“Nice meeting you too, Max,” she says softly, and is that a tiny hint of regret in her eyes?

Hmmmm. Can’t really tell but it doesn’t matter.

She’ll be seeing me sooner rather than later.

Chapter 4

Jules

“That will be seven dollars and thirty-two cents,” I tell the guy across the counter from me. I peg him as single, because no wedding ring first and foremost, but also because he’s purchasing a twelve-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon and that just screams of a lonely Friday night to me.

He hands me a ten and I make change, handing it to him with a smile.

Yes, a smile.

“Here you go, and have a great night,” I tell him with a grin that’s actually genuine and fueled by a little bit of peppy energy I seem to be oddly sporting only an hour before midnight.

Here I am, back at Whalen’s convenience store and gas station on the outskirts of Raleigh, going on my twelfth hour of work today not counting the time spent cleaning and cooking after I got home from Sweetbrier, and I actually feel a little giddy.

Maybe even euphoric.

And that’s simply from the fact that I’m back at this crappy job I’d lost two days ago. I’m so relieved not to have to worry about finding a new job, or how I’m going to manage things financially until I found a another job, that I’m actually fucking-over-the-moon happy to be back here.

The guy nods at me, stuffs his money in his back pocket and tucks the boxed twelve-pack under his arm. I watch him walk to the double glass doors, which automatically opens on the exit side just as he reaches it, and I can’t help the tiny smirk that comes to my mouth when I see Max Fournier on the other side.

He holds the door open for the sad single guy getting ready to get drunk tonight on cheap beer. Single guy does sort of a double take when he sees Max but Max isn’t paying attention. He’s actually sauntering in as if he owns the place.

“I was wondering when you’d be in,” I say with a pointed stare that I try to level as chastising but completely misses the mark.

“Well, wonder no more,” he says with an answering grin that is unapologetic. “I wanted to wait until things died down here. Glad to see you’re settled back in.”

“Yes, well, it was sort of hard to decline Chris’ offer when he called me yesterday all in a tizzy that the Max Fournier stopped into his store to pay him a visit and politely begged him to give me this job back.” My tone is dry, slightly disapproving, but he can tell by the sparkling tease in my eyes that I’m overjoyed to be back.

Max shrugs as if he did nothing special. “I don’t like to take advantage of my celebrity but this seemed like one of those times it was warranted.”

Indeed.

Yesterday, Max Fournier approached me in the Sweetbrier courtyard as I was on my lunch break and I really didn’t know what to do. I immediately recognized him and he was just as insanely gorgeous . . . like the type that took your breath away gorgeous. How could I forget that face from last week when he witnessed my near meltdown after the redneck-masking-tape-kid fiasco? Despite how tired I was, despite how stressed and worn down I was, I could not disregard his ruggedly handsome face or his wavy, stylishly messy brown hair with lighter brown streaks attesting to the fact this man liked being outdoors in the summer. Those wavy locks fell boyishly over his forehead, which highlighted a pair of amazing hazel eyes that were filled with kindness and sympathy as he watched me peel tape off Annabelle.

Yeah . . . I remembered him, and when he approached me yesterday I ogled the hell out of him those first few moments because I was so stunned to see him, it seemed like all my wits had melted away. Of course, by the time I’d gotten them back, he was being called away and caught me completely off guard by asking me out. My heart wanted to say yes, but my head was already saying no to him. It was just terrible timing.

So I was sad when he walked away, wondering how that might have played out had I not had the responsibility of the kids, and what opportunity had just passed me by. I tried not to think too hard on that because it would only make me feel guilty.

I always felt guilty anytime I imagine the what-ifs in my life.

While I recognized Max as being the guy from the gas station, I had no clue who he actually was. I was enlightened by Chris, who had left an urgent voice mail for me while I was working. When I got off duty from Sweetbrier and was in my beat-up old Maxima heading to the apartment, I called him back.

“It’s about time you called me,” Chris said urgently when he picked up.

“I’ll try to get by there today to get my check and give you the key,” I responded.

“Forget that,” he said impatiently. “You’ve got your job back. I know this is late notice for you today, so I’ve got tonight covered, but you can start back tomorrow night.”

“Huh?” was about as intelligent a response as I could muster.

“Girl, I had no idea you had friends in such high places,” he said in awe. “Here I was today, doing inventory while Jody worked the register for the lunch rush, and Max Fucking Fournier walks into my store.”

Max Fucking Fournier?

He deserves “fucking” as a middle name?

I didn’t want to appear stupid, so I just said, “Uh-huh.”

“I’m a huge fan of his, of course, and I about died. Walked right up to me . . . asked me to talk in private. You know . . . sort of man-to-man?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And well, he lobbied for me to give you your job back and I just couldn’t say no to him, you know?”

“Uh-huh.”

“So, you can come back tomorrow.”

“Uh-huh.”

I did have to listen to Chris ramble on and on about what a god Max Fournier is, and I heard words like goals against average and maybe something about a Stanley Cup, but I was so stunned that this man had the ability to command Chris that way, I was in overload. It was only after we hung up that I Googled Max on my phone and realized who in the hell he is.

Max Fournier is a professional hockey player and the goalie for our own Carolina Cold Fury.

His bio is impressive.

Twenty-seven years old and born in Montreal. He’s bilingual, speaking English and French-Canadian, and that explains what’s not quite an accent I’m detecting but more of a soft flow of his words together that hinted he might not be American. I hadn’t recognized it for what it was until I read that.