The Definition of Icing: A Dallas Demons Hockey Romance (Dallas Demons Series)

by Ellis, Aven

  What?

  Suddenly my throat goes dry. Am I going to have to be held by Nate Johansson for this picture?

  Shit, shit, shit.

  This does not bode well for me keeping any thoughts of a man-sabbatical in place.

  “Sure,” Nate says easily.

  He moves behind me and places the hockey stick in my hands. I take it and then Nate leans to me, wrapping his hands around mine.

  Suddenly every sense I have is flooded with Nate—the way his hands feel warm on my skin. The way I can smell his cologne because he’s pressed up against me. The way his native Minnesotan accent is now becoming a familiar sound to my ears . . .

  “Fantastic,” Todd says excitedly, moving back to get his camera. “Now Kenley, can you pretend you’re concentrating?”

  Concentrating? Is Todd kidding? I’m supposed to concentrate when Nate Johansson is pressed up against me?

  The thought is so absurd I burst out laughing.

  “What?” Nate asks.

  Now I’m dying. I can’t stop laughing, which makes Nate laugh, and then I’m laughing because I would sooner die than Nate know why I was laughing.

  “Great,” Todd says, snapping away. “Keep acting like you’re having fun.”

  “What,” Nate manages to ask, “are we laughing at?”

  Oh, that you respect women and stand up for them, you’re incredibly handsome, and I’m supposed to concentrate when you have your hands on me. Like that is going to happen.

  “I don’t remember,” I lie.

  We continue to move around and take different shots, and then we take a few quick ones of us holding the dipped strawberries on a tray, with Nate on one side and me on the other. But since the light was causing the chocolates to start to melt, we finished up after that.

  Nate and I both go back to change, and when we return, I see that Nate is now wearing a white T-shirt and shorts. The white T-shirt outlines his sculpted shoulders and broad chest, and once again the tattoo sleeve on his left arm is visible.

  Todd shows us the pictures, and I can’t help but notice how happy I appear in them. I’m smiling, I’m laughing, and I’m having fun.

  With a man.

  This hasn’t happened in so long I forgot what I looked like when I was happy around a guy.

  Then I bite my lip. Or have I ever appeared this happy with a man?

  Of course, it’s all pretend.

  For Nate, that is.

  After reviewing the pictures, Jillian hands us each a sheet of paper as Nate and I gather up our things. I skim it briefly as we head to the elevator together. Ah, yes, the quick fire career definitions we have to answer to accompany our photos. Mine has questions such as, “What is a soufflé?” Out of curiosity, I glance at Nate’s to see what career terms he has. The first word I can make out is Sin Bin before Nate folds his paper in half. Then I quickly file the paper with my stuff as we step into the elevator.

  “That wasn’t so bad,” Nate says as the doors close.

  “It was fun,” I admit.

  “Yeah, I thought so, too. But I’m still not trying your weird chocolate,” he declares, lifting an eyebrow at me.

  “How can a man who faces flying rubber pucks for a living be afraid of chocolate with curry?”

  “I’m not afraid. I just know I won’t like it.”

  I laugh. “Stubborn doesn’t scare me. I will get you to try it.”

  Nate grins. “Really? You think I’m stubborn? I think you are.”

  “No, no, I’m the most flexible person ever,” I declare, adjusting the strap on my purse. “I’m only stubborn when people try to cheat themselves out of a fantastic chocolate experience.”

  “Here, let me carry one of your bags,” Nate says, lifting the garment bag from me.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “You’re welcome.”

  The elevator ride is over far too quick. Nate lets me step out first, then he moves next to me, his bag of hockey sticks slung over his shoulder. We return our visitor badges to the front desk and head to the parking garage.

  He opens the door to go outside, letting me go first.

  And immediately I’m greeted with a blast of hot, humid air.

  “Christ, is it ever not 5,000 degrees here?” Nate asks.

