It Had to Be You (Christiansen Family) (2 page)

E
DEN
C
HRISTIANSEN’S CAREER,
her love life
 
—even her car battery, for that matter
 
—were frozen stiffer than the late-January cold snap encasing the city of Minneapolis. Icy black snow edged the curbs, and the pavement glistened with salty grit. Breath hung between every conversation.

The blue-mercury windchill blew through the thin-paned windows of Stub and Herbs, a restaurant located a couple blocks from the offices of her old haunt, the
Minnesota Daily
newspaper.

Back then, Eden would wander over for a burger after a week of reporting and find her cohorts gathered around a fresh issue of the paper, newsprint on their fingers, arguing over the editorials and who had landed stories above the fold.

Back then, it was only a matter of time before she found the
perfect story to earn herself a real byline. Back then, her career was hot. Her future was hot.

Maybe even
she
was hot.

Now, in a white down parka, a lime-green woolen cap, and a pair of sensible black UGGs, she looked like she might be dressed for dogsledding through the streets of Minneapolis.

No wonder her date’s attention fell upon the gaggle of underdressed college girls who pushed through the frosted doors, young and hopeful as they thumbed the screens of their iPhones. They walked up to the long wooden bar and waved to friends seated at a nearby table. Overhead, a flat-screen TV spilled out the news; another showed ESPN highlights.

She should have tried harder to put a little flame into dinner with Russell. What if his out-of-the-blue invitation was the real thing and had nothing at all to do with her brother Owen’s recent trade from the Minnesota Wild to the new Blue Ox NHL franchise in St. Paul?

“I really like the blue cheese burger,” Eden said, perusing the menu.

Now Russell’s attention was on the ESPN coverage of the NHL stats.

Shoot. She closed the menu.

Who was she kidding? This wasn’t a real date. She could see right through Russell Hays. Until last week, the mortician had spoken to her three times a week as if she were his personal secretary rather than the obits clerk. Then Owen Christiansen became the new superstar face of the Blue Ox, and out of nowhere, Russell had sent her an e-mail. Not the classiest way to ask for a date, but he’d followed it up with a Starbucks-coffee-and-malted-milk-ball gift basket.

And he wasn’t exactly hard on the eyes. Funeral directors should be short, squirrelly men with comb-overs and bad polyester suits. But Russell didn’t fit that description either.

Tonight he looked like a man who actually meant his words:
I know we haven’t really gotten to know each other over the past four years, but would you like to have dinner?
He wore a pedestrian red sweater, but with his brown eyes and short, curly blond hair, he could be a sort of L.L.Bean model. He wasn’t a big man
 
—probably slimmer than she and just as tall
 
—but he had wide shoulders, and he’d held the door open for her and crooked his elbow out as if she needed help trekking to the restaurant over the icy parking lot despite her sturdy UGGs.

The thought counted.

However, the sparks stopped there. They’d shared a sum total of four sentences since sitting down, and now
 
—

“Last week’s snowstorm sure kept us busy,” Russell said over the top of his own menu.

Really? They were going to talk shop?

Fine. She’d play along. At least it would take her mind off the trouble Owen might be finding tonight.

Oh, she’d promised herself she wouldn’t think about Owen. Behind the wheel of his new Dodge Charger. Not an expensive car, but Owen’s first, and it had gone straight to his 3.1-million-dollar-contract brain.

“My parents said that it would be a banner year for them if they were finished rebuilding their resort,” Eden offered.

Russell closed the menu, and his gaze caught on a couple college jocks who sauntered in and took seats on the black leather stools at the bar. One wore a U of MN sweatshirt. Hockey players. Eden could tell by their long hair brushing their collars, the hint
of beard, the swagger. Minnesota grew hockey players like pine trees
 
—big, strong, and everywhere.

Russell turned his attention back to her. “Rebuilding?”

“Our resort on Evergreen Lake burned last summer during the wildfires.”

