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She's not some woman I met at a bar or someone I can take out a few times and never see again if things don't work out.

She's Beckett's sister.

She's Coach's daughter.

She's the girl who used to sit in the stands with a paperback while Beckett and I practiced, pretending she wasn't paying attention to anything happening on the ice.

And now she's sitting on my couch, wearing my jersey, smiling because I asked her to attend the Gala with me Sunday… as my date.

I should probably explain what she's walking into.

Tell her there'll be photographers. That someone will inevitably ask questions. That showing up together might get people talking. But then she looks at me with that smile, and I can't bring myself to make something that should be simple feel complicated.

I asked her because I want her there. Whatever happens after that, I'll deal with it.

She sets her plate on the coffee table, then takes mine and puts it beside hers.

"What are you doing?"

"Whatever I want. It’s my birthday remember?”

Before I can answer, she's climbing into my lap, settling her knees on either side of my hips. I don’t dare tell her that it’s just after midnight. She deserves a little more time in her birthday bubble.

We both do.

My hands find her waist automatically.

"Becks."

"What?" She looks almost shy.

I glance at her mouth. "You're making it really hard to be responsible."

"Then stop trying so hard."

She curls her fingers into my shirt and kisses me. She tastes like dark chocolate, and it may be my new favorite flavor.

Fuck, I don't stand a chance.

I pull her closer, forgetting the cake, the gala, and every good reason I've spent years keeping my distance.

Somewhere on the coffee table, my phone starts vibrating.

I ignore it.

It stops.

Then starts again.

Delaney pulls back just enough to glance toward the sound.

"Someone really wants you."

Not half as much as I want you.

I reach for the phone, intending to silence it.

DECLAN BECKETT.