Parental Guidance (A Hot Hockey Romantic Comedy) Read online

  “Well, my life does depend on my ability to work hard if I want a roof over my head and food in the fridge.”

  “Okay, I’ll give you that.” Gemma nodded in agreement. “You’re one of the best miniatures artisans in Harbor City. It’s gonna happen for you. I know you’re going to break out.”

  “I love you for thinking that, but you’re the only one who does.”

  She poured another shot for both of them. “Then the rest are idiots.”

  They drank to that. Then they drank to true love—well, Gemma did. Zara drank to her good luck to never have that particular curse befall her. Then they drank to Gemma’s brand-spanking-new engagement. Within the hour, they were giggling like they always had together.

  “Oh my God, you won’t believe what my dad’s latest get-rich-quick scheme is.” Her dad was a legend in their neighborhood for being the greatest guy with a million plans, none of which ever panned out. She loved the man almost as much as she hated seeing him go off on another quixotic adventure to line his pockets. Growing up as Jasper Ambrose’s daughter would have been amazing if it hadn’t been for the fact that their rent money always seemed to disappear in a multilevel marketing scheme, or drinks for all at the neighborhood pub when his pony came in first, or training for a job that was going to be huge in the future like becoming a pig whisperer. “He’s decided that he’s going to be a character actor. The fact that he has no experience? A minor molehill. The real problem is that he needs to get on TV to earn his Screen Actors Guild card, and—get this—he wants me to do this online dating reality TV thing where parents pick out their kid’s date and then offer advice about finding true love. Can you imagine? I need another shot.”

  “It’s not a bad idea.”

  “More tequila?” She poured them both a half shot. “I agree.”

  “No, the dating thing,” Gemma said. “You should totally do it.”

  Zara snort-giggled. “Not gonna happen.”

  “This is a total win-win here.” Gemma tossed back her shot. “Your dad will get his SAG card, and you’ll get to go out on five fabulous dates with a somewhat normal human being.”

  “We both know I don’t have that kind of luck. He’d probably be some distracted dreamer just like my dad.” She took her shot, the tequila burning its way down to her belly. “Hard pass.”

  “I can get you in the same room with Helene Carlyle.” Gemma did a little shimmy dance move across the living room with Anchovy, obviously thinking this was a fun new game, following close behind with an oversize tennis ball in his mouth. “I have tickets to the Harbor City Friends of the Library charity gala, and you can be my plus-one, but only if you agree your dating life needs help and do your dad a solid.”

  And then, the next thing Zara knew, Gemma had her phone and was downloading the Bramble dating app. When she tried to grab her phone back, her friend easily held it out of reach. That was the problem with being barely five feet tall and being besties with an Amazon.

  “Gimme my phone,” she said, stretching up and reaching for it. “I don’t want to date. Anyone. Ever. I like being in full and complete control of my life.”

  Gemma held the phone high and shot her a questioning look, the tequila-induced haze in her eyes giving her a comical look. “Don’t you want to meet someone like Hank and fall in love?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “What do you want, then?”

  She didn’t even have to think about it. “To have Helene Carlyle fall in love with my work.”

  In addition to being one of the richest women in Harbor City, Helene Carlyle was also the metro area’s biggest collector of miniatures. If she signed off on someone’s work, then the entire art world paid attention. And that meant showings in galleries and private commissions. That, in turn, meant she would be able to create her art, which she knew full well wasn’t paying the bills as opposed to creating the commercial miniatures that she sold in her Etsy shop which is what kept a roof over her head now, and use the resulting cash to turn her single Etsy shop into a miniatures-making empire. If everything went according to plan—and she’d make damn sure it would—then she could finally put to bed the nagging worry that it was only a matter of time before she’d miss a payment and the debt collectors would be at her door.

  “Zara, I love you, but you are going to put yourself in an early grave if you don’t allow yourself to have a little fun every once in a while.” Gemma sat down beside her, put the phone on the coffee table, and draped an arm around her shoulders. “I’m seriously worried about you.”

