Chapter 5
Bliss
By the time Cade knocked on my apartment door at eleven sharp, I had already rearranged the same stack of notebooks on my coffee table three times, burned my tongue on my second cup of coffee, and convinced myself at least twice that inviting him here before Sunday dinner had been a reckless academic decision made by a woman who couldn’t be trusted around dimples.
The apartment smelled like vanilla coffee, warm sugar, and the cronuts Charm Harlen had dropped off twenty minutes earlier with a dramatic warning that if I accidentally fell in love before dinner, she wanted credit for catering the emotional downfall.
Sunlight pushed through the thin curtains in soft white bands, brightening the living room enough to expose every cozy, imperfect detail I suddenly wished looked more mature.
The pink cheetah print throw blanket folded over the couch had fuzz on it.
My coffee table held three notebooks, two highlighters, my laptop, a jasmine and vanilla candle, and one emergency tube of lip gloss Aura had left behind during finals week.
A laundry basket sat half-hidden near the hallway because apparently I believed shoving clothes under a cardigan made them disappear.
I glanced at the door, then at the cronuts, then at myself in the mirror by the entryway.
Soft black Red Wings tank top. Denim shorts. Bare legs. Hair down because Charm had threatened me with bodily harm if I put it in a messy bun. Minimal makeup, which had somehow taken longer than actual makeup because the goal had been to look like I had not tried while absolutely trying.
Pathetic.
Academic.
This was academic.
Cade knocked again, a slower, quieter sound this time, like he knew I was already on the other side losing an argument with myself.
I exhaled once, opened the door, and immediately regretted having eyes.
He stood in the hallway holding a cardboard coffee carrier in one hand and a small white bakery bag in the other, wearing pale worn jeans, a black Fury hoodie, and that calm, expensive ease that made him look like he belonged everywhere and nowhere at the same time.
His dark hair was still damp at the ends, pushed back carelessly like he had showered after a workout and not once considered the emotional consequences of showing up at my apartment looking like that.
His eyes dipped over me once, quick enough to be polite and slow enough to be a problem, before coming back to my face.
“Detroit?” he asked.
I glanced down at the Red Wings tank top tucked loosely into my shorts. “Careful. That sounded judgmental.”
“It was observational.”
“Mm-hmm. That’s what men say right before they realize they should’ve kept a thought to themselves.”
His mouth twitched. “You invited a Fury player into your apartment wearing another team’s logo?”
“I live in the great state of Michigan. I don’t work for the Fury propaganda department.”
“Tragic. We offer benefits.”
“Do the benefits include free therapy after all the fistfights, or is that separate?”
“No,” he said easily. “We just punch each other and move on with life.”
I stepped back to let him in. “Women would hold a grudge for ten years.”
“That’s because women won’t just let another woman punch them in the face and call it closure.”
“That or we’re just petty.”
His mouth twitched again as he crossed the threshold, and his shoulder brushed mine in the doorway for half a second, warm and solid and completely unnecessary to notice. “That’s why hockey’s superior, Pip.”
I shut the door a little harder than I needed to. “Pip?”
“I like it better than Pipsqueak.”
“Oh my goodness. Absolutely not.”
He set the coffee carrier on the kitchen counter and turned back to me, looking entirely too entertained with himself. “It suits you. You’re tiny.”
“I am average height.”
“You are bite-sized.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Careful, Cross Check.”
This time he actually laughed, the sound low and real enough to pull my attention straight to the dimples cutting into his cheeks. “Cross Check?”
“You keep pushing for Pip and it’ll fit.”
He laughed again, and I hated how fast I smiled. Not because he was funny, but because he was unexpectedly fun. There was a difference, and unfortunately that difference was becoming a problem.
Cade was supposed to be cold. Rich. Untouchable.
Some snobby future NHL god with no personality and enough campus worship to damage an already questionable male ego beyond repair.
From a distance, he looked exactly like every reason I had sworn off athletes.
Too handsome. Too wanted. Too used to rooms revolving around him.
But standing in my kitchen with coffee and bakery bags while morning light cut across his jaw, he did not feel like the version everyone whispered about.
“So,” he said, sliding one of the coffees toward me. “How are we doing this?”
I reached for the cup automatically. “The project?”
“No, Pip.” His mouth curved like the nickname had already entertained him before it ever reached me. “Our secret affair.”
