Page 70 of Shattered On Ice

Wilder Jameson is a mountain, easily eclipsing the doorframe, taller and broader even than Westin. He stands awkwardly at the edge of the kitchen, wide shoulders hunched inward. His dark eyes scan the room with the wary, hyper-vigilant energy of a man expecting an ambush.

What’s your story, you poor soul?

"This is my partner, Knight," Westin says, smiling at me softly. "This is my new teammate, Wilder."

"Welcome, Wilder. We're so glad you could join us," I say warmly.

Wilder just nods, eyes scanning the kitchen for threats. He’s fully prepared for a fight, but he’s not getting one here.

Instead, he gets Callum.

My best friend breezes into the kitchen from the dining room, carrying a stack of linen fabric samples, a tape measure draped around his shoulders like a feather boa. He stops dead in his tracks. The swatches slip from his manicured fingers, fluttering to the hardwood like confetti.

Callum’s perfectly sculpted jaw practically hits his chest as his eyes drop and he slowly drags his suddenly starving gaze up the towering, caramel-skinned man.

“Lord have mercy,” he breathes, the Southern drawl that’s normally kept in check now thick enough to pour over biscuits. He turns a wide, gleaming look on my boyfriend. “Westin Dumont, where on God’s green earth did you find this mouthwatering feast, and can I please have him for dinner instead of the chicken?”

Wilder freezes in place, arms stiff at his sides as he takes in the much smaller man appraising him. He looks at me, then at Westin, pure, unadulterated alarm flaring in his dark eyes.

“Callum, behave,” I warn mildly, already knowing there’s no stopping him. I toss my potholders onto the counter and turn my full attention on the spectacle that’s about to take place.

“I am behaving. I’m expressing polite, Southern hospitality to our esteemed guest,” Callum purrs, crossing the distance between them with the smooth, predatory grace of a fabulous jungle cat. He extends a hand, gold rings flashing over his moonstone-polished nails. “Callum Jaynes. But you can call me whenever you’d like.”

Wilder stares at the hand as if it might bite him—and knowing Callum, he just might—before slowly, tentatively, taking it. His massive palm entirely swallows Callum’s hand. “Wilder.”

“Wilder,” Callum repeats, testing the syllables on his tongue like a vintage wine, his blue eyes sparkling with unchecked delight. “Oh, that is just delicious. So, Wilder, tell me everything. Don't skimp on a single detail. What brings a pristine physical specimen like you to Atlanta? Are you a lumberjack from Westin’s great white north homeland? A professional bodyguard? Oh, that’s something to fantasize about,” he murmurs to himself before continuing. “A Greek deity on holiday?” He flutters his lashes up at Wilder, who is standing bewildered under the barrage of questions.

Westin steps in, taking pity on his terrified new teammate. “Callum, he’s my new linemate. He was just traded from Montreal.”

Callum gasps, slim hand flying to the chest of his butter-yellow cashmere sweater. His eyes light up like a child on Christmas morning. “A hockey player? And newly relocated? Oh, you poor, stranded giant thing. Do you have a home? Who’s decorating it? Please tell me you aren't living in an extended-stay hotel with horrible corporate art, bad lighting, and beige everything.” He shudders at the thought.

Wilder looks completely, hopelessly overwhelmed. “I…I just got here yesterday.”

Callum gasps again, louder this time as he cranes his neck, looking around the big man like his suitcases are behind him. “A blank canvas.”

“Cal—” Westin starts, shifting his weight to intercept, his protective instincts already flaring for the new guy.

I reach out, placing a gentle hand on Westin’s forearm to stop him. Westin looks down at me, his brow furrowed. I give him a small, reassuring shake of my head. Let it happen.

As a therapist, I know exactly what trauma and panic look like. Wilder isn’t panicking. He’s completely unmoored, yes, and who wouldn't be in the face of Callum’s over-the-top attention? He’s staring at Callum like my best friend is an undiscovered, terrifying species of flora, but the rigid, hostile wall he carried into our kitchen is completely bypassed. Wilder may have spent years defending himself from monsters like Jérémy Benoit, but he has absolutely no defensive protocol for a hurricane like Callum “Calamity Jane” Jaynes. He can't fight it; he can only weather it.

“We’re going to fix this immediately,” Callum declares, practically vibrating with excitement. He begins circling Wilder, assessing him from all angles. “What’s your aesthetic? Mid-century modern? Industrial chic? Contemporary rustic? Please tell me you don't own a black leather sectional, Wilder. Lie to me if you must.”

“What? No. I…I just need a place with a fence,” Wilder stammers, his deep, gravelly voice barely keeping up.

“A fence!” Callum claps his hands together. “Privacy! I love a man who values boundaries. We’ll find you something gated. Brick, perhaps. Or a beautiful modern farmhouse in Milton with a wrap-around porch.”

“I haven't even looked at Zillow—”

“Zillow is for peasants, Wilder. You have me now.”

Westin tries again, attempting to suppress a grin. “Seriously. Let the man breathe, Callum.”

“I’m giving him the breath of life, Westin! Stay out of this,” Callum retorts without once tearing his eyes from the overwhelmed hockey player. He steps right into Wilder’s personal space, completely unbothered by the fact that the man has nearly a foot of height and one hundred pounds of pure muscle on him. “Now, Wilder, sugar. I have real estate connections from Buckhead to Alpharetta. We are going to find you a palace, and when we do, I’m going to make sure the drapes match your gorgeous eyes.”

Wilder looks between the three of us, his aforementioned eyes wide and pleading. He’s finally realizing the Callum freight train has lost its brakes, and he’s strapped to the tracks. He lets out a heavy, defeated sigh. His massive shoulders slump in total surrender.

“If I let you help me find a house,” Wilder rumbles. Callum holds up a finger and points around him. “And I let you decorate the damn thing,” he adds. “Will you let me eat my chicken in peace?”