Chapter 4
I stared into my closet as if it had personally wronged me.
It wasn't that I didn't own decent clothes.
I had a closet full of nice jeans, button-downs, and a couple of blazers for team events.
The problem was, I had no frame of reference for what constituted "dinner with a billionaire" attire.
A full suit felt like trying too hard. A T-shirt and jeans felt like I wasn't trying at all.
My brain was a broken record alternating between don't overthink it and if you show up looking like you're headed to a brewery, you'll regret it for the rest of your life.
My phone buzzed on the dresser, breaking the stalemate.
Shay: So? Big date with Daddy billionaire? What does one even wear to that? A diamond jockstrap?
Felix: Careful, he might buy you a yacht. Bring me back the keys.
I snorted despite the nervous knot in my stomach and shot back a reply.
Me: Not a date. Just dinner. Stop being idiots. And no yachts.
Shay immediately replied with a string of winking emojis and a peach.
I groaned, grabbed a simple navy button-down from a hanger, and told myself to stop acting like a high-schooler before prom. It didn't work. My hands shook slightly as I fumbled with the buttons.
"Get it together, Holt," I muttered to my reflection in the mirror. The guy looking back seemed unconvinced. "It's food. Conversation. Not a marriage proposal."
A sleek, black town car idled at the curb outside my apartment building, its windows tinted so dark they could hide a small crime ring. The driver, a man in a crisp uniform, stepped out and opened the back door with silent, professional efficiency.
"Mr. Holt?"
"Yeah, that's me." I slid inside, trying not to look overly impressed by the pristine, soft leather seats and the faint, clean scent of the interior.
The city rolled past the window, lights bleeding into the deep blue of early dusk. My pulse thudded in time with the tires over the pavement. I rehearsed a dozen casual opening lines in my head, scrapped them all for sounding stupid, and finally told myself to just shut up and breathe.
The restaurant was the kind of place that didn't need a sign.
Warm, golden light spilled through its wide, frosty windows.
Inside, the noise was a low, polite murmur of conversation and clinking glass.
A hostess with a serene smile led me through the main dining room to a private alcove screened by panels of dark, polished wood.
Henry was already there.
He stood as I approached, looking infuriatingly composed in a crisp white shirt open at the collar and a tailored black jacket. No tie. His gaze swept over me—slow enough for me to feel it, quick enough not to be a blatant threat.
"You clean up well," he said, his voice that same low, smooth baritone. And before I could muster a reply, he reached out. His thumb brushed lightly, almost negligently, across my cheekbone. "Smudge," he explained, his eyes holding mine. "Probably from your gear bag."
That's a lie but, I couldn't help it as heat rushed up my neck, warm and immediate. Great. Blush harder, Charlie. Really sell the cool, professional athlete vibe.
"Thanks," I muttered, cursing my fair skin and my traitorous circulatory system internally.
He gestured to the chair opposite him. "Wine?"
"Sure. Yeah. Red." I was babbling. I sat down, my voice sounding higher than I'd have liked.
A server appeared silently as a ghost, poured two glasses of a deep red wine from a decanter, and vanished again. Henry leaned back slightly in his chair, studying me over the rim of his glass.
We started safe. We talked about the team—the new line combinations, the upcoming road trip with my friends, how I was settling into the city.
It was manageable territory. Then he asked what had first pulled me into hockey, and something in his expression—a genuine, undiluted curiosity that didn't feel like a test—pulled a more honest answer out of me than I’d planned to give.
I told him about the backyard rink my dad flooded every winter, about sneaking into late-night open skates, about the sheer, gut-level relief of finally feeling like I belonged somewhere.
"You're focused," he observed when I trailed off, feeling oddly exposed. "Disciplined. It's written in your game tape."
"Occupational hazard," I replied, focusing intently on twisting my fork on the tablecloth.
"I admire it," Henry said, the simplicity of the statement giving it far more weight than it deserved.
My chest tightened. I pretended to be deeply interested in the menu to avoid staring at his hands as he set his wine glass down. They were strong-looking, capable hands. I wondered, stupidly, how the one that had shaken mine would feel elsewhere.
Dinner arrived—a perfectly cooked steak for him, seared scallop pasta for me.
The conversation flowed easier over food.
We traded stories: his about building his first company from the ground up, mine about the epic prank war Shay and Felix had started last season that ended with all our sticks being wrapped in pink glitter tape.