“I’m so sorry.” He fiddled with his watch, a Rolex, gold with a blue face. It looked similar to one that Owen wore, but his had been a Blue Ox signing gift.

“It’s okay. My brother Darek is heading up the rebuild. It’s going to be spectacular: a sauna, a playground, Wi-Fi, and brand-new cabins
 
—all state-of-the-art.”

“Sounds spectacular indeed.” Russell leaned back in the chair, gave her a smile. It touched his eyes. “I didn’t know you were from northern Minnesota.”

He said it as if he meant it. As if he hadn’t scanned the player pages online and picked out every tidbit of information about Owen. Eden cupped her coffee mug, warming her hands. “I went to the University of Minnesota, and I live here, but I go home as often as I can.”

Which, for the last four years, hadn’t been often, with Owen’s junior hockey schedule and then his development years with the Wild’s AHL franchise. He’d finally seen real ice time last year, and she’d acted as the Christiansen family emissary to his games. That, and maybe more, she could admit.

The door opened and another coed strutted in, bringing the chill with her, looking smart and successful, a messenger bag over her shoulder, a golden future ahead of her. Eden glanced at her and then to Russell, expecting his gaze to be on the brunette.

Nope. He was smiling at her. “I’ve been wanting to ask you out since that first day you answered the phone at the obits desk.”

He had?

“I’m sorry it’s taken so long.” He had nice teeth, a warm smile. So he wasn’t a big guy
 
—she liked guys who seemed approachable. Human.

Maybe he wasn’t here trying to score tickets to a Blue Ox game. Eden shrugged her parka off her shoulders.

“When Charlotte mentioned she had hired an obits clerk, I guess I thought it would be some temp girl
 
—”

“I’m a reporter.”

Oh, why had she corrected him? She wanted to snatch it back. In truth, Eden was more a classified sales representative selling line ads, not a reporter. And she was starting to think she never would be, after four years at the obits desk. When she’d taken the job at the
Star Trib
, she’d thought it might be a jumping-off place to opportunities in metro or even features.

But it was just a matter of time. The right story. Someday, she would land on the front page with her own byline, be just as amazing as her siblings.

“Of course. Reporter.” Russell looked uncomfortable now, shifting in his chair. His gaze drifted up to the television over the bar. The news was on
 
—the sports report. No hockey game tonight or she would have had other plans.

“I wrote a couple pieces for the remembrance section last year.”

“I remember,” he said. “Your editor was in Hawaii.”

Yes. Which meant Eden had gotten her big opportunity to follow her gut on a couple of the notices that came across her desk. One led to a two-column article on a World War II veteran. The other on a librarian who’d founded a tiny mobile library.

So it wasn’t riveting, life-changing news.
Your articles belong in
Ladies’ Home Journal
, not on the front page.
The metro editor’s words still stung a year later.

“I remember that piece you did on Mr. McFarland,” Russell went on. “The family had it framed at their father’s funeral.”

“I just took your information and rewrote it. It’s not really reporting. But I won’t be in obits forever. You’ll see.”

In her pocket, Eden’s phone vibrated. She fished it out in time to see Owen’s number moved to missed calls. She noted two previous ones and frowned.

“Everything okay?”

She nodded but put the phone on the table. “Owen’s at a private birthday bash for one of the Blue Ox players tonight. I’m not sure why he’s calling me.”

“Do you need to go?”

“Of course not. He’s a big boy.”

“Whose birthday is it?”

“Jace Jacobsen, the team captain.” Also known as the team troublemaker and Owen’s idol. She had a secret hunch that Owen’s eagerness to join the Blue Ox had something to do with skating with his childhood hero.

She considered Russell for a moment. “I got an invitation . . . I guess we can go if you want.”

He stared at her for a second; then a half smile hitched up his face. “No . . .”

She didn’t mean to let out an audible sigh, but there it was, and along with it died more of her suspicions that he might be just like every other man she’d dated in the past year.

