A Dash of Spice

n the ground.” His jaw clenched briefly. Then he told her, “In addition to a few temporary ‘celebrity-coaching’ gigs, my agent has me on the road quite a bit, trying to get as much mileage out of my name before the next Bobby Hull or Wayne Gretzky comes along and I’m just a has been.”

Her heart wrenched. Hockey was this man’s life, his deepest passion. And she respected every ounce of that, even if it did keep the distance between them.

She assured him, “You’ll remain a hockey legend whether you’re playing or not, Scout. You scored the winning goal in the Olympics—in the last three nail-biting seconds of the game, no less—to give the U.S. a gold medal. Not to mention, you practically did the same thing for your professional team during two Stanley Cup championships—securing one win with a penalty shot and the other in sudden death. That makes you an eternal god of the sport. Immortalized like Hull and Gretzky.”

“People don’t always remember things like that, sweetheart.”

“True fans do,” she insisted. “Whether they’re hockey fans or just…fans of the man himself.”

His melted eyes glowed warmly. “Well, as long as you don’t go forgetting about me…”

“Never.” She smiled again. Then decided to press a little. “You just haven’t told me why you’re not playing anymore.”

Scout seemed to swallow down a hard lump. It took him a couple of seconds to collect his thoughts before telling her, “The average pro career is five and a half years. I had a nice run at nine, after the Olympics. Then I decided to coach. I just haven’t found the right team for me yet. At the moment, I can be selective. In a few years, maybe not so much. I need to make this transition period count.”

She studied him closely, noting the hint of uncertainty in his eyes. Not at all a familiar look coming from this man. Ciara sensed there was something he wasn’t sharing with her. Something about his change of heart these past ten months—the unexpected decision to be behind the boards, not on the ice—was tearing him up inside.

But his expression morphed into a more relaxed one, and he flashed his wicked grin. The one that always made her restless—for him.

He said, “I’ve got some serious coinage burning a hole in my pocket. What do you say I treat you to a bottle of fine wine at Venti’s? I imagine the kitchen is probably closed by now, but chances are good we can persuade Henry to let us take a table by a window and watch the breeze rustle the leaves on the trees under the street lamps. All the colors have changed.”

And they were spectacular—blazing blood-orange, deep crimson, vibrant gold. The town was beautiful year-round, but fall and winter held their own special appeal. Ciara loved autumn’s brilliance. Along with the light dusting of snow covering the town square and the sidewalks. The mountain held a greater accumulation and the white-capped peaks were stunning in the backdrop.

Regarding Scout’s mention of Henry Venti, she said, “You’re probably right. He’s particularly fond of your family.” She wagged a brow. “Especially your mother.”

“I think they just hit it off because she has her Canning with Catherine cooking show and he, well, loves to cook. And eat.”

Ciara was inclined to think it was a bit more than that, but didn’t divulge the juicy details some of the members of the Pilgrim Society had been more than happy to impart when she’d met with them earlier in the day. If those rumors were true, it was up to Scout’s mom to fill him in on her romantic life. Not for Ciara to whisper behind the woman’s back.

“So how about it?” Scout taunted her with the invitation to admire the view of the town over wine. Mostly, she’d be admiring him, but still. It was a nice thought. Except…

“I really should get over to the house,” she reluctantly said. “Marilyn picked me up in Durango and my first order of business was to take the jeep over for service since it’s sat for a while and then pick up some boxes of clothes I had shipped to Madison over at Lane’s Packaging. God, it was great to see Maddie again. And she’s doing up gift boxes for me for some silk and cashmere scarves I bought recently. She’s so freakin’ talented.”

“I notice you went all Hollywood on me. That’s quite the outfit.” Excitement lit his eyes, making Ciara damn pleased she’d gone a little more risqué with the evening’s ensemble. She’d wanted to stand out, because Scout always drew a crowd.

She told him, “Not Hollywood. I was in Paris for a travel documentary and couldn’t resist an afternoon shopping on the Champs-Élysées.”

Ciara had never been into designer labels or glamorous clothes. That had been her mother’s thing. But having come a bit more into her own over the past several years, she’d gotten a little more adventurous. Thank God her ugly duckling stage had been just that—a stage. There was nothing fun—and everything painful—about being a Plain Jane when your mother was Delaney St. James, famous cover model.

“Well,” Scout mused, “you look damn good. Seriously a sight for sore eyes, sweetheart. In or out of the black leather pants. With or without the makeup—and that incredibly sexy red lipstick.”

Ciara grinned. “Such a charmer.” Though she teased, her gaze remained locked with his and she was sure he saw the gratitude in her eyes. Scout had always seen so much more than how she looked—had always been more interested in what went on inside her brain…her heart…her soul, rather than when she was going to gain some weight and finally fill out in all the right places. It’d taken until her early twenties to develop a more womanly figure. He’d waited patiently.

Not that he hadn’t hit on her plenty of times. That had started around their freshman year of high school. She’d still been in her Dawson’s Creek “Joey” tomboy phase, but given that Scout was an outdoorsy type, he hadn’t minded.

“Sooo,” he ventured now, in that tone of voice she was all-too familiar with. The why don’t we take this dancing someplace private? one that always did her in. “Forget Venti’s. I’m staying at the B&B. We could take a bottle of wine to my room.”

As much as she wanted to gobble up that tasty morsel, this was one time when she really shouldn’t. Regretfully, she said, “I have a ton of work to do at the house. I have to uncover all the furniture and clean every square foot. Marilyn and your mother are coming over at the crack of dawn and we’re going to prep for the big Thanksgiving feast reenactment while the construction people craft the landing scene out back.”

She continued to gaze up at him as they shifted into a slightly faster, edgier pace to Make Me Bad by Korn. A song that held meaning for them both, since it was about trying to overcome a drug addiction—something Ciara had prayed daily her mother would achieve—and it’d also been used in athletic ads and a popular hockey video game.

“And, of course,” Ciara reminded him, “the society hosts their annual dinner tomorrow evening for sponsors. I need to wash up the good china and crystal. Unbox all the decorations I ordered.”

“Did I remember to donate this year?”

“Yes, you did. As always.”

“Does that mean I’m invited to the dinner?”