The Score Keeper Ebook

Chapter 1: Noelle
I take a cleansing exhale as I stand in front of my new bakery in downtown Boston. Primrose Sweets has expanded, and I’ve officially launched my second location. Pride fills me as I stare up at the beautiful signage, inspired by my mom’s name, Rose Primeri. Primrose was Daddy’s nickname for her. She passed when I was nine and I don’t think he fully recovered from her loss. Chasing my dreams, learning the art of patisserie, and opening Primrose Sweets is my way of honoring the legacy she left behind: me.
I shiver against the winter chill and hurry back inside the warmth of the bakery. As soon as I open the door, the delicious scent of sugar and vanilla greets me, and I smile. The storefront is sweet and although the space is small, only holding nine tables, it’s mine. Scott Reland was right, there’s nothing like working for yourself.
Daddy thinks this is all a phase. He believes once I realize how hard it is to keep growing my bakeries, I’ll come back to New York, begging for a job with the Sharks. While his lack of faith in my ability to be successful on my own hurts, I know it’s partly driven by his own desire to keep the Sharks franchise in DiSanto hands.
Either way, this is my chance to prove myself. To him and to myself.
I tie an apron around my waist and move back behind the counter. Surveying the cupcakes and other baked goods I offer—croissants, eclairs, mille-feuille—I note that we’ve sold most of the sweets today. Relief spreads through my limbs, followed by a wave of satisfaction.
While I haven’t let Dad’s outlook stop me, his view has caused me to question if I can handle this. Can I really run two bakeries in two different cities? Can I keep turning a profit, growing, introducing new sweet-lovers to my desserts?
The task seems daunting and yet, as I glance around my tiny space in the heart of Boston, I can’t remember the last time I was this happy. Well, I guess the day I opened my New York location. But that was three years ago and now, this feels like a big win. I’ve been in Boston for two weeks and from the first day our doors opened, I’ve experienced a steady trickle of business and a warm welcome to the city.
The mild success has softened the doubt Dad’s words often cause. It’s also helped ease the guilt I feel whenever I don’t agree with Daddy, since Mom always did. I can still hear her voice gently reminding me to “obey your father,” even when his rules seemed unfair.
I pour myself a fresh cup of coffee and watch as the first few snowflakes of the afternoon descend from the sky. It’s not this cold in New York yet but winter is upon us. Dad argued this was a terrible time to open a bakery and while his reasoning made sense, when the lease for this space suddenly became available, I didn’t question it.
I jumped in whole-heartedly and haven’t looked back. The bell above the door chimes as a customer enters and I smile. Oftentimes, not looking back is the best thing I can do to keep moving forward.
The customer is carrying a vase with a beautiful floral arrangement.
“Would you like some sweet treats to go with your flower delivery?” I ask the young man who looks to be in his early twenties.
He shakes his head and places the vase down on the countertop. “These are for you.” He frowns. “Well, maybe. Are you Noelle DiSanto?”
“I am.”
“Then these are for you.” He smirks, pushing the vase closer to my side of the counter.
“They are? Who sent them?”
He indicates the little notecard.
“Oh,” I say surprised, wondering who sent me flowers. Maybe my Aunt Maria? Or my best friend from college, Tia? Or my New York manager and ride-or-die, Averie? Probably Averie.
The young man backs away and I spring into action.
“Here,” I call out, opening the display case and placing an eclair in a bag. I hold it out to the guy.
“Hey, thanks.”
“Tell your friends to come by,” I encourage.
He nods and leaves the shop.
When I’m alone again, I pick up the card and trace the edge of the envelope flap. My heart rate increases as I think about who sent the flowers. For a brief instant, Scott Reland flickers through my mind.
At forty-four years old, he’s sophisticated and confident. Tall, fit, and with the most alluring, bright green eyes, Scott’s physical prowess almost rivals his sharp intelligence. He’s quick, compassionate, and has the best sense of humor of anyone I’ve met in Daddy’s hockey circles. While my father has disliked him for years, I’ve always enjoyed whenever our paths would cross. I bite my bottom lip recalling one night when our polite conversation turned to witty banter. Wine gave way to bourbon and longing gazes morphed into passionate kissing. Scott made me feel alive—wanted—and I couldn’t get enough.
But the following day, as Dad berated his rival, I couldn’t help but wonder if Scott kissed me because of the forbidden nature of such a hookup. It was the second time we kissed, and the fact that he never tried to take it further both confused and soothed me.
Soon after, I met Chris, and my kisses with Scott became fond memories of time spent with a long-held crush. I shake my head at the old memories.
But the last time I saw him, over the summer, the way he held me in his arms and spun me around the dance floor was different. Our public relationship, usually cordial with an easy affability, shifted into something more. The urgency of our kisses from so long ago seemed present again. There was a charge I hadn’t detected in years. I couldn’t help but notice how the salt and pepper at his temples made him look more distinguished. I liked the laugh lines that appeared on the sides of his mouth. He filled out that suit, looking sexier than any other man in the room.