  “You don’t understand what it’s like. If you grew up the way I did, you’d be all about work, too.”

  To make sure the lights stayed on. To guarantee eviction notices didn’t appear on the door. To not open the fridge and find only a few ketchup packets. Jasper Ambrose might have been the life of the party and the entire neighborhood’s favorite charming dreamer with a million ideas for how to make a billion, but that hadn’t made living with him any easier. She loved him—everyone did—but she couldn’t shake that feeling even now that the debt collectors would come knocking at any moment and she’d lose everything.

  “I know your dad pulled a number on you. I was there to watch a lot of it,” Gemma said, her voice wavering with emotion and probably tequila. “However, you can’t let your past rule your future. You’re an amazing person, and no, you don’t need a man to complete you, but you also can’t look to work to be the only thing that defines you.” She shifted on the couch, turning Zara’s shoulders so she had to look her friend straight in the eyes. “You, Zara Ambrose, are so much more than teeny tiny alligators—even if they’re the best teeny tiny alligators in the whole wide world. Go out there, meet people, maybe get laid for the first time in forever, and let yourself have fun for once. It doesn’t have to be for the rest of eternity, just five dates.”

  Tomorrow she’d probably be blaming the tequila, but at this moment, Gemma’s outrageous plan made sense. “You’re killing me, Smalls.”

  Gemma smiled at the use of her grade-school nickname. “But you know I’m right, Biggie. Your dad’s a mess, but he’s a good guy. You can help him out, and who knows, this just might be the dream that comes true. Plus, you’ll get to meet Helene Carlyle and maybe even have some fun of the orgasmic variety.”

  Yeah, that wasn’t going to happen. Orgasms that she didn’t make happen herself—with or without a partner present—never happened. Literally. She had the world’s most shy clit ever that never responded to anything but her own fingers and vibe. Still, if she knew going in that it wouldn’t be love or climaxes, she’d at least be prepared. Plus, she was getting two things she really wanted: meeting Helene Carlyle and helping her dad get his SAG card.

  “Fine.” Zara held out her hand, palm upward, knowing she’d been beat. “My phone.”

  Dating was so far down her priority list that it came after cleaning the dust bunnies under her dresser and defrosting the freezer. However, if going out on five dates could get her what she really wanted and could make her dad happy and got her in to see Helene Carlyle? She’d suffer through listening to some guy ramble on and on about himself over never-ending breadsticks.

  Gemma swiped the phone off the coffee table and gave it to her. Since she’d already filled out most of the personal information, all that was really up to Zara was to finish the introductory part. Thumbs hovering over the screen, she tried to figure out what to say. She wasn’t looking for love. She had no interest in finding forever. Gemma wasn’t wrong about the getting-laid part, though—it had been too long. Waaaaaaaaay too long.

  However, the last thing she wanted was to play games or deal with someone who really was looking for Miss Right. She might be a workaholic, but she wasn’t a bitch, and she wouldn’t do that to someone. How in the world was she supposed to finesse that into an introduction?

  And that’s when inspiration flicked her on the nose. If she was going to do this, she was going to be 100 percent honest.
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  Assholes Need Not Apply

  I don’t believe fairy tales of happily ever after, but are a few not-self-made orgasms with a guy who makes my heart race and isn’t a total asshole really just a pipe dream??? I work hard and hardly play. Now I’m ready for a little—really, a lot of—fun with the kind of guy who isn’t a total lost cause and can clear out the cobwebs in my vagina. Too honest? Too bad. Life is too short for jerks who don’t know their way around a lady garden. Forget being Miss Right. I just want to be Miss Right for Five Dates.

  She handed her phone over to Gemma, whose eyebrows went higher the more she read until they were completely hidden behind her bangs.

  “If no one answers, Gemma”—and who would respond to that kind of ad—“you still have to take me as your plus-one.”

  Her best friend nodded. “Deal.”

  They sealed their agreement with a pinkie shake and another shot of tequila. And by the time Zara curled up in bed hours later, she had almost convinced herself she hadn’t just made a huge mistake.