He listened, really listened, his focus absolute.
And every so often, his gaze would catch mine across the table, steady and unreadable, and the coil in my stomach would tighten.
Halfway through my pasta, I realized my knee was bouncing nervously under the table. I clamped it still with my hand. Why am I acting like this? It's just dinner. He's just a guy. Get a grip.
When the plates were cleared, Henry leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. The move was subtly intimate, reducing the distance between us. "Dessert?"
I shrugged, trying for nonchalance. "Sure. Why not."
"Their chocolate fondant is excellent," he said, his tone conversational. "But I have better chocolate at my place. Quieter, too."
My heart did a complete stutter-step against my ribs. Every alarm bell in my head started clanging at once: rules, professionalism, headlines, self-preservation. But a sharper, hotter pull—curiosity, pure and simple—tugged harder.
"Okay," I said, and hated how shaky, how breathless, the single word sounded.
Henry's apartment was exactly what I'd expected and nothing like it.
Sleek, modern lines were warmed by soft lighting and shelves lined with real books and interesting art, not the cold, minimalist showroom vibe I'd anticipated.
The city glittered like a spilled jewel box through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with two small plates, each holding a dark, glossy slice of flourless chocolate cake. "Best in the city," he said, handing me one.
We ate standing at the massive kitchen island, the conversation quieter now, softer at the edges.
He asked about my family; I admitted I rarely saw them during the season, that hockey became its own insular world.
He spoke, briefly, about growing up with nothing and deciding, young, that he'd never feel powerless again.
Something about the way he said it—matter-of-fact, not bragging—made me want to lean closer, to understand the man behind the billionaire.
When we finished, Henry set the plates aside in the sink. For a moment, neither of us moved. The air hummed with something unspoken. Then he stepped closer. His fingertips brushed my cheek, catching a stray crumb I’d missed.
I froze, my pulse hammering wildly in my throat.
"Another smudge," he murmured, his voice dropping to a husky register that went straight to my core.
His eyes held mine, a question and an answer in one. And then he leaned in and kissed me.
It wasn't tentative or questioning. It was warm and sure, a slow, deliberate press of his mouth against mine that deepened almost instantly.
Heat flared low in my stomach, sharp and dizzying.
My hands came up to grip his shoulders on pure instinct, feeling the solid muscle under the fine fabric of his shirt.
A low, involuntary sound escaped me—half sigh, half gasp—and Henry responded with a firmer, more possessive slide of his mouth, his tongue tracing the seam of my lips.
God. I want— I want—
Nope.
Panic skittered up my spine, cutting through the pleasurable haze. I broke the kiss, pulling back too fast, nearly stumbling into the kitchen counter behind me.
"I—I should go," I blurted out, my voice rough. "Early skate tomorrow. Coach will actually murder me if I'm late."
Smooth, Holt. Real smooth.
Henry's eyebrows lifted a fraction. Then he smiled—a slow, devastating curve of his lips that wasn't mocking, just deeply, faintly amused. "Cute," he said softly, his gaze dropping to my undoubtedly flushed mouth. "The way you react."
"Yeah, well..." My face was on fire. "Good cake. Thanks for... dinner."
I grabbed my jacket from the back of a chair like it was a shield against the heat radiating from my own skin and all but bolted for the door.
"Charlie," Henry called out, his voice calm, as I fumbled with the handle.
I turned, heart in my throat.
His expression was neutral, but there was a dark, promising glint in his eyes that said this wasn't finished. Not by a long shot. "Get home safe."
I nodded, muttered something that was halfway between "goodnight" and "thanks again," and fled.
Outside, the cool night air slapped against my hot cheeks. I leaned against the sleek black town car; his driver was already waiting, holding the door open.
What the hell was that?
A kiss, sure. But not just a kiss. The way it had lit me up from the inside—how fast and completely I'd melted against him—terrified me almost as much as the frantic urge I had to turn around and go back upstairs.
"Get it together," I muttered to myself, sliding into the plush back seat.
But as the car pulled away from the curb, the taste of dark chocolate and Henry Emerson lingered on my lips, stubborn and persistent as gravity. No matter how many times I told myself to focus on hockey, on the game, on my career, one undeniable truth pulsed underneath it all:
I already wanted more.