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"I know," Nate says serenely, winking at Miles. "That's what matters."

Over the next two hours, the dinner unfolds in a warm blur of candlelight and Miles refusing to leave my side for more than ten seconds.

His hand lives on my back as we move between conversations. When a waiter passes with champagne, Miles intercepts the exact one I liked at the couples challenge and hands it to me without breaking his sentence with a man from New York. When a cluster of Chilmore business owners joins us, he introduces me with his hand warm against my spine.

"This is Audrey Fields. She's the reason the Wildcards function. She could also be the reason my family's farm has a future, if all goes to her fantastic plan."

"Miles—"

“The tour idea you've been hearing about was hers,” Miles continues, apparently determined to praise me whether I’m sprawled naked beneath him or standing in front of half the hockey industry. "The resort partnership might just be the best thing to happen to this town."

A silver-haired sponsor toasts Miles's performance yesterday, and Miles thanks him for exactly four seconds before pivoting… back to me.

"You should ask Audrey about the farm experience she's launching. First tour's nearly booked out, so if you want in, I'd go see Reception right away."

And he means it. All of it.

That's the thing.

He's not decorating himself with my work or making my success sound like an accessory to his. He just keeps handing me the spotlight like it was always mine.

I’m standing in a ballroom filled with wealth, candlelight and glittering people, knowing this is exactly the kind of room I spent five years entering beside Brett, but now, for the first time, I'm not somebody's beautiful accessory.

I'm here. I'm wanted.

Leaving Brett wasn't just the right choice.

It's the best thing I have ever done.

The warmth of that thought lasts until the man with the silver cufflinks appears. He's league-executive polished, all stiff masculine handshakes and expensive cologne, and he claps Miles on the shoulder like they've known each other for years.

"Stratton! The man himself. Big night for you, I hear."

"The team played well," Miles says, looking sideways at me.

"Ah, he's modest too. Ottawa loves that." The executive chuckles into his scotch. "Callahan's got the suite ready upstairs for right after dinner. Word is the numbers coming through from their front office are serious. Multi-year serious."

I go very still but try to keep smiling.

Because I know about a scout. I know about a friendly chat at the Ski Bar and the game he watched. What I did not know about is a suite. Tonight. With financial terms already being prepared?

What the hell is all that about?

"Anyway," the man says, drifting toward the croquembouche, "don't keep them waiting. Careers change on nights like this, and I think yours might be about to get a little richer, Mr. Stratton."

He disappears into the crowd, and the candlelight suddenly feels very bright.

"Audrey." Miles turns to me, and I watch him choose his words carefully. "Nothing is concrete. Nothing's been offered yet. I was going to—"

"Tell me?" I keep my voice light, but there's an edge creeping in I haven't heard in my voice since I got to Mistletoe Resort. "Because last I heard, this was just a friendly chat at the Ski Bar."

"It was. But things moved faster than I expected."

“Like financial terms being prepared upstairs?” I arch a brow at him. "That sounds an awful lot like a contract offer, Miles."

"You're right, Audrey." Miles runs a hand through his hair. "I should have said something earlier. I just didn't want to get your hopes up—or mine—until I knew what they actually wanted. I still don't know what they want."

"Right." I force a smile. "Well, congratulations. Sounds like they know exactly what they want. You."