The first thing I notice is the smell.
It’s faint, but unmistakable—plastic, rubber, and…something else. Definitely not the lavender vanilla candles I’ve been burning all morning. I wrinkle my nose and look around the boutique, my hands perched on my hips. The place is coming together, slowly but surely, but there’s still so much left to do before the Harvest Festival runway show and my grand opening.
I glance at the front window where my display mannequin is standing proudly in one of my favorite designs—a floral wrap dress that’s both flattering and practical for everyday wear—to the office or on a date. The clothing racks are filled with dresses, skirts, and tops that I’ve spent weeks and months designing, then even more time going through fabrics with a local textile company, and everything is just about perfect.
Except for the giant pile of boxes stacked near the cash register.
I eye them warily. The last of the inventory I ordered for the grand opening should’ve arrived yesterday, but something tells me those boxes aren’t filled with the plus-size clothes I’ve poured my heart and soul into. I grab a box cutter from the counter and start slicing through the tape on the nearest one.
When I pull back the flaps, my stomach drops. “Helmets,” I say out loud to my empty retail space.
And not just any helmets.
Blue Ridge Buffalo hockey helmets. Piles of them, black and shiny, with the mountainous buffalo logo stamped on the side.
“Oh no, no, no,” I mutter, frantically opening the next box. More helmets. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Hockey season hasn’t even started yet.
I grab my phone from the counter and dial the number for the sporting goods store across the street. They’re the only ones who’d be expecting something like this. The phone rings once, twice—
Before it can pick up, the door to my boutique swings open with a jingle, and I look up, ready to greet my customer with a smile that says, welcome to Sweet Curves Boutique, where everything is fabulous and nothing is wrong. Nope. No helmets back here instead of my window showpieces.
But the smile freezes on my face.
The words die in my throat.
Because standing in the doorway, looking like he just stepped out of a sports magazine, is Jack Winters. The Jack Winters. Captain of the Blue Ridge Buffaloes, local celebrity, and known heartbreaker—though I’m pretty sure my heart just skipped a beat simply by looking at him.
He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with dirty blonde hair that looks like it was styled by the wind rather than any comb. His eyes are an icy blue, piercing, and framed by thick lashes that would make any woman jealous. And then there’s his smile—crooked, charming, and just a little bit mischievous.
He’s wearing a t-shirt that clings to his muscular chest in all the right ways and jeans that hang low on his hips. And even though he looks like he belongs on the ice, there’s something…warm about him. The kind of warmth that makes you want to curl up next to a fire with a cup of hot cocoa and never leave.
Or curl into his chest and stay there forever.
I swallow hard, suddenly hyper-aware of my own appearance—messy ponytail, no makeup, and my old paint-splattered leggings. Not exactly runway-ready.
“Uh, hi,” I manage to squeak out, my voice higher than usual.
“Hey,” he says, his voice deep and smooth, like velvet. “I might be in the wrong place, but I heard you’ve got something of mine.”
I blink, trying to process his words. “Something of yours?”
He nods, glancing at the pile of boxes. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure those helmets were supposed to be delivered across the street. Not exactly the kind of accessories you’d sell in a boutique, huh?” He looks at my star dress, but I can’t tell if he likes it or not.
I stare at him, my brain short-circuiting for a moment. Hockey helmets. Of course. I laugh—nervously, because I’m standing in front of the hottest guy in town and all I can think about is how I just opened a box of helmets instead of the gorgeous fall sweaters I was expecting.
“Right, yeah,” I say, trying to sound like I’ve got it together. “I was just about to call the store.” I quickly hang up the call that’s probably left a horrible message on the voicemail next door. “I don’t think they fit the vibe I’m going for here.”
He grins, and oh cheese-and-crackers, it’s even more devastating up close. “No? You don’t think helmets go with floral dresses?”
I laugh again, this time more genuinely. “Not unless you’re starting a new trend.”
He chuckles, taking a step closer, and I swear the temperature in the room rises a couple of degrees. “Well, I wouldn’t know much about fashion. But I do know those helmets belong to me—or at least to my uncle’s store.”
I nod, trying to focus on the conversation instead of the way his biceps flex as he moves. “Right. Of course. Let me get them for you.”
I step around the counter, but before I can reach the boxes, Jack moves toward them as well, and the next thing I know, a mighty crash echoes through the store.