  “Is this a little too warm for a guy from Minnesota?” I ask, smiling.

  “Yes,” he says, pausing as we enter the parking garage. “It’s stupid hot here.”

  “Hang on a few more months,” I assure him. “Usually toward October it starts cooling off. Maybe.”

  Nate groans. “Great. I’ll eagerly await 90-degree days.”

  I laugh. “Oh trust me, you will.”

  “Where did you park?” he asks.

  “Oh, I’m right here,” I say, pointing to my car, which is in sight. “The red Volvo.”

  Nate escorts me over to my car and helps me load up my stuff. Then I shut the door and turn around, and we’re face-to-face again.

  “I’m over on the other side,” he says. Then he clears his throat. “Thank you for making that photo shoot fun today.”

  “No, no, I need to thank you,” I say honestly.

  We’re silent for a moment.

  But Nate isn’t leaving.

  An idea hits me. I can’t believe I’m about to do what I’m going to do, but I sense this will be my only opportunity, and I blurt it out before I change my mind.

  “Um, Nate, I know it’s a little early for dinner, but would you like to go somewhere around here and grab something to eat? As my way of saying thank you for saving the shoot for me today?” I ask, my words flying out in a nervous rush.

  Nate’s expression completely changes. An awkward expression passes over his face, and he rakes a hand through his dark hair.

  And I instantly know I’ve made a mistake in asking him to dinner.

  “Um, Kenley, that’s nice of you to offer, and I mean that, but I’m going to have to decline,” Nate says softly. He pauses for a moment and then continues. “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea, but I’m not interested in dating anyone right now. Hopefully I’ll see you around, okay?”

  And then he turns and walks away.

  Chapter 3

  Overheating: When you get chocolate too hot it can scorch, separate, or become clumpy — Kenley

  “I think it’s time I cut you off,” Lexi says, glancing at the empty chocolate wrappers I’ve piled up on the coffee table in our living room. She gently takes the half-eaten Teuscher dark lemon chocolate bar from my hand. “You’re going to make yourself sick with all this chocolate.”

  I frown. Lexi is standing over me with an expression of disapproval on her face.

  “After this afternoon I can eat ten of them,” I say miserably, reaching up and taking my Swiss chocolate bar back. “I can’t believe I asked freaking Nate Johansson to dinner. Hello, professional hockey player Nate Johansson. What did I think he’d say? Nate probably sleeps with a different girl every night. Why would he want to go have dinner with the chocolate girl?”

  “Um—”

  “And,” I say, interrupting her while I peel the wrapper down and break off another square to devour, “I’m supposed to be on a man sabbatical. I swear I had a moment of overheating.”

  “Like a car?” Lexi asks as she flops down on the white, oversized sofa next to me.

  “No, chocolate,” I say, stuffing the square of the candy bar into my mouth. Normally I savor each bite, letting it melt on my tongue to get the experience of chocolate and lemon oil coming together, but I’m so upset I’m eating it as fast as I can. “I got so overheated by Nate’s epic hotness that the man sabbatical part of my brain separated itself and left me with clumps of burnt brain that thought getting to know him wou
ld be a brilliant idea. Arrrrgh!”

  I pop another square into my mouth. Lexi grins at me, and I furrow my brow.

  “What?” I mumble.

  “You always sound drunk when you go on a chocolate bender,” she says, smiling.

  “Isn’t this a reason to consume mass amounts of my Swiss stash?” I say. “I asked a guy out. I’ve never asked a guy out! And he totally shot me down. So humiliating. I feel like an idiot. And I can’t believe I even wanted to ask him out in the first place.”

  I throw my candy bar on the coffee table. Okay, after consuming two and a half bars of rich luxury chocolate, I’m beginning to feel sick.

  “I should be the one eating this,” Lexi declares, picking up the bar I’ve tossed aside. “You got to meet Nate and Harrison Flynn. And you don’t appreciate them half as much as I do,” she declares.

