My palm is too large for the dainty coffee mug. I’m holding it so tightly, my knuckles creak and I feel the clay nearly give way. Shit. I relax my grip and drag my eyes away from the corridor that leads to the restrooms.
Maisy Stratford is fine. Sure, she was shaken up. And yeah, River Patton better fucking apologize for barreling into her and ruining her dress. Not to mention her day. Don’t get me started on her pathetic excuse for an ex-boyfriend. I’ve never met Josh but everything I’ve heard about him tells me all I need to know. Someone should have knocked him out back in middle school and set the entitled prick in his place.
I heave out a sigh, but it doesn’t quell the protective edge slicing through my veins, mixing with adrenaline.
Maisy Stratford is fine. She handled everything—the muffin fiasco, her breakup, my choosing her a dress—with more grace than most women I know.
A dreadful thought runs through my mind and my eyes cut back to the corridor. What if she’s in the bathroom right now, crying her eyes out? What if she managed to hold it together until we arrived here, and now, she’s unraveling, alone?
I have a twenty-one-year-old daughter; I understand the complex, not to mention spectacular, emotional range of women.
I work a swallow, about to stand and stride toward the corridor, when Maisy turns the corner and my heart clogs my throat, my chest caving inward like a hit.
Maisy Stratford is fucking gorgeous.
Blonde waves that dance across the tops of her shoulders, blue eyes the color of the Caribbean at daybreak, and curves—delicious, natural, real curves—I want to sink my fingers into. The dress hugs them all, and as she skims her hands over her hips, a small smile flits across her face.
That smile makes me feel like I won the fucking lottery. Twice.
She likes the dress. She trusted me and I delivered the thing, the feeling, she was searching for. I made her smile when her day is falling apart.
I lean back in my seat, slowly releasing a breath to get a grip. My heart is beating too fast, my knee bounces under the table, nervous. Hell, even my beard feels itchy, like I’m a punk-ass kid posing as a grown man. With Maisy, I feel like a rookie, about to take the ice for my first big game, instead of a seasoned player whose been around a time or two.
Maisy walks over to the table, and I can’t stop staring at her. When she arrives at the table side, she nervously nibbles the corner of her mouth.
“Thanks again for the dress.” She pulls out the chair across from mine and sits down.
I clear my throat, feeling the tips of my ears burn, which is ridiculous. “You look”—Maisy looks up and I freeze. Beautiful. Gorgeous. Perfect—“nice.”
She smiles. “Thanks, Axel.”
I nod and bury my head in the menu. Nice? That was my best adjective? Why can’t I act normal around Maisy? Why can’t I be more like my affable, charming brother, Asher? If he was here, he’d know exactly what to say. He wouldn’t be faltering, hiding behind a menu, like me.
From the first time I met Maisy, when Mila dragged her to drinks with some guys on the team, I couldn’t tear my eyes away. But that was when she was dating Josh and I knew all I could be was a casual acquaintance, a guy to order her a drink and make sure she had a ride home.
But now, she’s single. And that opened a door of possibilities I’ve never let myself consider. Because I don’t date or have serious relationships. I have Lola; I’m a dad. A girl dad. That’s always come first, before everything.
My last real relationship, when Lola was eight, went sideways after two years and the devastation Lola felt at the loss of my ex-girlfriend in her life was enough for me to pump the breaks.
Marisol moved on quickly, finding the commitment she said I couldn’t give her, only one year later. She was married, a homeowner, and a mother all in the span of two years. Lola sobbed when the Christmas card showing off Marisol’s beautiful baby girl arrived. And I’d be lying if I said it didn’t feel like getting stabbed in the chest.
But Lola’s grown now…
“I love it here.” Maisy breaks the silence, glancing around the eclectic cafe, with Andy Warhol prints on the walls, hanging greenery, and mismatched coffee mugs.
“Me too,” I admit. “Lola and I come here for brunch every Sunday.”
Maisy’s eyes light up at the mention of Lola, which surprises me because most women are either shocked or disappointed when they learn I have a daughter. I mean, Maisy already knew I was a dad, but we haven’t talked about Lola much.
“That’s a nice tradition. My dad and I used to do monthly dinner dates when I was a student at UT. The first Wednesday of the month,” she laughs, recalling a memory. “We almost always had breakfast for dinner at Betsy’s Diner.”