  Chapter Two

  Tequila was dead to Zara. So was Anchovy. Okay, not really on that second one, but her Great Dane really needed to find a new favorite game that didn’t involve hiding one—and only one—of her shoes somewhere in the apartment.

  “I buy you the good dog food and this is the thanks I get?”

  The dog woofed, tilted his head, and—she’d swear to it on a Bible—grinned at her.

  “This stupid date isn’t my idea of fun, either, but I gotta go, which means I need two shoes and you have to go get your leash.”

  At that last word, Anchovy galloped past the couch, around the large kitchen island, and to the entryway hall tree, where he stuffed his face in the basket sitting on its bench seat and came out with his leash between his teeth. Then, as if the beast knew exactly what needed to happen next, he trotted over to the island, raised himself up on his hind legs, planted his front paws on the counter, and looked down into the sink.

  “Of course.” Zara did the one-foot-in-a-four-inch-heel-and-one-not off-kilter walk to the island and grabbed her other shoe out of the sink. “Hiding my shoes is no way to deal with your separation anxiety, Anchovy.”

  He just wagged his uncropped tail hard enough that the thump of it against her ass was like being spanked by a tree limb. The vet had warned her about Great Danes’ “happy tail” when she’d shown up at his office with Anchovy as an abandoned puppy, but she hadn’t been able to bring herself to have the vet cut it short. That made her penchant for minimalist decorating at home even better because otherwise any knickknacks three feet off the ground would get whacked off the shelves.

  “Come on, baby,” Zara said as she slipped her bare foot into her shoe. Her toes slid past a patch of wet. Ewwwwwww. Maybe she would be lucky for once and that was the result of a dripping faucet and not dog slobber. She glanced over at the sink, where there wasn’t a drop of water to be found. Gross. “You’re going to Aunty Gemma’s.”

  More excited tail wagging that grew into full-body wiggles while she was trying to clip the leash to his collar. It took a few seconds, but she finally got it on. Then she and Anchovy were hustling out the door, into the building’s elevator, and out onto the sidewalk of her busy neighborhood. Gemma lived two blocks down in an apartment above a coffee shop. She met Zara and Anchovy at the side door that led to the stairwell to her place. Damn. Zara had been hoping to do a little gossip delay. That wasn’t going to happen, based on the do-not-fuck-with-the-timeline look on her bestie’s face.

  Anchovy gave a happy woof as Gemma took possession of his leash. “Go, you are late.”

  “You’re bossy,” Zara said, but she was already turning away.

  “Takes one to know one,” Gemma said with a laugh. “Go.”

  Without any other choice, she did. She hurried down Eighteenth Avenue, zipping past the tourists who insisted on slow rolling down the sidewalk. The Harbor City fall humidity—that always had a tinge of urine scent to it—had frizzed out her hair already. Not that she cared what her date thought of her, but getting a brush through it after it reached a certain level would be a nightmare. Determined not to let that happen, she wrapped her hair up in a bun, securing it with the elastic band always around her wrist, as she speed-walked through the ever-thickening crowd.

  She was a half block away from her own personal Mt. Doom, AKA The Hummingbird Café, when she tried to pass a pair of tourists and her heel sank between the narrow slats of a metal grate. There was a half second of oh shit before she went down, her knees banging against the metal. Thank God she’d decided to go with the jeans she’d already been wearing or her knees would have been aching more than her twisted ankle.

  “Oh my God, are you okay, honey?” one of the slow-moving tourists asked, her voice concerned.

  Sucking in a deep breath, Zara blinked back the pain and started to get up. “I’m good.”

  “Those shoes almost killed you,” said the other tourist, who going by his body language was married to the slow mover number one. “How y’all walk around in those things is beyond me.”

  “I’ve been known to run in them.”

  “Good for you, honey.” The woman reached out and offered her arm to help steady Zara as she stood on one foot and reached down to yank the embedded heel out of the grate. “Don’t listen to Steve. He’s been known to wear Crocs.”

  It took the mother of all tugs, but Zara freed her shoe. “Thank you.”

