Intro

{ Anastasia }

Monday mornings at Bloom Beauty are always the same. Organized chaos. Everyone's going around the open-floor office, chattering about campaigns and new product drops while I sit inside my own private office trying not to lose my mind.

I take a sip of my coffee and glance at my schedule for today. My early team meetings, a call with JG Models. And then, the post-it I added last week.

9:30 a.m. New hire orientation.

Abraham Kent.

"Agh. Right," I murmur, getting annoyed all over again.

I don't know anything about this guy, except he's a charity case. Someone my dad told me to be nice to, because he'll be here only for a short amount of time. As a favor to a friend.

Just a ‘dumb jock', my dad called him. That's going to be very annoying to navigate, especially since I already don't like anyone in my team.

A knock at the door startles me. It's Nora, my assistant.

"He's here," she says with wide sparkly eyes and a huge smile.

"The new hire?"

"Yep, the new guy," she says, excitedly. If she were a dog, her tail would be waggling everywhere, "He's even hotter than I thought possible. Everyone kept saying he was glorious in person, but it still took me by surprise."

"They've been talking about my new employee? How do they even know about him?"

I don't talk to them.

"Girl, he is famous," she says very slowly. I feel like we already had this conversation, "I told them... just like I told you, except you totally ignored me. I bet you didn't even G****e him."

"No, I didn't. I have a bunch of stuff to do," I complain, pointing at my schedule, "And why would I care about a fucking hockey player? I feel like every guy in this country is a hockey player. It's not like he's a celebrity or something."

"He IS! He just won a Stanley Cup last year," She whispers-screams at me. Those words ring a tiny bell, but they don’t really mean anything to me.

"I have a Stanley cup right there," I mutter, pointing at it. Mine is pink.

Nora closes her eyes and shakes her head.

"You know Olivia Dalton? The model?"

"Of course, we just had a campaign with her. That's a real celebrity," I say with an obvious tone.

"Well, she was dating him at some point. She actually got this gig BECAUSE she dated him and got a bunch of new followers. He was the famous one in that little weekend-long relationship," she explains. And now I lean back, actually interested.

Olivia Dalton has over a million followers, a rising star in modeling who recently got very popular... but if she got popular because of this guy, then that changes things.

"Okay. Give me a second," I lift a finger at her, "I'm going to g****e him. Tell him I'm on a call."

"You got it," she responds, her smile growing bigger, "But just so you know... he is bigger in person. And hotter. Glorious."

I just blink at her as she leaves my office, then I do what I should've done a week ago and write 'Abraham Kent' in the search bar. A lot of the most searched options come out.

Abraham Kent NHL

Abraham Kent injury crash

Abraham Kent best shots

Abraham Kent team wins Stanley Cup 2025

Abraham Kent and Olivia Dalton

Abraham Kent and Stephanie Koi

Abraham Kent and Monique Fairman

Okay, enough, there's like five other girls in the list, so I lose interest in that. I click on the first option and then I'm attacked by photos of a man.

And I mean a MAN. A real man. A man in a blue hockey outfit and sweaty hair and pink cheeks and a gorgeous smile.

"Oh... my… god," I gasp and get so close to the screen, my nose will leave a smudge there. But holy hell, that IS a glorious man.

This can't be my charity case, can it?

He is insanely hot. He has almost three million followers and lots of pages talking about him. About how he's an amazing player, but apparently had an injury about a year ago. A lot of people are discussing the possibilities of him playing again.

There's even an article about what happened. A bike crash. There's photos of the aftermath and it looks absolutely horrendous.

Oh, no, this poor gorgeous boy. It's a miracle he didn't die, that looks really bad. The bike was left completely ruined, but apparently he flew out of it before the collision against a wall.

I call my dad while reading other articles related to hockey. As a born and raised Canadian, I should know everything about hockey… but I don’t.

Like, not at all.

All I know is that hockey is life for some people. And the Vancouver Seagulls are THE team everyone talks about.

"Hi, babygirl."

"Father. You did not tell me the 'dumb jock' was an actual hockey star," I growl out, my eyes glued to the man on my computer, wearing a blue jersey with the number '17'. MY day of birth, by the way, "He is a very famous person. He's been on TV! He won a big flashy trophy called the Stanley Cup. ESPN has a thirty minute segment discussing him!"

"Well... you don't follow hockey, so I didn't go into detail about who he was because you wouldn't know anyway," he responds, like that makes any sense, "I have talked to you about my friend Adam and how he's a Coach for our home team. Then I told you one of his players needed help. How is that not clicking in your head? The NHL is a big deal... well, maybe not for girls like you, but maybe for girls like Chloe and Celeste. I bet even they know who he is."

"Thank you for the distinction," I snap in annoyance. I know he didn't mean anything by it, but it still stings, "Girls like me, how?"

"Book girls. Smart girls," he responds immediately. I roll my eyes, "Anyway... all you have to know is that he might not be too bright, but my friend said he’s a good kid and he really needs this job. Go easy on him. And use him if you can."

Use him? My heart does an excited boom when I imagine all the ways one could use a man like that...

"But I won't tell you what to do, you're my little genius. I'm sure you're already coming up with a hundred ideas about how to use his platform for our benefit.”

That's nice, but I actually wasn't thinking about that yet. I was imagining me tying him up to my bed and making use of him like an alive sex doll.

I could ride him for hours, I bet he would never get tired.

God! Get a grip!

"Yeah, I'll figure it out. I just can't believe you didn't explain all of this before," I complain, "He's already here, so I'll let you go."

"Sure. Hey... you're joining us for lunch today, right?"

"Yes, dad," I respond with a slight eye-roll. It's been four months since I started working here and living close to them again, but he still asks the same thing almost every day, "See you later."

"See you, love. Good luck."

I end the call and get up, about to go out to get him myself, but for the first time in... months? Years? I stop for a second and wonder if I look good enough.

I gulp and really look at myself in the small mirror next to the door.

I did not brush my hair this morning, I'm wearing a big hoodie and my oversized jeans... my extra-large oversized jeans, because I'm on my period and I just can't wear anything tight or I'll die. And of course, I'm not wearing any makeup.

This isn't new for anyone here. Or me. I value my physical comfort over anything and, honestly, I just don't want to put any effort into my appearance.

That is on purpose most days and just out of laziness other days, but today I wish I looked... better.

Why, though? A man who went out with Olivia Dalton would never even look at a girl twice her size and unwilling to ever look sexy. On purpose.

"Whatever," I murmur, laughing at myself for considering for even one second he would care if I look cute or not. He'll look straight past me and that's perfectly okay.

Seriously, it's fine.

Even if he's the first real-life man to make my heart beat fast in five years.