The mannequin topples over, taking half the display beside it with it. Boots, scarves, and my favorite wide-brimmed hat go flying, and I just stand there, staring at the chaos in disbelief.
Jack freezes, his hands halfway outstretched like he’s trying to stop time. “Holy buffalo wings,” he says, his mouth barely moving.
For a moment, I’m speechless. I should be upset. I should be frustrated. But instead, I burst out laughing. The whole thing is so ridiculous—this gorgeous, perfectly put-together man knocking over my display like a clumsy puppy.
I mean, you should see him on the ice. It’s like poetry in motion. He’s always in the right place, and every move looks effortless.
Jack’s eyes widen, and then he starts laughing too, a deep, rumbling laugh that makes my heart skip all over again.
“I’m so sorry,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “I didn’t mean to…accost her.”
“It’s fine,” I say, still giggling. “Really. I’ll fix it later.”
He kneels down to start picking up the scattered accessories, and I follow suit, trying to calm my racing pulse. As we gather the mess, I can’t help but get a breath of his sexy cologne. Butter my biscuits, someone should make a candle of Jack Winters and sell it. I’d buy a whole warehouse of them.
He’s even more attractive up close, and there’s something about the way he moves—so effortlessly confident, like he’s used to owning every room he walks into. But there’s also a softness to him, a kind of vulnerability in the way he looks at me, like he’s not sure what to say next.
“I’m Jack, by the way,” he says, handing me a scarf that somehow got tangled in the mannequin’s arm.
“Poppy,” I reply, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “Poppy Brighton.”
“Poppy,” he repeats, and the way he says my name sends a little shiver down my spine. His voice is low, almost like a purr, and I find myself wondering what it would sound like if he said it again. And again. And then again—right after he kisses me.
“So,” he says, standing up and holding out a hand to help me up. I take it, and the moment our fingers touch, a spark shoots through me. I’m not imagining it. There’s definitely chemistry here. “How about I make it up to you for the mess I made?”
I blink, surprised. “Make it up to me?” I cock my hip. “How are you going to do that?”
He flashes me that crooked smile again. “I’m sure I can think of something.”
“You better think fast,” I say as I right the mannequin and start redressing her.
“How about this?” Jack’s eyes on me are heavy, and I can’t resist him. I look over, and he adds, “You let me take those helmets off your hands, and I’ll help you with whatever you need for the Harvest Festival.” He looks over to the window, his gaze coming right back to mine. “And your grand opening.”
I stare at him, trying to figure out if he’s serious. Jack Winters, star hockey player and local heartthrob, wants to help me—a fashion boutique owner—prepare for the Harvest Festival? And my grand opening?
It sounds like the setup for a bad rom-com. But he looks completely sincere, and there’s something about the way he’s looking at me—like I’m the only person in the room—that makes me want to say yes.
I tilt my head, considering him. “You want to help me with the fashion show?”
He shrugs, a playful glint in his eyes. “How hard could it be?”
I raise an eyebrow, crossing my arms. “You realize that might involve glitter, fabric, and maybe even some sewing, right?”
He chuckles, stepping closer. “I’ve survived worse.”
The air between us feels charged, and for a moment, I forget everything else—the helmets, the Harvest Festival, the mess on the floor. All I can think about is how close he is, how his eyes are locked on mine, and how my heart is racing like it’s about to win a NASCAR race.
“All right, Jack Winters,” I say, working hard to keep my voice steady. “You’ve got yourself a deal. But don’t blame me if you end up covered in sequins and tulle.”
He grins, and for a split second, I wonder if he’s going to kiss me. The thought sends a thrill racing through me, and I have to remind myself to breathe.
“I’ll take my chances,” he says, his voice low and teasing.
I swallow hard, trying to keep my composure. I’ve only just met this man, and already I’m picturing what it would be like to kiss him, to run my fingers through his messy hair, to feel those strong arms around me.
Get a grip, Poppy, I tell myself. You can’t fall for the local hockey star. He’s probably used to women throwing themselves at him, and I’m not about to be another name on his list.
But as he picks up one of the boxes of helmets and says, “I need your number,” I can’t help but think—maybe, just maybe, this could be different.
Maybe Jack Winters is different.
And as I rattle off my number and he types it into his phone, I realize one thing for sure: I’m in trouble.
Big trouble.
