laughter might have. “This is better than Gideon’s survey.”
“It’s just a thing I do. It doesn’t mean anything.” There were no more dishes to put away. No more chores to hide behind.
“What’s my score?” There was a teasing note to his voice, but there was also an underlying platform of seriousness.
Her hands knotted in the tea towel.
He slowly unwound the damp white material and replaced it with his now-dry hands. “Nora.”
She stared at their hands, reminded of that night and of something she hadn’t recalled, something she’d forgotten: his tenderness. “I don’t actually keep score,” she said, still in a place that was half memory, half here-and-now. “I give points when a man does something I like or admire, and I take points away when he does something I don’t.”
“My score, Nora.” Resignation. He knew what was coming.
His deficit shouldn’t have made her feel guilty. He was the one who’d run out on her. But there was his touch, his gentle smile, his broken dreams and his falling in love with Zoe.
“You don’t have a score.” She was a horrible liar.
His thumbs stroked the backs of her hands, an odd contrast to his jaw hardening beneath that scruffy dark beard. “I want a number.”
“You don’t have a score because...” She shouldn’t tell him. They were getting along so well. Civility would help her negotiate child support. But a small part of her wanted him to know—with certainty—that his leaving had hurt her. “Because the amount of points you lost when you sneaked out the door is astronomical. I just can’t trust a man like that.” But she wanted to.
She expected Coop to release her. She expected him to turn away and scoff. She didn’t expect him to pull her close, to look deep in her eyes or to press his whisker-fringed lips softly against hers.
She hadn’t expected him to poke holes in her resolve to raise Zoe alone. But he did, with one too-brief kiss.
His point deficit was erased. Its use invalidated. The point system broken.
Coop stepped back. “I don’t care about points or the past.” He spoke in a low voice, one that set aside pride to make way for truths. “I’m responsible. And I won’t run scared again. I could be responsible for—”
“Don’t say it.” Despite her words, she backed into the corner of the kitchen, waiting to hear what would next come out of his mouth.
“Stay, Nora.” His gaze was guarded. His words as solemn as a wedding vow. “Stay until you’re due back at work. Being a new mom is hard. Give me a chance to...to...spoil you a little.”
To love you a little.
That was what Nora heard him say.
But she wasn’t interested in loving a little. She’d had that with her dad.
And so she turned away.
But she didn’t turn him down.
“I HAVE AN IDEA for your questionnaire,” Coop said to Ty and Gideon the night after he’d kissed Nora.
The snow had let up but bus service had yet to resume. Nora had said nothing more about staying or going. Coop had told her the short version of his adult life, but he hadn’t confessed the matchmaking was a bet. She’d chalk that up to one more bad behavior he shared with her dad. She’d dock him points. And he needed those points to qualify as dad material.
Coop rubbed his gritty eyes and scanned the bar patrons. “Let’s ask them how they’ve been disappointed in love.”
“Let me count the ways.” Ty stared down a tall glass of ice water. “You’ll blow up Gideon’s program for real this time.”
“I agree with Ty,” Gideon said. “I can’t just ask an open-ended question. I need a check box. A short list of check boxes.”
“Why do you love Alaska?” Coach moved toward the kitchen carrying a tray of dirty glasses and empty snack bowls. “That’s easier to answer than the reasons for a broken heart. And you’ll need to type that up when you lose this bet.”
“He’s right.” Gideon sounded defeated.
“He’s not. We’re not losing.” Coop showed them his phone and an article he’d found online. “Here are ten traits of a heartbreaker.”
Ty leaned in for a closer look. “Too quick to make a connection with you. Doesn’t call back after he scores. Can’t remember your name after he buys you a drink. Doesn’t remember you when he sees you again.” Ty gave Coop an assessing look. “This could be you.”
Coop tried to brush off Ty’s conclusion. “It could be any of us.”
Ty and Gideon shook their heads.
Okay, it was most likely Coop. Self-awareness sucked.
“I can’t predict a man’s behavior,” Gideon pointed out. “And no man will admit to being a jerk.”
“I will,” Coop said, ignoring their dropping jaws. He couldn’t be the only one remorseful about the past. “Where are we with the flyers for this weekend’s ATV social?”
“I put some up at the grocery store and the Laundromat.” Gideon stared at Coop’s cell phone, sounding distracted, which Coop took to mean the wheels in his brain were starting to spin.
“Ice rink. Sporting-goods store,” Ty said. “But they aren’t working other than to bring people in to see what madness we’ll undertake next.”
Coop had no idea what madness they’d do next.
“We’ve had about nine people sign up. Mostly guys,” Gideon lamented. “For this to work, we need bachelorettes.”
Coach came out of the kitchen and stopped in front of them. “I used to enjoy running this place with no one but my cousin Rafe and me. If you’re going to consider this your home base, you need to help out.” He handed Ty a roll of paper towels and a spray bottle of disinfectant. “Table four needs a wipe down.”
“Why don’t you hire someone?” The way Ty’s chin was jutting, Coop bet Ty had more to say. He used to trash-talk with the best of them, but the former goalie was being civil.
“Because in three weeks you’ll lose the bet and business will return to slow and steady. You and half the male population in this town will still be single.”
“You might be surprised,” Ty said tightly.
“Highly unlikely.” Coach laughed and returned to the kitchen, but his lack of faith in them hovered overhead like a black rain cloud above Sky Hawk Mountain.
“I’d love to prove him wrong.” Gideon wasn’t one to start a fight. With a scowl and a determined edge to his tone,
