Home Ice: Dallas Demons, #1

By Aven Ellis

Kylie Reed vowed she'd never pick up a man in a bar.

It's one of her personal rules, after all.

So falling into a gorgeous ginger's lap, tossing a glass of wine on him, and then hoping he asks for her number while in a bar would be a trifecta of wrong, right?

 

Organized, rule-loving, and cautious to a fault, Kylie Reed is waiting for the perfect moment to live her dreams—when she has a house, when she meets her husband, when she has been at her visual display job at a chic boutique a little while longer. All of her dreams are saved for later—as that seems to be a safer place than taking a risk to actually live them.

 

Yet Kylie finds all her rules bending when she falls into the lap of gorgeous Harrison Flynn, captain of the Dallas Demons hockey team. Harrison harbors his own fears for the future, ones he keeps close to the vest. He's intrigued with the brown-eyed beauty who proceeds with caution, while she's drawn to the sexy man who pushes boundaries and functions in chaos. The phrase opposites attract has never been truer as the chemistry between them is anything but polar from the second they meet…

 

While the attraction is hot, is that enough to make a relationship work? Can they face their fears for a future they both want? Will this relationship end before puck drop? Or will they find home ice together?

 

If you like swoony heroes, hilarious heroines, and a couple you can cheer for, you'll want to escape into Home Ice. Can be read as a standalone and a happily ever after is guaranteed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Aven Ellis
• Release date: Nov 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223585831

Book preview

Chapter One

The Pop Quiz Question: You are at a crowded bar. The odds of finding your soul mate are . . .

A) I am open to the idea of meeting Mr. Right anywhere.

B) Probably not good, but a possibility.

C) I might as well be waiting for Prince Alexander of Great Britain to come rescue me.

* * *

I immediately click on C as my answer on my iPhone. I am taking a quiz on how to find your soul mate, and really, this question is easy. First, you never meet anyone of quality in a bar. The guys are usually hammered or looking for a score or both. So that rules out A. Being that I feel that way, B is not even an option.

So C it is. I smile to myself. Besides, Prince Alexander is gorgeous. A dashing royal who used to serve in the army? Plays polo? Supports various charities? Is close to his siblings and cousins? That is a quadruple of hotness right there.

All Xander, as he is called, needs is a special partner to be his future queen. Someone beautiful, practical, and grounding to keep him on the steady.

I pause for a moment, my brain wandering off into entertainment mode. Xander is known for being Xander the Philander in the media and usually pictured with blondes. Hmm. I have long, straight, brown hair and brown eyes. I’m only twenty-four-years-old, so that’s a good age match to his twenty-seven, yes? Okay, so he likes blondes, but the right girl could change that. Living in Dallas might hinder my plan, but I would soooo be open to relocation to London if required—

Kylie Bridget Reed, you’re not going to sit at your own brother’s wedding reception and spend the evening hiding out with your phone, are you?

I jerk my head up. My mother is standing over me, an annoyed expression on her face.

Guilt sweeps over me. I flip my phone facedown and look up at her. Mom, I just needed a moment of quiet, that’s all.

My mother sighs heavily. "Please go out there and socialize. It’s a wedding reception. You need to have some fun."

I bite down on my lower lip. My eyes scan the ballroom at the Ritz Carlton in Dallas, all awash in pink roses, white orchids, and crystal. No detail was left untouched, as my brother, Brandon, a lawyer, wed society girl Candace in a posh Dallas wedding. The room is backlit in soft pink light. A live band is playing. Hundreds of people are enjoying lavish buffets of expensive food. Lobster and caviar. A crazy huge cake with seven different layers. Ice sculptures of swans. A gourmet candy station for guests to fill bags to take home.

In all, it is a ridiculous amount of excess, in my opinion.

I see Brandon and his friends at the bar, drinking. I spot Candace in her modern Reem Acra dress, her platinum-blonde hair artfully styled, her spray tan perfect. She is dancing with bridesmaids who look exactly like her, all sorority sisters from SMU.

I couldn’t be more out of place if I tried.

I’m an artist. I work at Boutique Dallas in Highland Park, one of the swankiest zip codes in the area. I do visual display design for the store. I enjoy things like sewing and baking and romantic movies. I admire Jackie Kennedy and Grace Kelly and their sense of style. I love nothing more than poring over their outfits and cutting my own patterns and making my own clothes. I find peace in being alone, in sewing, so the idea of getting drunk and making out with groomsmen at my brother’s wedding is not my idea of a fabulous evening.

Kylie, please. There are some really nice boys here, my mother says, tucking a lock of her bobbed hair behind one ear. Go dance. You’re twenty-four. Not fifty-four.

Ah, yes, here we go again. A lecture on how I act too old for my age, that I’m too old of a soul, that I need to have more fun. A lecture I, unfortunately, know by heart at this point.

