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“I assume it’s still at the wedding venue, enjoying the reception without me.” She presses both hands to her face. “Oh God. It has my license, banks cards and cash in it. I have nothing.”

“What about your phone? Can you tap that for payment?”

“I never set that up because I don’t—”

“Trust the technology.” We both say it at the same time.

Her hands lower as those stunning blue eyes lock on mine. “You don’t trust it either?”

“Hell no,” I scoff. "If I had it my way, we'd still be bartering with actual gold coins or trading livestock. Maybe throw in some good old-fashioned handshake deals sealed with a shot of whiskey."

Audrey’s mouth curves beneath a sweet smile. “Oh, thank God. Finally, one sensible man.”

“Careful," I wink. "You’ve only known me forty-five minutes.”

“And you’ve already rescued my car, provided coffee and rejected digital wallets. Brett took three years to become this useful.”

I don’t know who Brett is beyond the obvious asshole currently missing a bride, but satisfaction still settles warmly inside my chest.

“You don’t owe me anything for the tow,” I tell her. “Keep the coat on and come inside. Reception will work something out.”

“And if they don’t?”

“Then Big Mike will.”

“Is Big Mike a person or some sort of festive criminal organisation?”

“Little of both.”

I rest my hand against her back and steer her toward the entrance as the elf-reindeer workers drag the Christmas tree in the snow behind us.

The glass doors sweep open, releasing a rush of warmth, Christmas music and several male voices arguing loudly enough to suggest the Wildcards have arrived before me.

Perfect.

The lobby is even more excessive than the outside.

A stone fireplace stretches two stories toward a timber ceiling crossed with exposed beams, flames roaring behind glass while deep leather couches and fur-covered chairs surround it. Christmas garlands spill down the sweeping staircase, crystal snowflakes hang from enormous chandeliers and the air smells like cinnamon and whatever rich people burn when ordinary firewood isn’t impressive enough.

The centre of the room remains suspiciously empty, waiting for the tree currently being dragged through another entrance.

Unfortunately, everything around that empty space is complete fucking chaos.

There are hockey players everywhere, with endless amounts of bags piled like a luggage avalanche. Sponsor hampers are stacked in leaning towers, and at the center of it all, two fully grown men who should know better, are having a tug-of-war over a luggage cart.

Big Mike, the local billionaire and owner of the Chilmore Snow Leopards, is wearing an immaculate bright red three-piece suit with a gold watch. The other is, Colin Holden, a face I recognize from the newest NHL franchise from Beachside in California. He's wearing a ridiculous ski jacket over a Hawaiian shirt covered in Christmas flamingos.

"—this is my resort, Colin, which makes it my cart—"

"Possession is nine-tenths, Michael, and my hand is ON the cart—"

Lucky for me, a mountain of flannel and beard barrels across the lobby and crushes me into a hug that rearranges my spine.

"MILES STRATTON!"

Nate Hargrove—Chilmore's golden boy, NHL forward, and the only guy I know who wears a beanie indoors year-round bounds into me and wraps me in a huge bear hug.

"Thank God, someone competent has finally arrived," Nate says, smiling. "Buddy, it's a disaster. They gave me two rooms."