Chapter 2
The first thing I noticed when the hockey players arrived was the sheer size of them. It was like someone had walked into a sporting goods store, swept their arm across the shelf labeled Extra Large Humans, and said, “I’ll take them all.” Broad shoulders, towering frames, and an air of “I can probably bench press your car” followed them in like an aura. Even the tiny porch seemed to groan under their collective weight, and honestly, it might’ve been right to complain.
The second thing I noticed was him.
“Wow,” the tallest one muttered, his tone dripping with so much sarcasm it might as well have been an Olympic sport. His eyes swept across the worn floral wallpaper, the vintage coat rack leaning for dear life under their puffy jackets, and the scuffed wooden floorboards that had seen better centuries. He nodded slowly, the smirk forming on his lips a deliberate insult. “Quaint.”
Oh, we were not starting with that.
I crossed my arms over my chest and took a step forward. “Quaint,” I repeated, injecting the word with as much venom as I could muster. “Isn’t that just a polite way of saying ‘too small’?”
His gaze snapped to me, and for a moment, I regretted opening my mouth. Dark hair that was somehow both messy and perfect fell over his forehead like he’d just rolled out of bed, but only after consulting a team of stylists. His jawline was sharp enough to cut glass, and his smirk said, I’ve heard it all before, but please, continue.
“Not at all,” he said smoothly, his tone carrying that obnoxious blend of politeness and condescension that only some people can master. “I just meant it’s... charming.”
“Charming,” I echoed, deadpan. “Right. Well, welcome to Twillingate, population: us, a few fishermen, and a few disgruntled seagulls.”
“Isla!” Mom’s voice shot out from the hallway, sharp and clear like a whistle at the start of a game.
I ignored her, keeping my gaze locked on him. If he wanted to play this game, I wasn’t about to let him win. His smirk deepened, like he’d already decided this wasn’t worth the effort but was happy to let me try anyway.
“Graham,” one of the other players said, stepping forward to shove him lightly on the shoulder. Blond and broad-shouldered, he gave off major golden retriever energy and had a grin that suggested he found this whole exchange hilarious. “Don’t scare off the hostess before we’ve even unpacked.”
Graham. Of course, his name would be something infuriatingly crisp and confident. It suited him perfectly—like he came out of the womb with a perfect game face and a copy of How to Be Annoyingly Self-Assured.
“I’m not scaring anyone,” Graham said, his voice calm but with a flicker of amusement as his eyes shifted back to me. “Just making an observation.”
“Oh, we love observations here,” I said, forcing a sugary sweet smile. “Especially the unsolicited kind. Really keeps things exciting.”
Goldie practically doubled over laughing. “Dude, I told you small-town girls have bite. You didn’t believe me.”
“I think it’s just a lot of bark,” Graham quipped, his gaze still fixed on me. “No offense.”
“None taken,” I shot back sweetly. “I can’t be offended by an opinion that means nothing to me.”
“Isla!” Mom’s voice rang out again, this time with that firm edge that promised consequences if I didn’t behave.
Goldie clapped Graham on the back, his laughter still echoing through the hallway.
“She’s got you there, man. If you don’t keep that smart mouth of yours in check, you’re not gonna make many friends out here.”
“I’ll take my chances,” Graham said dryly, though the smirk tugging at his lips had softened, almost grudgingly. He glanced around the entryway again, his gaze lingering on the small details like he was reassessing. “Honestly, it’s not bad. Cozy, even.”
“Cozy,” I repeated, my voice thick with sarcasm. “Another word for ‘too small.’ Go on, keep ’em coming. I’ll start a collection.”
This time, he didn’t reply with words. Instead, he just looked at me—one of those deliberate, infuriating looks that was somehow amused and challenging all at once, like he was waiting to see what I’d do next.
I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction.
Turning on my heel, I stalked off toward the kitchen, leaving him and his smirk behind. If Mom wanted me to be nice, I’d do it her way: by serving these guys tea and cookies until they either loved me or left.
But as I started pouring cups of tea, I couldn’t help but replay the moment in my head. That look. That smirk. And his stupid, smug, perfectly Graham way of saying, “This is going to be fun.”
It was going to be something, all right.