Right, I say, not meaning it.

Just then, my father walks up. How are we doing?

Jack, you’ll be surprised to know Kylie was sitting over here with her iPhone. Being anti-social. As usual.

Well, Hilary, have you asked anyone to take our beautiful girl out for a spin on the dance floor?

Oh no. No, no, no. Not the pity dance!

I leap up from my chair, grab my phone, and throw it into my clutch. I turn and face my parents before this becomes a hideous situation.

"Um, I’m good. I’ll go get a drink and mingle if that would make you happy, but for the love of God, please don’t ask one of Brandon’s friends to ask me to dance. Please tell me you haven’t done that."

My mother glances at my father with an uh oh expression on her face.

Right on cue, my brother’s friend Jason strolls up.

Kylie, would you do me the honor of dancing with me? he asks, with a big fake smile plastered on his face.

Gah, what am I supposed to do now? Please let someone pull a fire alarm. Please let us have to evacuate into the steamy Dallas summer night, so I don’t have to accept this charity dance.

But sadly, it doesn’t look like a fire alarm is going to save me.

Embarrassment engulfs me. Awesome. A pity dance with one of Brandon’s friends, who is doing this as a favor for my mom. I feel like I’m sixteen and in desperate need of a date to the prom.

Sure, I say, forcing a sweet smile onto my face.

My parents beam with approval, and I fight the urge to vomit. They are so hopeful that I will fall in love tonight at this wedding. Like Brandon did with Candace at his best friend’s wedding two years ago.

Jason offers me his arm, and I reluctantly take it. He smells of overpowering cologne. And gin. His hair is slicked back with half a tube of gel, and his smile is blinding white. Ew, not my type. At all.

So sorry, Mom and Dad, there will not be a love connection made at the Ritz-Carlton tonight.

Jason leads me out to the dance floor and begins dancing wildly. I kind of try to dance away from him—as much as I can in my stupid pink mermaid bridesmaid’s gown, which is so tight I can barely wiggle my hips. But Jason pulls me in and flings me out and back, and I pray the dress doesn’t pop at the seams as I go flailing around the dance floor in herky-jerky motions.

Kylie, you’re dancing! Candace cries gleefully. She hurries over to me and yells at my partner, Jason, you’re so lucky. Kylie is so cute. Look at how fabulous her ass looks in this dress! Then Candace points at my ass and shrieks with laughter.

She did not just point out my ass. She did not.

Let’s check that out. Jason spins me around. I gasp in horror as I turn over my shoulder and see him checking out my ass. Glorious, he says in approval.

My torture is interrupted by the lead singer of the band.

Let’s kick it old school with some ‘90s dance music, he screams into the microphone. How about some C + C Music Factory?

Then the band begins playing Gonna Make You Sweat.

Time to grind! Jason yells.

Grind? Oh, no. Seriously, no—

Jason pulls my back to him, puts his hands on my hips, and begins to grind on my so-called glorious butt.

Whooo! he screams.

Okay, I draw the line at grinding. I whip around—well, as much as one can in a mermaid dress—and put my hand on his chest to back him up. I have to use the ladies’ room, I shout over the music. See you later.

Then I exit. Before I can completely escape the ballroom, Brandon stops me.

Hey, did I see you dancing with Jason? he asks, lifting an eyebrow.

Mom asked him to dance with me, I explain, editing out my feelings on the matter. I smile at my brother and speak from my heart. I’m going out. Congratulations, B. I’m so glad you found Candace, and you’re so happy.

You’ll be just as happy someday, K, Brandon says, hugging me.

I nod as I step back from him. Sure. Guys are always clamoring for a quiet girl who loves retro clothing and evenings with a bottle of white wine, Thai food, and a movie, but that’s not the point. My life is good. I’m not looking for my soul mate tonight.

Bye, B, I say, smiling at him.

As I leave the ballroom, I glance back to the dance floor, and Jason is dancing with another bridesmaid, this one tall with ample breasts. I laugh to myself. Glorious ass or not, he’s moved on.

Thank God.

I step into the hotel hallway. The music is still pulsating through the walls, and the sounds of laughter and chatter spill out from the reception.

I need quiet, I think. I need a space to decompress, have a glass of wine, and be alone.

I walk through the hotel in search of solitude. I pass the gorgeous arrangement of vases and flowers on a luxurious table in the lobby, and then I see it.

The hotel bar.

Relief sweeps through me as I head toward the bar off the lobby. It’s dark and intimate, with rich mahogany walls. I see plush chocolate brown leather sofas, which are absolutely inviting. Chandeliers bathe the bar in soft amber light, and people are mingling and talking in the room.

Yes, this is exactly what I need, I think, sighing happily.

