What do you get when you mix a devastatingly handsome hockey player who doesn’t do casual with a blonde bombshell cheerleader who doesn’t do serious?

I was supposed to be taking the summer off from dating… and flirting… and men in general. A cleanse. It sounded good in theory. But theory went out the window when my own personal kryptonite sat on the bar stool next to mine.

Six feet, five inches of stacked muscle and chiseled features, he exuded a cocky confidence that was hard to miss and even harder to resist. This man was delectable. Like a decadent piece of chocolate cake, tempting me to indulge.

And that was before I knew how he tasted.

The rules were simple:
One night.
No names.
No strings.

Until my handsome stranger turned out to be the hot-as-sin star forward for the Philadelphia Revolution hockey team. A single dad with two adorable kids who tug at my heart strings, and a family almost as obnoxious as my own.

But Cross Wilder isn’t looking for a hookup.
And I’m not looking for a fairytale.
The question is — do I have a choice?