again. She glanced at it, then at Russell.

  “Take it,” he said.

  She heard music, yelling in the background. “Hello?”

  Nothing. She held the phone up to her ear. “Owen?”

  More music, and this time a crash, something like glass splintering, on the other end. Voices, loud and boisterous.

  Maybe even angry.

  “Owen!” she said, a little too loudly. A couple players at the bar turned, and she ducked her head, pressed a finger to her ear. The noise on the other end of the phone was muffled and it sounded like the phone hit something, and she figured it out.

  Owen had probably put the phone in his back pocket and was accidentally dialing her.

  Had been all night.

  Which meant that no, he didn’t need her.

  And that yes, he did. Because by the sound of it, Owen was up to trouble. Following right in Jace Jacobsen’s bad-boy footsteps.

  She pressed End. Took a breath.

  “What’s the matter?”

  Eden shook her head but stared at the phone. Stupid kid. If her parents only knew how many times she’d fished him out of bars and pried him away from rink bunnies this past year. It seemed that Owen’s fame had rushed straight to his naive, small-town head. She hardly knew him anymore.

  “Can I drive you somewhere?” Russell had leaned forward, his brown eyes full of concern.

  She took a breath. “Would you mind driving me to Sammy’s Bar and Grill in St. Paul?”

  He glanced at the television again, then at Eden. “The Wild party?”

  In more ways than one. “Please?”

  “Sure.” He reached for his coat.

  She led the way out to the parking lot, the windchill not touching the anger heating her cheeks. Owen was going to land in the papers, and then her parents would realize that not only had she failed in her career, but even the job of watching over her brother was too big for her.

  Russell opened the door for her, and she climbed into his Nissan Pathfinder, hitting the seat heater button as he started the car. “Thank you.”

  “It’s no problem.”

  “It’s that stupid Jace Jacobsen,” Eden said, staring out the window. “He’s a bad influence on Owen. Almost since Owen could lace up his skates, he’s wanted to be like J-Hammer.”

  “The guy is a beast on the ice,” Russell said, turning onto the highway. “And he didn’t get his reputation for nothing. Last season, he had sixty-six penalty minutes. But he also scored three game-winning goals and had forty-two total points.”

  She glanced at him. Wow. Seriously? “Are you a Wild fan?”

  “I live in Minnesota,” Russell said. “I also root for the Vikings, the Timberwolves, the Gophers, the Bulldogs, and the Twins.”

  “Right. Of course.” She blew out a breath. “I’m probably overreacting about Owen.”

  “J-Hammer’s rep isn’t just on the ice, and we all know it.”

  They cut off the highway, toward downtown St. Paul, and Russell drove like he knew the way. Sammy’s was a sports bar just down the street from the Xcel Energy Center, where the Wild played. Russell parked, and Eden spotted Owen’s Charger in the lot across the street. She kept a spare key on her ring for nights like this.

  “Thanks, Russell,” she said as she climbed out.

  “Do you need any help?” he asked, and she tried to test him for sincerity. Not that he didn’t want to help her, but maybe . . . Oh, see, she read into everything.

  He was a nice guy. And she’d blown this entire date. “I’ll be fine. I’m just going to get him and drive him home. We’ll be fine.”

  Russell didn’t protest, only nodded. “Sorry about this.”

  “You’re sorry? I’m the one who is sorry. I’ll make it up to you. Maybe get us a
couple tickets to a game.”

  He shook his head. “No need. But I will call you again, if that’s okay.”

  There it was. Proof that she was the author of her own demise. She swallowed, regret like a boulder in her throat. “Yes, please.”

  The cold swirled around her legs and up the back of her jacket as she stood there letting a perfectly good date drive away. What was her problem that she had to rush to Owen’s aid—especially since she was probably the last person he’d want to see?

  It didn’t matter. Someone had to watch out for him. Eden turned up her collar and marched across the street.

  The sweaty heat and raucous noise of the bar flooded over her, and the smell of cigarette smoke, too much cologne, whiskey, beer, and chaos tightened her stomach. Bodies pushed against each other, and she heard the chanting even as she stood at the entrance and looked over the crowd.

  “Fight! Fight!”

  Perfect. She plowed through the onlookers, ignoring the protests, dreading what she heard—the familiar sounds of men hitting each other, laughing, huffing as they tumbled onto the floor.

  She reached the edge of the brawl, and there he was. Owen, power forward for the Wild, a button ripped off his shirt, his long hair over his face, his nose bleeding, writhing as defenseman Zach Stoner caught him in a headlock.

  “Let him up!” she yelled and ran toward Stoner.

  People laughed, and Owen’s eyes landed on her, growing wide.

  “Stoner!” She grabbed the man’s hair. “I said let him up!”

  Stoner let go and Owen sputtered as he rolled away, found his feet. “Eden, what the—?”

  “Stop right there. You pocket-called me four times. And then I heard the fighting. What was I supposed to think?”

  The crowd had dissipated, probably embarrassed for him, and in that moment, Eden was too. Just a little. But more angry because she smelled his breath, saw the red in his eyes. She stepped close to Owen, still only a smidgen taller than her off his blades, and cut her voice low enough that he could still hear her. “You might want to remember you’re not old enough to drink.”

  He glared at her.

  She didn’t flinch. “Get your coat. You’re going home.”