Page 19 of Three Hockey Hotties

Linda gives a bark of approval.

Ten minutes later, the guys bang through the door into my kitchen like they do live here, tossing their jackets over the backs of the barstools that line the breakfast bar. Linda takes off on a jog and heads right to her favorite spot on the overstuffed chair by the fireplace.

Kane heads for the cupboard where the chips and cookies are kept, and Dash goes straight to the fridge.

I shrug out of my suit jacket, hanging it on the back of one of the chairs, and loosen my tie, then roll up my sleeves on my forearms, trying to get comfortable for this conversation about a woman who has me more knotted up than I’ve been about anything in longer than I can remember.

What the hell is going on with me? With them? With her?

Kane opens and slams four cupboards, which is an amazing accomplishment given that I have soft-close cabinetry, yet he somehow manages it. It slowly ratchets my annoyance higher and higher to where I am about to crack when he stomps into the walk-in pantry, then returns with a box of strawberry-flavored cereal.

He’s already got the top open and his hand buried inside. He takes a fistful of dry cereal and shoves it into his mouth, crunching and frowning as he takes a seat at the counter.

I stare at the box, then look up at my brother.

Surely that’s a coincidence, right? He just grabbed the first box off the shelf? He didn’t get the strawberry because of Abby, did he? Though I can’t be the only one who noticed her sweet strawberries-and-cream scent and the fact she was dressed from head to toe in pink.

After he swallows, he takes a deep breath, seeming to calm down a bit.

I quirk a brow. “You were just hungry?”

He takes another smaller handful. “No. Yes. I don’t know. I’m just feeling really worked up.”

Yes, and something strawberry-scented and flavored calmed him down.

That can’t be because of Abby. It can’t. That’s crazy.

But I find myself wanting to reach out and grab the box of cereal from him.

It’s certainly not cereal I eat. I stick with eggs and toast most mornings or a protein shake. All the sugary snacks in the house are Kane’s, including the fruit-flavored cereals with cartoon characters on the boxes.

But I suddenly have an intense craving for strawberry-flavored everything.

“So here’s the thing,” Kane says, his comment clearly directed at me. “We’re going to date her.”

I look from him to Dash, who is leaning against the counter next to the fridge, a bottle of Gatorade gripped tightly in his huge hand.

He also meets my gaze directly but doesn’t confirm or deny what Kane just said.

“When you say her, you’re referring to Abby?” I ask, that knot in my stomach pulling tighter.

Kane rolls his eyes. “Yes.”

“You said we. You’re both going to date her?”

The guys exchange a glance and then look back to me.

“Yes.”

This answer comes from Dash. It’s firm and gruff.

I look at him with surprise. He often defers to Kane in conversation, especially in negotiations and arguments. Not because he doesn’t have his own ideas and desires, but because he only expends the energy when it really matters.

So, Abby really matters.

That causes a thick curl of jealousy to twist through my gut.

I’m shocked and unhappy about that. I don’t want to feel jealous of my brothers. Of something that they’re clearly excited about. Something—someone—who could make them really happy.