Page 17 of Defensive Desire

Stumbling to the kitchen, I flick on the little TV in the corner while the coffee brews—the good stuff, obviously, because it's early. Too early.

The local Iron Ridge channel displays a commercial, and my stomach drops when I hear that familiar deep voice talking about "rich, smooth flavor... with just a little kick at the end."

Oh God.

Logan's voice from our promotional video floods my tiny rooftop apartment, and my cheeks flush immediately.

I remember exactly how that voice affected me during filming. My nerves have been wound tight since that promo shoot made me realize just how much trouble I'm in with a certain six-foot-five defenseman.

How it made me think about things that had absolutely nothing to do with coffee. How it made me want to climb him like a tree right there in front of the cameras.

I've barely slept all week because I keep replaying that moment when his voice turned my insides to jelly. The way he looked at me like I was the only person in the room. The heat in his eyes when he called our coffee "bold" and "unforgettable."

Jesus, Emma. Get it together.

Catching a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror, I wince. Bags under my eyes, hair sticking up at impossible angles, skin that's seen better days.

Fantastic.

Just what I need when I'll be standing as the face of my brand all day in front of the entire town.

I throw on my favorite jeans and a soft knit sweater in forest green that should go with the whole Icehawks theme I'm bringing to this promo.

I slip on the boots that are comfortable but cute, perfect for a day spent on my feet at the local brewery where the event is being hosted.

As I load my car with supplies—coffee samples, homemade cinnamon muffins I stress-baked at midnight, branded cups, and my folding table—I can't help but wonder if Logan's been thinking about the filming too.

Or if I'm completely reading into everything and building castles in the air like I always do.

He's been busy with practice all week, only dropping by briefly yesterday to talk logistics about today's event. It was…professional. Distant. Nothing like the man who's made himself impossibly helpful around my shop for the past two months.

Maybe that was just good acting?

I take a deep breath of crisp Iron Ridge morning air, trying to calm my racing thoughts. The mountains loom majestically around us, snow dusting their peaks like powdered sugar on a latte.

You've got this, Emma. It's just a charity event. Where you're competing for your future. With Logan Kane. Who makes you forget how to breathe.

Yeah. I'm totally fine.

***

Iron Ridge Brewery sits at the edge of town like a rustic fortress, its weathered wood siding and large windows offering glimpses of gleaming copper fermentation tanks inside.

By the time I arrive, the parking lot is already buzzing with volunteers setting up for the annual charity festival that benefits both the fire department and various town projects.

Red and white balloons mark the entrance, and I can see Icehawks partnerships scattered throughout the booths, eachtrying to make their mark for judges who'll be walking around all day.

I haul my cart from the car, immediately regretting my decision to pack everything at once.

The damn thing has a wobbly wheel that keeps veering left like it's trying to escape, and I'm doing this awkward dance trying to keep my muffins from sliding off the top as I hit every bump imaginable.

"Come on, you piece of—" I mutter.

Then, just as I gain control of the stupid cart, a scruffy little dog with mismatched ears and the energy of a caffeinated toddler makes a beeline straight for my tray of muffins.

"Oh God, I'm so sorry!"

A bright voice calls out as someone tugs on the dog's leash.