I swallow and close my eyes.
What the hell am I doing? Scott didn’t send me flowers. Tia did. Or my aunt. Or, a flicker of hope, maybe Dad?
Opening my eyes, I pull the little notecard from the envelope and my breathing halts in my chest. The handwriting is neat and tidy, small. Was the guy who delivered the flowers the same who took the message? Or were these flowers purchased in person?
Noelle—
Congratulations on the opening of Primrose Sweets, the Boston edition. It’s wonderful to see your signature stamp on the city. I hope to see you soon too. All the best on this exciting new venture.
Scotty
I bite my bottom lip as I reread the words. Why did he send me these gorgeous flowers and sweet note? Because he and my dad are rivals? Because we’ve always shared a connection, no matter how much time has passed?
Or because he’s genuinely happy that I’m here. That I took his advice. And that the last time he saw me, he felt it too. The pull, the chemistry, the desire between us.
I let out a shaky exhale.
Scott Reland belongs to a world I’m trying to distance myself from. First, there’s my father. Then, the Sharks franchise. Plus, my ex-boyfriend Chris, now a retired player, who made me realize just how demanding and difficult the life of an NHL wife would be. For years, I’ve sworn off this type of future. I’ve committed myself to my studies, to my business.
The last man I should feel a spark for is Scott Reland. Scotty.
But I can’t deny that my heart accelerates at the thought.
* * *
After I close for the night, I walk a few streets over to my new apartment. It’s a sweet one-bedroom with beat-up wooden floors and exposed brick. The original kind, not the trendy look. I’ve decorated it simply but it’s warm, and as I scrunch my toes into the plush living room carpet, it feels like home.
I pour a glass of wine, kick back on the couch, and prop my feet up on the coffee table. After mindlessly flipping through Netflix recommendations, I work up the nerve to call Scott, wondering if this is still his number since it’s been five years since we exchanged contact info.
He answers on the first ring and my heart leaps into my throat. “Welcome to Titletown, Noelle.”
I roll my eyes at the term, showcasing Boston’s dominance in sports, hockey included. But I’m grinning and my smile comes through in my tone. “Thank you for the warm welcome. The flowers are gorgeous.”
“Glad you like them. How are you settling in?”
I look around my apartment. “So far, so good. I’m not far from Faneuil Hall.”
“A great part of town. You walk the Freedom Trail yet?”
I chuckle. “Not since I was a kid, but I’m excited to be a tourist while I’m here.”
“Good.”
I roll my lips together, knowing this is the part of the conversation where I would wrap it up. Except, I don’t want to hang up just yet. Not when Scott’s voice is the most familiar one I’ve heard all day.
“Listen,” he continues, and I bite my bottom lip, my heart rate increasing, “I’m glad you called. I love that you took my advice and opened up shop here.”
I roll my eyes again but I’m fighting back a smile.
“And now that you’re here, I’d love to put in an order.”
“An order?” I arch an eyebrow.
“Yes, it may be too short notice, but I’m hosting an event at my house this Sunday. It’s a baby shower—”
“Baby shower?” I interject. Is Scott having a baby with—who? I haven’t heard of him being romantically linked to anyone. My stomach feels unsettled as I consider the thought that he’s having a baby with a woman he’s not even with. But why should that bother me? Scott is a decade older than me and I’m not even on his radar. And he shouldn’t be on mine.
“Yeah, one of the guys on my team, his wife’s expecting. We’re doing a team thing since our resident party planner, Torsten Hansen, retired,” he says the words easily, not like he’s putting on airs or tooting his own horn. It strikes me because I don’t know if Dad’s ever hosted an event that celebrates the team, or one of its members, without their being a media motive behind it. “Noelle?”
I clear my throat. “Yes, sorry. Okay, baby shower cupcakes. Do you know the sex of the baby?”
“A surprise.”
“Nice. How many?”
“Three dozen.”
“Cool. Any suggestions on design or colors?” I wrack my brain for all the normal questions. I ask them every time I take an order and suddenly, I can’t recall the list.
“Whatever you think, Noelle. I trust you.”
The words surprise me because even though he’s talking about a small matter—cupcakes—he says them with a conviction that speaks to something more.
“Good,” I murmur.
“Okay, then. Can I pick them up that morning?”
“Absolutely,” I recover. “I’ll have them ready for you by 10 a.m.”
“I’ll see you then. Thanks, Noelle.”
“Thank you, Scott. For…everything.”
He chuckles and disconnects the call.
I toss my phone down and take another sip of my wine. My head buzzes and an excited nervousness expands in my stomach. My move to Boston was dictated by the timing, the availability of the space, the chance to expand.
But now that I’m here, I’m happy Scott Reland is too.
It’s serendipitous.