"But you're interested."
It's not a question, and I don't treat it like one. Instead, I touch up my lipstick one last time and grab my coat from the back of the door.
"I'm curious," I admit finally. "And it's been a long time since I've been genuinely curious about anyone."
Jessica's answering smile is warm. "Well, that's reason enough to go. Just promise me details afterward. And photos. Luke will die."
"I'm not taking creeper photos of the Grizzlies on a date for your husband," I laugh, slipping my feet into black heels that add three inches to my height. Not that it'll make much difference next to Darren's 6'4" frame, but every little bit helps when surrounded by hockey giants.
"Fine, be selfish with your pack of hot hockey players." Jessica hands me my phone from the nightstand. "Go knock 'em dead. And if any of them are weird or make you uncomfortable?—"
"I'll climb out a bathroom window. I know the drill."
"I was going to say 'call me for an emergency extraction,' but sure, architectural escape works too."
I gather my things, giving her a quick hug. "Thanks for helping. And for not judging my life choices too harshly."
"That's what sisters are for." She squeezes my shoulders. "The not judging part, I mean. The helping is just because I'm a saint."
"And the Grizzlies tickets."
"Mostly the Grizzlies tickets," she says with a grin.
The restaurant is even more intimidatingin person than it looked online. The Terrace sits atop one of the city's most exclusive hotels, all gleaming glass and discreet opulence. The kind of place where they don't put prices on the menu because if you have to ask, you can't afford it.
As the hostess leads me through the main dining room, I'm acutely aware of my wrap dress. It had seemed elegant enough in my bedroom mirror, but surrounded by designer labels and old money, I wonder if I've horribly misjudged the dress code.
"Your party has reserved our Blue Room," the hostess says, her smile professional but warm. "The best view in the house."
A private room? Now I'm really wondering what I've gotten myself into. The pack must be loaded if they can casually book a private dining space at The Terrace. I knew professional athletes made good money, but this feels like next-level wealth.
We pass through a frosted glass door into a space that steals my breath. Three glass walls showcase the city lights in a way that makes me wonder if I've stepped into a fantasy realm. The fourth wall houses a private bar and a discreet service entrance.The center of the room features a round table set for six, with candles and fresh flowers.
"Can I get you something while you wait?" the hostess asks.
"Just water for now, thank you."
As she leaves, I wander to the windows, drawn by the spectacular view. From up here, the city looks almost magical, problems and imperfections softened by distance and darkness. I press my palm against the cool glass, grounding myself.
What am I doing here? Five days ago, I was swearing off dating entirely after the insurance salesman disaster. Now I'm in a private dining room waiting to meet not one man, but five, one of whom happens to be the very thing I've been avoiding for years.
I check my watch. Only 7:58. They're not late yet. But the silence of the empty room is making my nerves worse. Especially after last time. What if theyallstand me up this time?
Pretty sure I'm just going to find a cabin to go live in the woods. Or join a convent. Can you knit at a convent?
To distract myself, I pull out my phone and google "Grizzlies hockey team" again. I've already done this research, of course. Shamelessly stalked their team profiles and read all the stats that mean absolutely nothing to me. I recognize Darren immediately in the team photo, number 47, "The Brick" according to his bio. His expression in the official photo is stern, almost grim, nothing like the man who laughed openly across the dinner table from me.
Before I can click to the next player, a movement by the door catches my attention. My heart jumps into my throat as Darren steps into the room, looking even better than I remember in dark jeans and a charcoal button-down that stretches across his broad shoulders. His blue eyes find mine immediately, and the smile that breaks across his face makes my pulse skip.
He's not alone.
Behind him walks a younger man, tall and athletic but with a slighter build, light brown hair with a blue streak dyed into it, and striking green eyes. He must be in his early twenties, with a scattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks that give him a boyish charm despite his height.
I recognize him as Aidan McKinney, the team's 22-year-old rookie goalie, from my online research. But the pictures didn't do him justice at all, and that's saying something. In person, he has a presence that the camera doesn't capture, an energy that vibrates just beneath the surface.
"Lexie." Darren crosses the room in a few long strides, taking my hand in his. The contact sends a pleasant warmth up my arm. "You look amazing."
"Thanks." I'm suddenly hyperaware of my dress, my hair, everything. "So do you."