  “No worries,” the woman said. “Are you gonna be able to walk in that? It looks a little worse for wear.”

  The stranger wasn’t wrong. The sides of the heel were all scratched up, but everything looked to still be attached. Finally, the fates might not be completely fucking with her.

  “I appreciate it, but I’ll be fine.” She slid the shoe on, making sure to stand on the sidewalk proper instead of the grate before letting go of the woman’s arm. “I’m meeting someone in the café.”

  “Oh good, this city is too big to be alone in,” the woman said as she slipped her arm through the crook of her husband’s, and they turned and strolled down the block as the early evening pedestrian traffic swerved around them.

  Even though her ankle ached as she limped toward the café, her mood almost improved with the knowledge that delicious carbs were only a block away. Her expectations for this date were lower than a Chihuahua’s stomach, but her excitement at a basket of never-ending breadsticks was at peak levels. A woman had to have priorities.

  Once inside, she made a beeline to the hostess stand—well, as much as she could with her current injury. She scanned the restaurant. Lots of guys who looked like they used too much cologne and spent half their paychecks on hair products.

  “Just one?” the hostess asked as she picked up a menu.

  “I’m meeting someone,” Zara said, heat rising in her cheeks at having to say the words out loud. “His name’s Caleb.”

  “Oh yeah.” The hostess fanned her face. “He’s already here, and let me tell you, you’re a lucky woman. He’s right”—the hostess pointed across the restaurant to a table in the back—“over there.”

  Zara followed the woman’s direction and froze.

  Her date definitely fell into the broad-shouldered, muscular, giant category but was saved from being too damn perfect by a nose that looked like it had decided to go in one direction and then had changed its mind at the last minute. However, there was no denying it. Her date was hot, not in a male-model way but in a superhero movie villain way—like Loki if he had a gym membership and actually used it.

  The water she’d downed before leaving the house sloshed around in her stomach. There was no turning around in the middle of her holy-shit-what-was-I-thinking panic. “Are you sure?”

  The hostess nodded. “Said his name was Caleb and he was meeting a date.”

  Why was she doing this? Zara pressed her hand to her stomach in a vain attempt to calm herself and grabbed ahold of her sense of self-control with both hands. S
ure, it was a white-knuckle grip, but she had a plan. The fact that her date was hot didn’t change anything. She was in it for the invite and her dad’s SAG card. She could do this.

  Like a brave but tragic movie heroine about to get her head whacked off by a guillotine, Zara lifted her chin, stood up, and braced her shoulders.

  “Hey, Caleb,” the hostess hollered across the small restaurant. “What’s your date’s name?”

  A flash of embarrassed heat blasted up from Zara’s toes, strong enough that she was surprised flames didn’t engulf every individual freckle on her face (and there were enough of them that if someone squinted, she’d look like she actually had a tan for the first time in her life). And just when it seemed like it couldn’t get any worse, her date stood up and crossed the café. What would have taken her a minute with her beyond-short legs, he cleared in all of about five strides. He stopped near the hostess stand, and his gaze went lower and lower until it finally dropped enough to be level with her face. His smile faltered and then flattened before he seemed to recover with an upward curl of his lips that looked as practiced as it was insincere.

  “Zara?” he asked, sounding like he’d just been told the horrible news that his broccoli wasn’t going to be covered in delicious cheese sauce. “I’m Caleb.”

  She shifted her stance, wishing she could grow about five inches in five seconds. The move put more weight on her bum ankle, the sharp jolt of pain knocking her off-balance and right into the unyielding chest of her date.

  …

  Caleb was used to two-hundred-and-thirty-pound men on skates slamming him against the boards—when they were lucky enough not to be on the receiving end of one of his solid hits—so having a redhead who was small enough to fit in his hockey bag with room to spare fall into him didn’t even rock him back on his heels.

  He wrapped his fingers around her upper arms to help steady her as she regained her balance. “You okay?”

  “Fine, thank you.” Her chin went up and the color in her cheeks nearly matched the twenty bazillion peach freckles covering her face. “My heel got caught in a grate on the walk over.”