Chapter 13
Bliss
Sunday mornings in the apartment always felt softer somehow. Quieter. Like the entire building exhaled after Saturday night chaos finally burned itself out.
Charm had left Friday evening for Crystal Falls with whatever new man currently had her giggling and kicking her feet, which meant the apartment was missing at least seventy percent of its normal volume.
Aura had already gone to church with her family before the sun fully came up because every Sunday in the Clarke household involved either Baptist potlucks or Pentecostal emotional warfare.
Right now though, none of that held my attention for longer than a few seconds because Cade’s name sat open across my phone screen like a personal threat to my emotional stability.
Even looking at the thread made my stomach tighten stupidly. I blamed hormones and possible sleep deprivation.
Or Satan.
Probably Satan.
Sunlight pushed weakly through the blinds in thin pale stripes, cutting across my comforter, my abandoned laptop, the hoodie I had slept in for maybe three hours, and the phone I kept pretending not to look at like it wasn’t a live grenade sitting in my hand.
My room still smelled like cold rain, vanilla lotion, and Cade’s laundry detergent, which was deeply unfair because I had already made enough terrible decisions in that hoodie and did not need it participating in the aftermath.
I lay there on my back staring at the ceiling fan, one arm thrown over my eyes, trying to convince myself that last night had been a one-time lapse in judgment caused by stress, hormones, and the fact that Cade knew how to use his voice like a weapon.
That excuse lasted approximately six seconds.
Because it had not been a lapse. That was the problem. I was an active, greedy little participant.
I had wanted it. I had chosen it. I had stayed on that call, followed his voice, both of us coming for each other, and fallen asleep afterward with my whole body still humming from the knowledge that I had not felt ashamed the way I expected to.
Embarrassed, yes. Mortified, absolutely. Ready to move to another state and start a new life under a fake name every time I remembered the sound I made when he came? Also yes.
But not ashamed.
And that scared me more than everything else.
Wanting Cade was supposed to feel like betraying myself.
It was supposed to set off every alarm I had spent years building inside my chest. Hockey player.
Attention. Ego. Temporary girl. Pretty words.
Bad choices. The same old story wearing a different face and better shoulders.
I had promised myself I would never become the girl orbiting an athlete’s life while he got worshipped in every room and cheated in whatever zip code had the easiest access.
I had promised myself I would never be na?ve enough to believe charm meant safety or intensity meant love.
But Cade didn’t feel like the same old story.
Which was exactly why I wanted to shove him into one.
Because if I could make this about chemistry, then I could control it. If I could make this about sex, then I could survive it. Physical attraction had rules. Benefits had boundaries. Wanting his hands on me did not have to mean handing him my heart like a loaded gun and trusting him not to fire.
I could have the fun part. The bad-boy part. The reckless, filthy, breath-stealing part that made my whole body feel alive for the first time in years.
I could let myself be the girl who got the guy without becoming the girl who lost herself to him.
That was reasonable.
Probably.
Maybe.
I rolled onto my stomach and groaned into my pillow.
My phone buzzed.
I lifted my head so fast my neck nearly snapped.
CADE: Morning, Pip.
My stomach did that stupid, traitorous flutter that made me want to throw the phone across the room and then crawl after it immediately.
Another message came through before I could respond.
CADE: Still hate me?
I bit the inside of my cheek, trying not to smile and failing like an idiot.
ME: Unfortunately.
CADE: Dramatic already. Good sign.
ME: I’m emotionally unavailable for comment until caffeine.
CADE: I’ll bring coffee.
I stared at the message too long. He made it sound easy, like this was any other Sunday where he showed up with coffee, helped me pretend my dad’s grill wasn’t a public safety issue, and carried potatoes into my family’s chaos like he belonged there.
Like last night had not fundamentally altered the wiring between us.
ME: You don’t have to come over before dinner today.
CADE: Oh? I am definitely coming today.
My lips parted around a breath I did not know what to do with.
There he was.
Not soft. Not hesitant. Not backing into the room with a clipboard and a fragile little “how are we feeling?” expression. Cade didn’t play that game. He took in the situation, decided what he was doing, and moved like the world would either adjust or get out of his way.