I nearly choked on my first sip of coffee. “Stop calling me Pip.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“It’s an improvement from Pipsqueak.”
I stared at him. “You called me Pipsqueak in your head first?”
“Saying Bliss too many times a day could fuck with me. I thought Pipsqueak, but I like Pip. It suits you. Like I said, you’re very small.”
“I am five-two, but emotionally I’m an easy six-five.”
“But still just five-two.”
“I might be little, but I pack a punch.”
His dimples appeared, and I had to look down at the coffee cup for my own safety. What was it called when you signed paperwork before surgery acknowledging all the risks? Prolonged exposure to Cade Mercer probably needed one of those.
“Pip is not happening,” I said.
“It already happened.”
“You don’t get to nickname me.”
“You nicknamed me first.”
“I called you Cross Check one time after you called me Pip.”
His grin spread slowly. “Semantics.”
“Oh my goodness,” I muttered, walking past him toward the living room because distance felt medically necessary. “You are unreasonable.”
“And yet, you opened the door.”
“For academic reasons.”
“Right,” he said, dragging the word out just enough to make it feel like a challenge. “Academic.”
I pointed my coffee at him. “Careful, Cross Check.”
Something flickered across his face when I said it. Amusement, yes, but something underneath too. Something private. Like the name landed somewhere he hadn’t expected and stayed there.
That should not have pleased me as much as it did.
I carried the cronuts from the counter to the coffee table, already regretting every choice that had led to Cade Mercer standing in my apartment looking around like the details mattered.
His gaze moved over the framed photo of me, Aura, and Charm at senior prom, the Detroit Tigers magnet on the fridge, the stack of sports media textbooks near the couch, the blanket folded over the armrest, and the half-packed tote bag sitting by the door for Sunday dinner.
He noticed everything without making me feel inspected, which was possibly worse because inspection I understood.
This felt like attention.
“Coffee and cronuts?” he asked, following me into the living room.
“Don’t get used to it. This is not standard project treatment.”
“Shame. I was about to demand it in my contract.”
“You don’t have a contract.”
“Yet.”
I dropped onto the couch and pulled one leg beneath me, trying to look professional even though my project notes were spread across the table beside pastries and a coffee I was already drinking too fast. Cade sat at the opposite end of the couch, close enough that I could smell clean soap and cold air beneath the coffee, but not close enough to crowd me.
Somehow, the space he left felt intentional.
Which annoyed me because I noticed that too.
“All right, my future sports-agent,” he said, leaning forward to set his cup down. “Sell me your vision.”
“My vision,” I repeated dramatically, because if I didn’t make it a joke, I might start noticing his forearms like a woman who had learned nothing from her own life. “I want it organic.”
Cade leaned back slightly against the couch, one arm stretching across the cushions while his fingers pushed lazily through the dark strands falling across his forehead.
The movement dragged my attention straight to his hands before I could stop it, and judging by the way the corner of his mouth twitched afterward, he noticed.
Because of course he noticed.
“Organic,” he repeated, nodding with exaggerated seriousness. “Grass-fed project.”
I laughed softly into my coffee. “That’s not what organic means.”
“It feels close.”
“It doesn’t.”
His grin deepened slowly, dimples cutting into his cheeks while he bit lightly at his bottom lip like he was trying not to laugh at his own joke. That was worse. Much worse. Men should not be allowed to look that good while saying objectively stupid things.
“You’re kind of bossy for someone wearing enemy colors in Fury territory,” he said.
I leaned forward across the coffee table slightly. “And you’re very confident for someone one bad hit away from becoming my project’s cautionary tale.”
His laugh came low and warm this time, rough enough around the edges that it settled somewhere dangerous low in my stomach before I could stop it.
I forced myself to focus.
“I don’t want this to feel like an interview,” I said, reaching for my notebook before immediately pausing because even the sight of it felt too formal. “Actually, no. This looks like I’m about to ask about your five-year plan and whether you work well in groups.”
Cade’s mouth twitched. “I don’t, just FYI.”
“That is only-child energy.”
His brows lifted. “What gave it away?”
“You looked personally overwhelmed when I described Sunday dinner.”
“It sounded loud.”
“It’s love with volume.”
“That sounds like it ends with property damage.”
I laughed and nodded. “In my family, property damage is just proof the kids are visiting.”