1
The first thingI notice is the smell.
It’s faint, but unmistakable—plastic, rubber, and…something else. Definitely not the lavender vanilla candles I’ve been burning all morning. I wrinkle my nose and look around the boutique, my hands perched on my hips. The place is coming together, slowly but surely, but there’s still so much left to do before the Harvest Festival runway show and my grand opening.
I glance at the front window where my display mannequin is standing proudly in one of my favorite designs—a floral wrap dress that’s both flattering and practical for everyday wear—to the office or on a date. The clothing racks are filled with dresses, skirts, and tops that I’ve spent weeks and months designing, then even more time going through fabrics with a local textile company, and everything is just about perfect.
Except for the giant pile of boxes stacked near the cash register.
I eye them warily. The last of the inventory I ordered for the grand opening should’ve arrived yesterday, but something tells me those boxes aren’t filled with the plus-size clothes I’vepoured my heart and soul into. I grab a box cutter from the counter and start slicing through the tape on the nearest one.
When I pull back the flaps, my stomach drops. “Helmets,” I say out loud to my empty retail space.
And not just any helmets.
Blue Ridge Buffalo hockey helmets. Piles of them, black and shiny, with the mountainous buffalo logo stamped on the side.
“Oh no, no, no,” I mutter, frantically opening the next box. More helmets. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Hockey season hasn’t even started yet.
I grab my phone from the counter and dial the number for the sporting goods store across the street. They’re the only ones who’d be expecting something like this. The phone rings once, twice?—
Before it can pick up, the door to my boutique swings open with a jingle, and I look up, ready to greet my customer with a smile that says,welcome to Sweet Curves Boutique, where everything is fabulous and nothing is wrong. Nope. No helmets back here instead of my window showpieces.
But the smile freezes on my face.
The words die in my throat.
Because standing in the doorway, looking like he just stepped out of a sports magazine, is Jack Winters.TheJack Winters. Captain of the Blue Ridge Buffaloes, local celebrity, and known heartbreaker—though I’m pretty sure my heart just skipped a beat simply by looking at him.
He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with dirty blonde hair that looks like it was styled by the wind rather than any comb. His eyes are an icy blue, piercing, and framed by thick lashes that would make any woman jealous. And then there’s his smile—crooked, charming, and just a little bit mischievous.
He’s wearing a t-shirt that clings to his muscular chest in all the right ways and jeans that hang low on his hips. And eventhough he looks like he belongs on the ice, there’s something…warm about him. The kind of warmth that makes you want to curl up next to a fire with a cup of hot cocoa and never leave.
Or curl into his chest and stay there forever.
I swallow hard, suddenly hyper-aware of my own appearance—messy ponytail, no makeup, and my old paint-splattered leggings. Not exactly runway-ready.
“Uh, hi,” I manage to squeak out, my voice higher than usual.
“Hey,” he says, his voice deep and smooth, like velvet. “I might be in the wrong place, but I heard you’ve got something of mine.”
I blink, trying to process his words. “Something of yours?”
He nods, glancing at the pile of boxes. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure those helmets were supposed to be delivered across the street. Not exactly the kind of accessories you’d sell in a boutique, huh?” He looks at my star dress, but I can’t tell if he likes it or not.
I stare at him, my brain short-circuiting for a moment. Hockey helmets. Of course. I laugh—nervously, because I’m standing in front of the hottest guy in town and all I can think about is how I just opened a box of helmets instead of the gorgeous fall sweaters I was expecting.
“Right, yeah,” I say, trying to sound like I’ve got it together. “I was just about to call the store.” I quickly hang up the call that’s probably left a horrible message on the voicemail next door. “I don’t think they fit the vibe I’m going for here.”
He grins, and oh cheese-and-crackers, it’s even more devastating up close. “No? You don’t think helmets go with floral dresses?”
I laugh again, this time more genuinely. “Not unless you’re starting a new trend.”
He chuckles, taking a step closer, and I swear the temperature in the room rises a couple of degrees. “Well, Iwouldn’t know much about fashion. But I do know those helmets belong to me—or at least to my uncle’s store.”
I nod, trying to focus on the conversation instead of the way his biceps flex as he moves. “Right. Of course. Let me get them for you.”
I step around the counter, but before I can reach the boxes, Jack moves toward them as well, and the next thing I know, a mighty crash echoes through the store.
