When Aria Monroe lands her dream job as the new photographer for Los Angeles's professional hockey team, the last thing she expects is to work with the cocky, arrogant center Connor Holden who rocked her world five years ago during a one-night stand...
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Two weeks later
"Remind me again why I decided to do this?"
The weather is bone-chilling cold, the wind strong enough to whip my braids into my face. My nose and ears turned numb hours ago, and I instantly regretted not buying proper clothing for this trip. It's my first time here, though, so I didn't truly understand just how cold it'd be.
Connor's large frame steps behind me, his body a furnace when he wraps his arms around my waist to tug me against his chest. "Because you're brave, and your therapist suggested this be the next step of your healing." A shiver races up my spine when he kisses the side of my head, but this time, it has nothing to do with the weather. "Want me to do it, or you?"
Dragging in a gulp of air, I tentatively lean over and press the doorbell to the address my parents gave me last week. It was a last-minute decision to come here for the holidays, but Connor had off, and with their likelihood of going to the championship slim to none now, Brian didn't make a fuss about him taking four days off. Cal is out for the season due to a shoulder injury, and it's affected the team in more ways than one.
I shouldn't be so nervous, but my hands tremble when my mother opens the door. The devastation and hope in her eyes mix with unshed tears, and before I can refuse, she's tugging me into her arms.
Her scent overwhelms me—a reminder of home, and it makes me think of my little sister far too much. I assumed I'd panic because of it, but instead, I feel comforted. My therapist has ingrained it in my head by now that reminders of her aren't always bad. They can be good, too.
My tears soak her sweater, and then I'm bombarded by my father, who wraps his arms around both of us and holds us like a tightly packed unit. It's been years since we've done this.
It's not until I pull myself together that I realize Connor is still standing behind me. I wipe my nose with the sleeve of my jacket and say, "Mom, Dad, this is Connor, the guy I've been telling you about." Because our phone calls have become a weekly thing now, and Connor is the main topic of discussion more often than not.
Growing up, my family never said they wouldn't approve if I brought a white man home, but they always emphasized how important Black love is. I've never told them what Connor looked like, partly due to the fear of them not accepting us, but those fears vanish when my mom throws him into a hug of her own. "Thank you," she chokes out. "Thank you for bringing our girl back home."
Connor smiles, his eyes softening over my mom's shoulder when his eyes meet mine. "It wasn't all me," he says. Liar. I'd never be here with them if it wasn't for him. "She put in a lot of hard work to get here, so I can't take all the credit."
My father claps him on the back and jerks his head to follow them inside. He and Connor take our suitcases up to the guest room we're staying in, and while we wait for them to return, my mom hums a happy tune, dragging different ingredients out of the fridge. "He's handsome," she says, wiggling her brows at me.