“You were a Volunteer?” I didn’t know she went to the University of Tennessee, like Lola.
“Good ol’ Rocky Top.”
I grin, nodding at the reference to the university and its football program. “So, you’re a football fan.”
Maisy wrinkles her nose, as if she doesn’t want to admit it to me.
I huff out a breath that sounds like a chuckle.
“I was raised on Friday Night Lights and tailgates,” she explains, shrugging innocently.
“It seems that way around here.” I look around the cafe but I mean the entire state of Tennessee. It’s no secret that the Knoxville Coyotes, the Pride of Southern Football, hold the love and respect of the state while the Thunderbolts, and hockey in general, are newcomers. We don’t have a fraction of the fan base or support as football.
“I’m looking forward to the hockey season,” she says, her eyes sincere. “I haven’t followed hockey before, but it seems like a good year to learn.”
“Because you’re now a Bolt and Mila is the team trainer?”
She shrugs, confirming my suspicion.
“If you have any questions about the game, you know who to ask.” I lean closer over the table.
Maisy bites the corner of her mouth again and holy shit, am I flirting? Is she? Are we…feeling each other out?
“Hey there, Daire,” a pointed voice announces.
I turn to look at the server and nearly do a double take as I come face to face with Jasmine Cates, Lola’s best friend and roommate.
“Jas, what are you doing here?” I ask.
She arches an eyebrow, silently calling me out. Together, Lola and Jas have been on a mission to set me up with women ranging from the Mother Hen at their sorority house to the librarian to the woman who runs the boutique in town where I bought Maisy’s dress. The appreciative glint in Jasmine’s eye as she takes in Maisy lets me know the dress isn’t lost on her.
Jas holds up a small notebook and pencil. “I got a job.”
“Seriously?” I cough, trying not to laugh.
She rolls her eyes. “Yes, D, seriously.” She shortens my surname, Daire, to her causal D. She wrinkles her nose as if it pains her to admit it and I immediately feel bad. And concerned.
Jasmine is my daughter’s best friend and over the past few years, she’s become my surrogate kid too. She often joins Lol and me for Sunday breakfast. She’s a regular at my house to do her laundry. And when Lola drank too much at her first party freshman year and couldn’t stop vomiting, Jasmine knew enough to call me for help, to walk her through it, to monitor Lola’s behavior.
“Is everything okay?” I ask, sitting up straighter.
Across from me, I feel Maisy studying me.
Jas nods. “Yeah. All good.”
“We’ll talk Sunday.”
She snorts, her eyes darting to Maisy. “Hell yeah, we will.”
I blow out an exasperated breath. “Maisy, meet Lola’s best friend and another pain in my ass, Jasmine Cates.”
Maisy smiles. “Hi, Jasmine. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Same!” Jas smiles at Maisy, her eyes dancing. “I love your dress!”
“Oh!” Maisy blushes, glancing down at the peach material. “Thank you.”
“Can I get you guys something to drink? Or eat? The Nutella French toast is bomb. So are the tostada rancheros if you’re leaning vegan.”
I grip the underside of the table. Jasmine is going to have a field day with this, and I know it won’t be long, ten minutes max, until Lola is on my case too. They’re going to want to know everything. Oh, Sunday breakfast will be long and painful.
“I’ll stick with the classic breakfast, please,” Maisy orders. “Scrambled for the eggs. And I’d love, desperately need, an oat latte.”
“You got it.” Jas scribbles down her order and begins to walk away.
“Hey, what about me?” I call after her.
She laughs. “I got you, D.”
I shake my head. “Sorry.”
“For what?” Maisy asks, amused.
I sigh. “Jasmine is going to call Lola in about ten seconds. And then both of them will be chirping in my ear.” I don’t mean to sound miserable but…I wish my daughter and her best friend would give my dating life a rest.
Rather than appear put off, Maisy laughs. And it’s like music, soft and melodious. “Does Lola want you to date?”
“Desperately,” I admit. “She says I’m now at an age where I should seek happiness.” I air quote around “seek happiness,” using Lola’s words, and Maisy laughs again. “I swear, I don’t know what the hell she’s talking about half the time.”
