movement. Oh, how her heart had raced as so many wonderful, conflicting emotions zipped through her. Happiness. Excitement. The first tug of sexual longing.
And fear. The realization that her feelings for him were too much. Too big. That they’d take over her life, cause her to be stupid, to forget who she was. That he’d break her heart.
Right again.
“It’s the tool belt,” she said, not bothering to keep the flatness from her voice. “No man can resist it.”
He straightened and walked toward her, looking like some freaking model in his jeans—undoubtedly designer and expensive—and a V-neck, white T-shirt that clung to the hard planes of his chest. His hair, a sandy blond, was shorter than when she’d seen him last, which must have been a year...no, a year and a half ago.
Such a long time and yet, not long enough.
“It’s not the tool belt,” he murmured. He edged even closer, the toes of his sneakers bumping against her boots. “It’s the whole package.”
She rolled her eyes. “Please. I just threw up in my mouth.”
His mouth twitched but no smile softened his features. Golden stubble covered his cheeks and chin, and this close, she noticed the faint lines bracketing his eyes, the dark circles under them. He looked tired. And that hint of vulnerability, that glimpse of the boy he used to be, the one she’d adored, made him seem approachable and real.
But then she saw the new scar high on his right cheek, the faded one on his chin, and he went back to being the untouchable, megastar professional hockey player he’d become.
“Something I can do for you?” she asked, wishing he’d back the hell up already. “Or did you just stop by to practice your smarmy-creep act?”
“Smarmy? That hurts.”
“I doubt that. In order for someone to be able to hurt you, you’d have to care about what that person thought of you.”
Now he grinned, one of his slow, panty-melting smiles, and she found herself holding her breath, bracing against the full effect. Sweet God, it was even more potent, more devastating now than it’d been twelve years ago.
“You know how much your opinion means to me,” he said.
Yeah. Nothing.
Just as she meant nothing to him.
Her throat constricted. From breathing in the dust floating in the air, she assured herself. There was no other possible explanation.
Finally, thankfully, he stepped back and glanced around. Giving her time to catch her breath, to get her bearings.
“Is Bree here?” he asked.
“Not unless she’s finally managed to purchase Harry Potter’s Cloak of Invisibility online,” Maddie said, spreading her hands to indicate the large room. “Why?”
He sent her a bland look. “I’d like to see my daughter.”
Okay, if he wanted to get technical, he could claim paternity. There was no ignoring the fact that Bree had his DNA and, to Maddie’s endless annoyance, his eyes.
But in every way that counted, she was a Montesano. Maddie’s daughter. The best thing that had ever happened to her.
And the only reason she could never regret being with Neil.
“So who’s stopping you?” Maddie asked, hating that, even at five-nine, she had to tip her head back to maintain eye contact with him. “She’s probably just getting up. I’m sure you can catch her before she heads to soccer practice.”
He frowned. “She’s at home?”
“I believe I made that clear.”
“You left her home.” This time, it wasn’t a question. “Alone.”
“I’m not sure how alone she is seeing as how Pops and my parents live across the street—”
“Isn’t she a little...young to be home by herself?”
Pursing her lips, Maddie pretended to think that through. “Nope.”
“If you can’t find or afford a sitter—”
“Your financial planner deposits an obscenely large amount of money into my bank account each month. I’m pretty sure I can not only afford a sitter, but also a chauffeur, personal chef and full-time bodyguard. And still have cash left over.” She kept her tone mild. Reasonable. Seriously, someone should give her a medal for this unexpected deep well of patience she’d discovered because honestly, the man was getting on her last nerve. How dare he show up unannounced and question her decisions like this? “Bree doesn’t want or need a sitter. She’s eleven—”
“I know how old she is, Maddie.”
Yes. He did. But that didn’t mean he knew their daughter. Her likes and dislikes. How, for all her quiet sweetness, Bree could be as stubborn as her mother. And her father.
“Old enough,” she continued, “and responsible enough to get herself up in the morning, eat breakfast, do her chores and then