Page 70 of Bottles & Blades

“This is perfect,” Chrissy says. “I’ve always wanted to meet you, Brit.” She stands and rearranges the seats. It’s a tight squeeze, but we’ll fit.

And we do.

Though that’s mostly because both Stefan and Brit aren’t six-five and two-hundred and thirty pounds like a couple of the defensemen on the Gold.

“They have the best lemon chiffon cake you’ll ever taste,” Chrissy says, passing Brit and Stefan a menu.

I guess that makes my decision between the mousse and the cake.

“Personally,” Rory says, unleashing her smile on Stefan as Brit and Chrissy start talking hockey, “I think the chocolate mousse is better.”

Or not.

I slant a glance at Jean-Michel.

He’s watching Stefan.

And Stefan’s watching him right back.

Yikes.

So maybe dessert wasn’t such a good idea after all.

We walk outof the restaurant, bellies somehow even fuller than before.

The conversation hadn’t gone as badly as I expected, mostly thanks to Rory and Chrissy breaking the ice.

They were good at that—I experienced it at the cafe this afternoon and witnessed it again this evening.

Meaning that Stefan didn’t launch himself across the table and jab his fork into Jean-Michel’s jugular. It also meant that Chrissy and Brit spent the majority of the time in shop talk, while Rory coaxed Stefan into a terse conversation about his post-retirement career.

I watched.

Listened.

Spoke only when necessary.

But mostly sat and listened.

And it was fine, especially when Jean-Mi was his usual self—making sure I had enough to drink, got the dessert I wanted, held my hand, and generally watched out for me.

Then it was better than fine when Stefan glanced over at me and I got to watch the ice in his demeanor begin to melt.

Not stabbing in the jugular. No sharp words.

Watchful and cautious.

But murder thankfully off the table.

A breeze picks up as we turn for the parking lot, and I shiver, the chill of the spring evening just enough to make me wish for a coat.

And as though plucking that thought from my mind, Jean-Michel helps me into his jacket. “You good?” he asks softly.

“I’m good,” I say just as quietly. “Then again, I’m not the one with a man glaring at him for the last hour.”

He touches my cheek. “Stefan cares about you. That’s a good thing. I’m glad you have that.” His phone buzzes, and he pulls it out, glancing at the screen and wincing. “I’ll just be a minute, buttercup.”

“Take your time.”

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