“Things change that much from when you were growing up?” Her eyes hold a playful, teasing glint.
“Ha,” I mock laugh and her smile grows. “It feels that way. I’m an old thirty-six,” I admit.
Maisy’s eyes soften. Hesitantly, she asks, “How old were you when you had Lola?”
I pause. I never share these details. In fact, I usually avoid bringing Lola up, so openly, with women I don’t know well. But with Maisy, I want to talk about things that matter. And no one, nothing, matters more to me than my daughter. “Sixteen. Her mother, Anna, and I were high school sweethearts. We were way out of our depth, unprepared, when Anna learned she was pregnant.”
“That must have been hard,” Maisy says. Her expression is thoughtful, her tone compassionate. It’s not pitying or judging the way most women react, and for that, I’m grateful enough to continue.
“Anna and I broke up when Maisy was about a year old. It wasn’t bitter or dramatic or anything. We both knew we wanted more out of a romantic relationship, but we were friends, co-parents, and Lola was the glue that held us together. I was offered scholarships around the country for hockey and Anna agreed to move with Lola so I could still be involved in her life. After I got signed to the Rams, they came to Seattle with me. It was there that Anna met Ben, her now husband, and started a new family.”
“Was that hard?”
I shake my head. “Not the way you’d think. I was happy, relieved even, that Anna found someone who loves her the way she deserves to be loved. And Lola gained another male role model. Anna and Ben have two boys who call me uncle and I’m glad Lola got to have siblings, brothers who drove her a little bit batty. She’s close with them.”
“That’s…wow, that’s really evolved of y’all.” Maisy shakes her head, like she’s having a hard time wrapping her mind around the functionality of it all. But it works. Anna and I committed to being parents and we always put Lola first.
I shrug. “It wasn’t always easy, but I’m glad Anna is Lola’s mother. She’s always a mom first, always there for Lola, and we never had all that dramatic bullshit I’ve seen other guys on my teams go through in their marriages.”
“So, you’ve never been married?”
“No.”
Maisy nods, taking this information in. When Jas delivers her coffee and my orange juice, she shoots me a wink and I stifle a groan. The third degree is coming; I know it.
“Thanks, Jasmine.” Maisy takes a sip of her coffee.
“What about you?” I ask, wanting to turn the attention away from myself. I hate talking about myself, my past, my life. With Maisy, I want to open up more, which is new for me. But I’ve said more to her than anyone in Tennessee, save for Lola and Jas, and I’m ready for her to take center stage.
“I’ve never been married,” she laughs. “I don’t know if I’ve ever even been in love.” A line forms in between her eyebrows, as if she’s pondering this, recalling a string of past relationships.
“Ever?” I find that hard as fuck to believe. Men must have fallen for Maisy Stratford. Either she’s in denial or completely oblivious.
Maisy purses her lips and shakes her head.
“Even with the…the ex?”
“Definitely not with Josh.” She answers so quickly, I wonder if she’s telling the truth or nursing a bruised ego along with her heart. “At first, I thought so. But over the past few months…the signs were there.”
“What signs?”
She gives me a small smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. She’s grasping for casual when it’s obvious she’s hurt. That protective edge sweeps through me again. “His moving in but never contributing toward the mortgage or groceries or anything. His changing jobs without talking to me about it, but trying to convince me to stay at Tim’s law firm when he knew, he knew, how hard it was.”
I gulp, my hands finding my orange juice glass and once again, squeezing too hard. I’ve seen firsthand how Tim spoke to Maisy when she was his assistant. He was awful, degrading. His treatment of Maisy is the main reason why I didn’t retain him.
“And…other stuff,” she lets out on a sigh. “Deep down, I know I’m better off without him. But the suddenness of the breakup, the text message”—a soulless chuckle—“it hurts, you know? Like, I’m not even worth a phone call?”
Slowly, I nod. Her pain is stamped across her face, written in the lines around her mouth, present in the gray ring at the edge of her irises.
I reach across the table and place my hand over hers, flattening it between the table and my palm. “You deserve better, Maisy. More.” My voice is gruff, as if the words had to be scraped from the column of my throat.
But Maisy hears the thread of truth because she smiles. A real smile that lights her face and causes me to feel like the biggest, best man in the universe.