I make my way up to the bar and order a nice glass of Chardonnay. Crisp and chilled, perfect for a sweltering Texas night in July. I scour the room for one of those cushy chairs to sink down into.

As I walk, I’m suddenly caught. I turn and see someone has stepped on the tail of my dress, and I can’t move.

Excuse me, I say, yelling over my shoulder.

But the girl standing on my dress, in her spiked Louboutins, cannot hear me.

I decide to give the fabric a tug. Actually, I don’t care if I rip it at this point—the pictures are done, and I’ll never wear this again anyway—but as I do, she moves, and I go flying backward.

I try to right myself, but I can’t, not in this skintight dress.

I fall backward and boom! I land right in a guy’s lap on a leather sofa. My drink goes flying, soaking us both.

Crap!

Mortification fills me as I realize I’m sitting on a stranger. I scramble up and turn around, ready to apologize profusely and offer to pay for dry cleaning, but the words don’t come out of my mouth.

I’m frozen.

Because right now, I am looking into the green eyes of the most beautiful ginger-haired man I’ve ever seen.

Chapter Two

The Pop Quiz Question: Would you ever pick up a guy in a bar?

A) Yes, if he’s hot and interested.

B) No, absolutely not.

C) Normally, I wouldn’t even dream of it, but sometimes, there is an exception to the rule.

* * *

I literally have no words as I stare at the man whose lap I was in two seconds ago.

Because this ginger-haired man is the most gorgeous man I have ever seen.

More gorgeous than Prince Alexander, God help me.

Miss, are you all right? he asks, standing up, furrowing his brow in concern.

I drink him in with my eyes. He’s tall—about 6’1 or 6’2—and very broad-shouldered. He’s strong and athletic-looking. This man has glorious ginger curls, silky and flame-red. I’ve never seen hair like it in my entire life. He’s wearing a gray T-shirt—a designer one, I can tell by the cut and fabric—and jeans with an up-to-the-minute color wash that fit him perfectly. He has a cool black leather bracelet that looks like a belt, complete with a silver buckle, around his left wrist and—

Miss? he asks again.

The sound of his soft-spoken voice—one tinged with an East Coast accent—snaps me from my thoughts.

Um . . . I look into his brilliant green eyes. I’m so sorry, I blurt out. I look at his shirt, and it is drenched with white wine. I’m horrified as I see the huge stain across his broad chest and over his shoulder. Your shirt! Oh, no! Please, let me give you some money to have it dry cleaned.

He glances down and then slowly lifts his eyes back up to me, an eyebrow lifted. I think, he says in a serious tone, it will survive the incident.

I didn’t know I was holding my breath until he smiles at me.

Your dress, however, he then says, nodding down to the floor, looks like it was on the losing end of a battle with a stiletto.

I quickly look down and see the mermaid tail is ripped. I raise my head at this Ginger Boy and smile.

I can’t say I was planning to wear it again, anyway, I say honestly. Then I clear my throat. May I buy you a drink for interrupting your evening like this?

Now his brow creases in a quizzical manner. You want to buy me a drink?

Oh, no. What if he’s here with a date? What if he thinks I’m trying to pick him up? What if he’s repelled by that idea of me wanting to buy him a drink?

Evacuate mission, my brain screams. Abort! Abort! Abort!

For the inconvenience, I say quickly. Nothing more, of course. I glance around to see if anyone nearby looks like they are with him.

Are you wondering, he says slowly, if I’m here alone?

Oh, lord, this is humiliating.

No, of course not, I blurt out.

"Does it matter if I’m here alone?"

Yes. No! Does it?

I’m not trying to pick you up, I say. "I would never pick up a guy in a bar."

Right? I mean, I just took a quiz on this. He’s hot, yes, but he’s in a bar. Alone. Which only means one thing—

So, he says, slowly rubbing his fingertips back and forth over his jawline, if I’m alone, having a beer here on a Saturday night, I must be looking to pick up a woman?

I stare at him, stunned. How is this man reading my mind?

To answer your question, I’m here because it’s a nice place to get a drink and be undisturbed. Until women in pink-cotton-candy-colored gowns fall into my lap and drench me in some kind of fruity white wine.

He flashes me a smile, one that makes his eyes crinkle up in the corners of his face.

I find myself laughing, and he does, too.

Would you please let me buy you a drink? I ask again. "I don’t feel right not doing something for you. I mean, you’ve been incredibly understanding about your shirt."

Even though I know nothing is going to happen—obviously, we’re in a bar, and I don’t pick up people in bars, and apparently, neither does he—I find myself wishing he would agree to this. Which is stupid. It’s not like he wants to sit down and talk to me or anything.

Okay, he says, nodding. Would you like to have a seat? We can remain nameless to simplify things. You know, since neither one of us is into bar pickups.