  “Oh, I do now,” I say, thinking of Nate and his tattoo sleeve and ripped core. Then I give her a side eye. “I touched Harrison, you know.”

  Lexi stops in mid-bite. “What?”

  “I shook his hand.”

  “Kenley! How could you keep that detail from me?” Lexi cries. “What did Harrison wear? And what did he smell like? Did he smell amazing? I need to know. Tell me!”

  I laugh. “Sorry, fangirl, I didn’t notice his scent,” I say. “I can report that he was wearing some gray T-shirt with a bridge on it when he left and a baseball hat. But he’s super nice. And he loves his wife. That’s clear.”

  Lexi makes a face. “Harrison is so damn perfect. He’s ruined me, you know,” she says dramatically, snapping off another square of dark chocolate and popping it into her mouth. “No other man will be good enough.”

  Ruined. That’s what happened to me this afternoon. My man sabbatical was utterly ruined by Nate and his espresso-colored eyes, tattoo sleeve, and badass defense of me during that shoot. Of course I didn’t stand a chance. What woman wouldn’t be intrigued by him?

  “So how did Nate smell?”

  “Sexy,” I immediately respond, as his scent is imprinted in the crumbled stupid part of my brain, “woodsy, and masculine.”

  “Boy, you did overheat, didn’t you?” Lexi teases.

  I lob a throw pillow at her. “Shut up.”

  Lexi laughs and dodges, and the pillow goes sailing over the end of the couch.

  “Seriously, though, you haven’t talked about a man in years,” Lexi says thoughtfully, breaking off another square of chocolate.

  “I know,” I admit softly. “But Nate was different.”

  “Yeah, you don’t come across famous hockey players every day,” Lexi says. “It would be hard not to be infatuated.”

  I play with my hair, running my fingers over the chignon that is now starting to fall out of place.

  “I wish it were that simple.”

  “It’s not?”

  I sigh heavily. “No. It was several things. The way he came to my defense. The way Nate flat-out said he hated sexism. And he was fun to be around. I just found myself wanting to know more about him.”

  “I can see that,” Lexi says. “And I’m proud of you.”

  I snort. “For what? Making a fool out of myself?”

  “No, for asking him out. That was gutsy.”

  “It was stupid,” I correct.

  “Not stupid. Nate was interesting enough to inspire you to take a chance.”

  I think about this, and as always, Lexi is right. Nate was different, and my gut tells me there were many more things to discover about him.

  But in the end, even if Nate had said yes, then what? What if we hit it off and started dating? I’d have to let Nate in, something I have refused to do since I broke up with Chase. And would Nate like the real me? That I’m a girl with flaws and faults and very far from being perfect like everyone expects? Would the real me be enough?

  No, it’s probably a good thing Nate wasn’t interested. It simply saved me a whole lot of heartache in the end.

  So I should be relieved.

  But instead, I find myself disappointed.

  And there’s nothing I can do about it.

  I drive up to the address Kylie Flynn gave me and study the home in front of me. Of course, I wasn’t surprised that they lived in Highland Park, the wealthiest suburb in Dallas, but I was expecting a sweeping mansion.

  Instead, I find myself at a beautiful home, an older home, but nothing insane huge like I imagined. It’s gorgeous, though, with lush landscaping and mature trees.

  I go up the driveway and park my car. Kylie had kept her word and emailed me the next day, wanting to set up an appointment to discuss ideas for her sister-in-law’s gender-reveal party for their expected baby.

  I step out of the car, lifting up my long, black and white chevron print maxi dress, so I don’t step on it. Kylie told me over the phone to please dress casually when I came over, as it’s hot out, and she was most likely going to be in yoga pants and a tank top anyway.

  She’s so my kind of girl, I think. I go around to the passenger side of my car and open the door. I lift up my box and try not to have the branches for my s’mores tree poke me in the face. Then I shut the door using my hip and head up the sidewalk.