“Thank you for saying that, Axel.”
I nod, removing my hand, as Jasmine appears with our orders.
Again, she’s failing to hide her excitement at this new development in my personal life. Again, I ignore her. I keep my eyes trained on Maisy, wondering how I got so lucky.
Today, of all days, I was in the right place at the right time. For the right reason.
For a man who doesn’t believe in chance, it sure does feel like kismet.
When I pull into Maisy’s driveway, Josh’s truck is gone. She breathes out a sigh of relief, ducking her head as she tucks a wave of hair behind her ear.
“Thanks again, Axel,” Maisy says softly. “You really managed to turn things around for me today.”
“It wasn’t me.”
“Sure, it was.” She glances down at her dress. “And I love the dress.”
One side of my mouth curls. “I’m glad.”
She nods, her eyes holding mine for a moment that lasts longer than it should, but not long enough.
When I clear my throat, she jumps. “Right.” She opens the passenger door. “See you around, then.”
“See you tomorrow,” I remind her, since there’s no way I’m not passing by the main office every chance I get, especially knowing she’ll be there. Every day. Nine to six.
She waves, her keys clutched in her hand, before unlocking her front door and disappearing inside.
I sit in her driveway, admiring the simple bungalow. There are window boxes filled with flowers and the front door is yellow, like sunshine.
Her house looks like one of those starter homes a young couple would bring a baby home to. Even from the outside, it’s cozy and inviting, warm. I move to pull out of the driveway when her purse, a practical navy blue, catches my eye. It’s tucked between the center console and the seat, so Maisy must have forgotten it when it slipped.
I put the truck in park, grab her bag, and make my way to her front door. Curiosity washes over me at the prospect of seeing inside her home, at learning more about her. Is it just as inviting inside? Does it give off the same warmth as her smiles, the same sincerity as her eyes?
I knock on the door, surprised when it nudges open. The keyless entry numbers light up but no code has been set to relock the door.
I frown. Does she usually leave her door unlocked and cracked open?
Pushing inside, I call out, “Maisy?”
Nothing. No response, just static silence.
My concern skyrockets in under two seconds and I barrel into the house, wondering if something sinister has happened with Josh. I enter so quickly, I nearly knock Maisy over from behind.
“Fuck,” I swear, wrapping my arms around her middle to keep us upright.
Maisy’s body is still in my arms, frozen in shock.
“Maisy?” I turn her around, placing my hands on her shoulders and give her a little shake. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
Her eyes meet mine, confused and...hurt. “He took the furniture.”
What? I look over her shoulder and, “That motherfucker.” Her living room is empty, save for the television mount still stuck to the wall. He even swiped her TV.
“He took my furniture,” she whispers to herself, disbelief heavy in her tone.
Coldness tracks through my veins as I shut down the anger radiating from me like a fucking heat source. Maisy doesn’t need my anger right now; she needs me to step up.
“Sit here.” I guide her away from the empty living room and into the dining area, praying I find a table. I breathe a sigh of relief when we enter the kitchen instead. I help her onto one of the barstools at the kitchen island.
Moving around her kitchen like I’ve been here a hundred times instead of a hundred seconds, I fill a glass of water and place it in front of her.
Then, I pull out my phone and call Mila.
“Axe?” she answers, surprised.
“Get to Maisy’s house now,” I demand. “And bring Devon.”
“Wait, what? What’s wrong? Is she—”
“She’s fine.” My tone is clipped, my anger barely concealed. “Just come, okay?”
“Yeah, okay. Devon and I will be there in ten.”
I hang up the phone, tossing it onto the countertop.
Maisy’s expression is heartbreaking, her eyes helpless. She slumps in her seat, defeat heavy on her shoulders, and I want to put my fist through the goddamn wall.
I step beside her and wrap an arm around her shoulders, tentative, gentle. The way I would to Jasmine or one of Anna’s boys.
But when Maisy turns into my embrace, all bets are off and I hug the shit out of her. I pull her into my arms and hold her close, murmuring soothing sounds and running my fingers through her hair.
I erase whatever space existed between us—polite, comfortable, casual acquaintanceship—and let her know that I’m here for her.
That I care about her.
And that I’m not fucking going anywhere.