All right, names might not be exchanged, but conversation is in play.

I sink down into the rich leather sofa, and he sits down next to me. A cocktail server appears, hands him some napkins to blot his shirt, and we order drinks. He requests some kind of beer I have never heard of. I try again for another glass of white wine. After she leaves, we are left with each other.

I’m really sorry about the shirt, I say again.

Honestly, it’s no big deal, he says easily. Then he raises a brow. Are you running away from a bridal party?

I hesitate. We’ve agreed to remain nameless. I’ll never see him again.

And this is against every rule I have, but as I study his handsome face, I want to be completely honest. I can’t explain it. Maybe because I’ve already sat in his lap? I don’t know. But something inside me wants to share with him. So I decide to tell him the truth.

Very astute observation, I say, grabbing the throw pillow that is behind me and setting it in my lap. I run my fingers over the edges absently. My brother just got married.

So why did you ditch out? Ginger Boy asks.

I sigh and look down. I’m not really good in big social situations like that. I . . . I don’t exactly blend.

The server comes back with our drinks. We take them, and I try a sip of my wine.

Why on earth would you even want to? he asks.

I laugh. Oh, it makes life a lot easier when you aren’t different.

How are you different? he asks, taking a sip of his beer.

I’m not like anyone else in my family. I don’t like big social settings and partying. I like small groups of people. I enjoy staying home and watching a movie with takeout. I like to sew and design. I work in visual display at a clothing boutique, which horrifies my parents.

Why do you care what they think as long as you’re successful and happy?

I stare at him, amazed. Wow, you’re good. I feel like I’m in a therapy session.

I see something change in his green eyes. They light up. Like he is pleased with what I said. A tingling feeling sweeps over me in response.

Really? he asks, rubbing his fingertips along his jaw again. You think I sound like a therapist?

I can’t help it. I laugh. Yes. You truly listen. A lot of people act like they do, but they don’t. And you seem to know what questions to ask to make me think.

He grins, but this time, a broad grin, one that completely spreads across his face. My breath catches in my throat in response.

Well, if that’s the case, let me move over to this chair, and you can recline on the couch for the rest of the session, he quips.

We both laugh.

So, what’s your story? You’re not from Texas, I say. That is an East Coast accent.

Boston, he confirms. I moved here for work.

I take another sip of wine. What do you do?

I notice Ginger Boy hesitates for a moment. He rakes a hand through his hair and clears his throat before answering.

My work is on hiatus right now, he says vaguely. It will start again in the fall.

Hmm. He didn’t exactly answer the question, but I guess he doesn’t have to since I’ll never see him again.

And why does that thought make me feel a bit anxious?

So you sew? he says, coming back to me again.

I nod. I do.

So, you could fix your dress.

I laugh. Um, yes. But I won’t. I do not see the need to be wearing a pink mermaid gown that gives me a glorious ass again.

He roars with laughter. Did you just tell me you have a glorious ass?

Good lord, why did I say that? What’s wrong with me?

Erm, my new sister-in-law pointed it out. And a groomsman, I finish.

Much to my surprise, he doesn’t excuse himself and walk away. Rather, he appears amused by my story.

He laughs again. Nice.

I laugh at myself. I can’t believe I just told you that. I promise I’m not drunk.

I don’t know. You threw a drink on me and fell into my lap. Now you’re talking about your ass—

Let’s forget that.

Hmm, I don’t think so.

I want to die. From both this turn in the conversation and from how beautiful he looks when he smiles.

So, why are you here? I ask, desperate to get off the topic of my bridesmaid’s dress.

For people-watching, he says. I like to observe, to try and figure out their stories.

Really? I ask, intrigued.

Yeah, he says simply. He leans in closer to me, and I get an intoxicating whiff of him, of a warm, spicy-vanilla cologne. He bends toward my ear so he can talk directly into it, and much to my shock, a shiver rips down my spine. See that lady up at the right-hand corner of the bar? Mid-forties? Expensive outfit, perfect hair, but long like she’s trying to look younger? Newly divorced. Hanging with other divorced friends. Wanting to see what is out there.

"You don’t know any of that."

He grins at me. I know, but isn’t it interesting to think about the story behind the stranger?

My breath catches in my throat. My God, this Ginger Boy is not like any man I have ever met. He’s smart. Observant. Gorgeous.

And utterly fascinating.

We spend the next few hours watching people and spinning stories about them. We’re laughing and drinking, and he even orders us some food. While noshing on lobster nachos, we share little bits about our lives. I confide in him about loving vintage things, and my dream of eventually selling aprons made of antique fabrics when the time is right. I tell him I like to bake, I love the movie The Holiday, and I have a whole organized file folder of all the things I want to do once my career is where I want