Truth was, she could wear a bag over her face, shuffle around in burlap, and she’d still have a lineup of dates. But a real relationship with a man who might like her? Listen to her? Really see her,
instead of walking by her in a crowd? Choose her over hockey? Right. One mention of Owen and she knew what her date wanted: box seats.

But maybe Russell was different.

“Unless you want to go,” he finished.

She forced a smile. Shook her head.

“You know, you should try to get a job as a sports reporter. With your connections, you could get exclusives with the Blue Ox.”

“Yeah, our sports guy would like that. What
 
—I’m going to walk into the locker room after the game, interview the players as they peel off their gear? No thanks.”

A frown touched his eyes.

“Sorry.” Maybe it wasn’t all Owen’s fault she couldn’t get beyond date number one. She simply walked into every relationship with her dukes up. No wonder she spent most nights alone, reading or writing in her journal.

Her phone vibrated again. She glanced at it, then at Russell.

“Take it,” he said.

Eden answered. Heard music, then yelling. “Hello?”

Nothing. She raised her voice. “Owen?”

More music, then, “Eden, is this you?”

She could barely make out the voice. “Yeah!” Oops, she was yelling on her side.

“It’s Kalen. I . . . I shouldn’t be calling, but I think you need to get over here.”

Kalen Boomer, the Blue Ox goalie. As young and talented as Owen, and the other blond, blue-eyed star of the team. “What? Why do you have Owen’s phone?”

“He’s had a little too much to drink.”

What kind of prank were they pulling on her? “Very funny, Kalen. Ha-ha.” She was pulling the phone away to hang up when she heard it.

Singing. A warped version of Elvis, loud and boisterous and . . . Oh no. She put the phone to her ear. “Seriously?”

“He won’t listen to us. Maybe if you come down here, you can get him home.”

“I’ll be right there.” She pressed End.

“What’s the matter?” Russell said.

She shook her head, still staring at her phone. For three years Owen had managed to keep his nose clean, show up early for practice, and become a stellar rookie player. Now, two months into his new contract, she almost didn’t recognize her kid brother. It seemed that Owen’s fame had rushed straight to his naive, small-town head.

“Can I drive you somewhere?” Russell had leaned forward, his kind brown eyes full of concern.

She took a breath. “Would you mind driving me to Sammy’s Bar and Grill in St. Paul?”

“Sure.” He reached for his leather jacket.

Eden led the way out to the parking lot, the wind not touching the anger heating her cheeks. What if Owen got in trouble or drove drunk? His name would appear on the front pages
 
—or at least the police reports
 
—and destroy everything he’d worked for.

Russell opened the door for her, and she climbed into his Nissan Pathfinder, hitting the seat heater button as he got in and started the car. “Thank you.”

“It’s no problem.”

“It’s that stupid Jace Jacobsen,” Eden said, staring out the window. “He’s a bad influence on Owen. Almost since Owen could lace up his skates, he’s wanted to be like J-Hammer.”

“And why not? The guy is a beast on the ice,” Russell said, turning onto the highway. “And he didn’t get his reputation for nothing. In his rookie season, he got in a fight with a legend and flattened him. And when he joined the Blue Ox three years ago, he launched the franchise. There’s a reason he’s the captain
 
—he totally intimidates the other team, and with him on the ice, players know to back off. Last season alone he had 310 penalty minutes. You should be glad he’s there to protect Owen from dirty hits.”

“Are you a Blue Ox fan?”

“I live in Minnesota,” Russell said. “I also root for the Wild, the Vikings, the Timberwolves, the Gophers, the Bulldogs, and the Twins.”

“Right,” she said. “Of course. I’m probably overreacting about Owen.”

“J-Hammer’s rep isn’t just on the ice, and we all know it. He’s dated more supermodels than a man has a right to, and last year, he made
Hockey Today
’s twenty-five most eligible bachelors.”