morning, he moved as quietly as he could, not wanting to disturb the other residents of the house. He grimaced as the stairs creaked with his weight.
It was at times like this that he wondered if he’d made a mistake moving into 14 Valentine Place. Although it afforded him plenty of privacy, he’d been reluctant to accept Leonie Donovan’s offer to rent the third floor of the house, because he worried that his irregular hours might disturb her other tenants.
She’d had no such reservations. Not that she would have expressed them if she had. Leonie had been like a second mother to him most of his life. As a teen he’d eaten just as many meals at her house as he had at his own. That’s why, when he’d been traded to the Minnesota team, she’d been one of the first people he’d contacted.
“Shane is going to be so happy you’re coming home,” she’d gushed when he’d announced his return, hugging him as if he were one of her own children.
So far he’d only seen Shane once—the day he’d moved into the house. They’d been the best of buddies as kids, but now it was evident that their lives had gone in very different directions. Shane’s life centered around his wife and son. Quinn’s life was hockey. Not that Shane wasn’t still interested in talking about the sport, but Quinn could see that the passion they’d once shared as kids was now a thing of the past.
He didn’t understand it. Nothing had ever come close to replacing the love he had for the game of hockey. There was nothing like the sound of cold, hard steel cutting through ice, the clash of sticks sending the puck gliding across the rink, and the cheers of the crowd urging him on.
Now the sound he heard was a loud thud, thud, thud. A thick glass mug that had been tucked in the side pouch of his duffel bag tumbled onto the floor, falling down the stairs like an errant hockey puck. It was a souvenir molded into the shape of a western boot. The mug had been given to him by Smitty, the young goalie who’d bet him that he couldn’t shut down the shooters on the opposing team. Quinn had won the bet and the goalie had refilled the heavy glass half a dozen times as they’d sat in the bar celebrating the team’s victory.
That had been on day one of their road trip. Today was day five and Quinn still had the mug. It had been dropped numerous times and knocked off several hotel tables, but nothing had caused it to break. As solid as a rock was how Smitty had described it, which was why he’d insisted Quinn take it home with him. It was how the goalie viewed Quinn—able to take a heck of a beating and not break.
Now the glass boot was once again tumbling along the floor. Any hope that its clumping wouldn’t awaken his neighbors vanished when a light appeared beneath a door. Quinn knew he’d disturbed someone on the second floor.
Within seconds a door opened. Staring at him with a startled look on her face was a woman. She wore a long-sleeved white T-shirt and a pair of red pajama bottoms that had tiny penguins all over them. Her blond hair hung in total disarray around her shoulders. Looking as if she’d just been awakened from a deep sleep, she stood in the doorway, her feet bare.
Leonie had told him a new tenant had moved into Maddie’s old apartment. What his landlady hadn’t told him about the woman was that she was a sight for sore eyes. Not that she was beautiful in a Hollywood sort of way, because she wasn’t. What she had was a refreshingly natural look. His mother used to use the term “plain pretty,” and he’d never understood how someone could be plain and pretty, but now he knew what she meant.
“What are you doing?” she asked in a voice still husky with sleepiness, but also carrying a note of alarm.
“I’m sorry. I was on my way upstairs and I dropped something.”
“What?”
“A mug. It’s at the bottom of the stairs,” Quinn answered, trying to figure out why it was that when she spoke he had the feeling they’d already met.
She eyed the duffel bag over his shoulder suspiciously, then she focused on his face and grimaced. “Ooh. Your eye!”
He knew his skin had darkened to a motley black and blue. “It looks worse than it feels.” He moved closer to her. “I know we haven’t met before, but you look familiar.”
Self-consciously, she pushed her hair out of her eyes, then offered him her hand. “I’m Dena Bailey.”
“Quinn Sterling.” He took the soft hand in his. It was warm.
“Oh, of course.” As if it suddenly registered who he was, she said, “Quinn Sterling, my neighbor.” A tiny smile of embarrassment made her cheeks dimple. “You donated the hockey stick.”
“I did.”
“Thank you.” She shuffled her feet either in nervousness or because the floor was cold.
“You’re welcome,” he said with a smile meant to put her at ease.
“That stick was a very popular item.”
“I’m glad.” He watched her, trying to gauge her reaction to learning his identity. He’d been a professional hockey player long enough to know that being Quinn Sterling could bring out the phoniness in a woman. So far, this woman didn’t appear to have a fake bone in her body. “How long have you lived here?”
“Not quite a month. Why?”
“I’m surprised we haven’t run into each other before now.”
“I’m not here much,” she told him, then quickly added, “because of my work—I’m a graphic designer.”
Leonie may have told him that but he didn’t remember. Come to think of it, he hadn’t paid much attention when she’d talked about the new tenant and her request for an autographed hockey stick. Now he wished he had.
Dena stifled a yawn, then said, “I’m sorry. You’re really going to have to excuse me. I have to be at work at seven tomorrow and it is late.”
So much for his concern that she might be a groupie eager to get to know him. “I’m sorry I woke you.”
“It’s all right.” She dismissed his apology with a flap of her hand, then started across the hall.
“Isn’t your apartment behind you?”
She paused. “Yes, but the bathroom isn’t,” she answered. “Krystal and I share.”
Bathroom. That was it. Now he knew where he’d seen her. The night of Maddie and Dylan’s wedding, she was the woman he’d seen in the men’s room at the hotel. “Were you at Dylan’s wedding?”
Briefly her eyes widened, then she narrowed them again in a slumberous pose. “Yes, I was. Were you?”
“You don’t remember seeing me there?”
She gave him a blank look. “Do you remember seeing me?”
“Oh, yeah,” he drawled, unable to keep the smile from spreading across his face. “You are not a woman a man forgets, Dena Bailey.”
He could see the compliment made her uncomfortable. She didn’t say another word but padded across the carpeted hallway into the washroom. He was tempted to wait for her, but judging by the way she’d looked at him, he didn’t think she’d appreciate finding