  As I reach the porch, I hear dogs barking. I shift the box a bit and quickly press the doorbell with my finger, then go back to holding the box with both hands.

  I hear Kylie say something to the dogs, and they cease barking. The door opens, and true to her word, a yoga-clothing-clad Kylie greets me.

  “Hi, Kenley,” she says, smiling brightly at me. “Thank you so much for coming over.”

  “Hello,” I say, smiling back at her. “I’m happy to be here.”

  “Let’s go on back to the kitchen,” Kylie says.

  I nod and follow her, taking in the Flynn residence as I do. And the home seems to match the couple. I see blues and stripes and florals, making the home comfortable and soothing.

  I enter the kitchen, and I’m awed by the beauty. It’s charming and done in white and Robin’s egg blue.

  “Your kitchen is amazing,” I say, setting my box down on her island. The appliances are all top of the line, yet retro in style. Unexpected, but again, it works for them.

  Kylie beams. “Thank you. Harrison and I renovated it ourselves.”

  “Really?” I ask, surprised.

  “Yep,” Kylie says, nodding. “Please, have a seat. “Would you like something to drink? Bottled water, iced tea?”

  “Water would be great, thank you,” I say, taking my iPad out of my tote. “But y’all seriously renovated this kitchen yourselves?”

  “We actually did the whole house,” Kylie explains as she opens the door to her refrigerator. “Harrison and I enjoy working on projects together, and he’s into woodworking, so it’s something we’re passionate about. We’re always searching for the next thing to work on.”

  I sit there, surprised. Wow. Who would have thought this multi-millionaire couple would do all this hard work themselves simply because they loved doing projects together?

  Kylie sets a bottle of water down in front of me, and then she puts a pitcher of iced tea on the countertop. I watch as she reaches for a glass, then moves to a hanging basket and retrieves a lemon.

  “You can go ahead and start while I slice this up,” Kylie says. “Or would you rather have a glass with ice and lemon for your water? I should have asked you that.”

  “No, I’m good,” I say, smiling. “Thank you.”

  So I begin my presentation, explaining to Kylie how we can do a chocolate cake or cupcakes, with the filling tinted pink for a girl or blue for a boy. So when the expecting couple either cuts the cake or cupcake, the gender will be revealed to the guests based on the color.

  “Oh, yes,” Kylie says, her brown
eyes shining with delight. “Candace, my sister-in-law, loves cupcakes. So that’s perfect.”

  And as I watch her brown eyes dance, I’m suddenly reminded of Nate’s espresso-colored eyes.

  I shake my head as if I can somehow shake the crazy thought out of me. It’s been a week since the whole disaster at Dallas Details, and Nate has filtered my thoughts more than I care to admit, usually followed by a rousing round of humiliation. And despite the fact that he made it clear he has no interest in me, I found myself Googling his picture more than once this week.

  Which is beyond pathetic.

  I drink some of my water and move back to my presentation.

  “Great, so we’ll get the cupcakes,” I say, typing the note into my iPad. I glance at her. “I can organize the baker for you and give you flavor combinations. Candace can call me directly with the sex of the baby so that I can communicate with the baker on color.”

  “That would be excellent,” Kylie says, taking a sip of her iced tea.

  “Okay,” I say, making a note to contact my favorite Dallas bakery. “Now, you’re going to have this party here, in October, so hopefully the weather will be cool. And if it is,” I say, standing up and pulling out my branches, “we could do a s’mores bar outside. It would help the flow of people in and out of the house because I know you are expecting at least 50, and it’s something fun for adults and kids alike.”

  “I love s’mores,” Kylie exclaims excitedly. “And we have a fire pit outside.”

  “Even better,” I say, grinning. I stand up and reach inside my box. I explain to Kylie how I can make marshmallow trees, and begin putting the branches in a vase. “We can have a s’mores station set up, and these serve as décor as well as the stick for roasting the marshmallow.”