“Do you have a special technique he should know about before he gives it a go?” I don’t have a clue how Jasper is keeping a straight face after delivering a line like that. Is this something they teach you in the NHL? Because I’d like to have that training.

“Excuse me for a moment,” Cade bites out in a strained voice before pushing away from the table and heading toward the front of the house. I can’t make out his facial expression. Not even a little bit. Is he sick? Is he pissed that this conversation is going on in front of his kid? Am I fired for not instantly giving Luke earmuffs?

“Hey, Luke,” I say, my voice strangled, “why don’t you tell everyone about our guitar lessons this week? I’m going to go check on your dad.”

I smile as politely as possible, refusing to glance at Summer. Because if I meet my best friend’s eye, I’m going to get the giggles.

Uncontrollable giggles. Totally impolite.

I can see her from my periphery, craning her neck to catch my eye, but I just toss the cloth napkin on the table beside my plate before following the same track as Cade.

I walk through to the other side of the house, admittedly not really knowing where I’m going. Where Cade’s house is bright and airy with a cottage-type vibe, the main house almost feels like some sort of hunting lodge—wide floorboards, dark wood beams beneath vaulted ceilings, brass hardware, and dark green walls. I peek down a hallway and see nothing, so I continue toward the front door, seeing that it’s propped open.

There’s a long, wide deck with raw log banisters that face out over the long driveway and a full copse of poplars.

Cade is standing there, Wranglers hugging his strong legs, the muscles in his back bunched beneath soft cotton. His close-cut black hair is slicked back neatly, and his trimmed beard gives the impression he made an effort tonight. I’ve grown accustomed to seeing him waltz in after a hard day’s work looking all dirty and sweaty and, well, fucking hot, to be honest.

I stand for a moment and watch him, trying to decide which look I prefer.

His wide palms are propped on the railing and his chin is tucked into his chest.

As I approach, his scent sneaks up on me. Crushed pine needles and sunshine. I don’t know how else to explain it. It’s that warm earth that I associate with digging in the garden on a sunny day. There’s nothing manufactured or store-bought about his scent—it’s pure outdoor masculinity.

But it’s the shaking of his shoulders that draws my gaze now.

He’s crying or laughing, and to be honest, both seem equally unlikely from what I know of this man.