I hated how much that worked for me.
ME: Bossy before noon is a red flag.
CADE: You like red flags when they are from my carnival.
ME: I like coffee too. Let’s not get delusional.
CADE: Too late.
I tossed the phone beside me and sat up, pressing both hands over my face.
This was going to be impossible.
He was coming here. To my apartment. In person. Like he had on Sundays before, except now there was no pretending this was only coffee, potatoes, and project notes. Not after last night. Not after the gym. Not after the closet. Not after FaceTime.
He was going to walk through my door with coffee and that calm, controlled face, and I was supposed to explain to him, like a rational adult, that whatever had happened between us could keep happening as long as we did not let it become something it couldn’t be.
No Cade mistaking Sunday dinners, stolen hoodies, coffee routines, and last night’s bad decisions for me becoming the girlfriend in the stands wearing his jersey and building my entire life around his hockey schedule.
No me pretending that sleeping with a hockey player was somehow different because he looked at me like he already knew where the bodies were buried and wanted a shovel anyway.
I could do this.
I could absolutely do this.
I climbed out of bed and immediately caught sight of myself in the mirror. Messy blonde hair. Sleep-flushed face. Cade’s hoodie hanging down one shoulder like a confession. Bare legs. Slightly swollen mouth from biting my lips half the night while replaying every second of that call.
“Oh my gosh,” I whispered at my reflection. “You are a disaster.”
My reflection had nothing helpful to say.
By the time I showered, dressed, and made the apartment look like I had not spent the entire night spiraling into horny emotional ruin, my nerves had sharpened into something almost productive.
I put on denim shorts and a fitted white halter tank instead of hiding in another oversized sweatshirt because, honestly, pretending I did not want him to look at me felt ridiculous after last night.
My hair went into a messy bun that was actually forty bobby pins tucked strategically to give the illusion of effortlessness.
I added mascara and lip gloss, then wiped the gloss off because the idea of him noticing made my stomach twist. Then I put it back on because I remembered his confession about kissing me last night and decided it was incentive.
The knock came at ten exactly. I stood in the kitchen with both hands braced on the counter and closed my eyes for one second.
No losing my mind over a man who lived half his life on ice and the other half being worshipped for surviving it.
I opened the door.
Cade stood in the hallway with two coffees in one hand and a paper bakery bag in the other, wearing dark jeans, a black Fury T-shirt, and a lightweight jacket that made him look unfairly awake for a man who had absolutely no business looking that composed after what we had done last night.
His hair was pushed back under a black Fury ballcap, and his eyes moved over my face first.
Not my body.
My face.
Like he was checking the damage without asking the question before his gaze dropped. Slowly, like he was taking stock.
Tank.
Shorts.
Bare legs.
Mouth.
Check.
Check.
Check.
Fucking check.
When his eyes came back to mine, they had gone darker. “Morning, Pip.”
My body reacted so hard to that one sentence I almost shut the door in his face out of self-defense. “Morning,” I said, stepping back. “You brought coffee.”
“Told you I would.”
“I said you didn’t have to.”
“I heard you.”
“And ignored me?”
“Efficiently.”
He walked inside like he had stopped needing permission to belong in my space, setting the coffee and bakery bag on the counter with the kind of familiarity that should have scared me more than it did.
The apartment suddenly felt too small, too bright, too filled with him.
Last night lived between us, not awkwardly exactly, but there.
In the way his eyes held mine half a second too long.
In the way my pulse jumped every time his hand moved.
In the way neither of us said the obvious thing because saying it would make it real in a way even FaceTime hadn’t.
He leaned one hip against the counter, arms crossing loosely over his chest. “You okay? Tell me you aren’t one of those girls clutching her pearls after a night of fun.”
The words were meant to lighten me up, but his tone was not soft in that careful, breakable way I would have hated. It was direct. Low. Like he expected the truth because he had earned it.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m fine. And I don’t wear pearls.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “That was fast.”
“You told me to use words last night. I’m using them.”
“And I’m supposed to believe the first ones you throw at me?”
I huffed out a laugh because of course he was going to call me on it. Cade had no interest in letting me hide behind cute answers when he knew I was doing it. “I’m okay.”