Chapter 17
JADE
What the fuck. I had firmly intended to keep my distance from Cayden. That lasted exactly three days. At least I managed to pull the emergency brake before anything more happened. And yet, I barely slept a wink last night because my head just wouldn't shut up.
Now I’m sitting at breakfast, trying to pretend everything is perfectly fine. My gaze wanders to the digital display of the microwave, which reads seven-thirty.
Next to me on the bar stool, Parker is shoveling down a pancake drenched in maple syrup.
The sweet, extremely sticky scent hangs in the warm air of the massive kitchen.
He taps his foot against the paneling of the kitchen island to the beat of some imaginary song, scrolling intently through ice hockey tables on his tablet.
His chewing is the only sound in the room until the door suddenly swings open.
My stomach does an uncontrolled drop, and I clutch my fingers so tightly around the hot ceramic of my mug that my knuckles ache.
I brace myself for the confrontation with Cayden; I expect a reproachful side-glance, a hesitation at the threshold, some sign that that explosive outburst in the library actually took place.
But as he enters the kitchen, exactly none of that happens.
He wears tailored, navy blue trousers and a light gray shirt with sleeves rolled up to his forearms. His hair is impeccable.
No dark shadows under his eyes, no tension in his shoulders.
He exudes this irritatingly fresh scent of expensive shower gel and such a dominant self-assurance that I want to hurl my coffee cup against the wall.
"Morning, kid," he says in passing, ruffling Parker's hair briefly.
Parker grins with full cheeks, a drop of syrup hanging from his chin. "Morning, Mr. Miller. Helena’s pancakes are amazing. You’re missing out."
"I’ll stick to caffeine," Cayden replies, heading purposefully for the machine and pressing the button for an espresso.
He turns his head in my direction. His eyes meet mine. But there is nothing. No hidden flicker, no secret lingering on my mouth. He looks at me as if I were just any random employee he happened to run into in the breakroom.
"Good morning, Miss Sterling," he says, reaching for a sugar bowl and letting half a spoonful trickle into his tiny cup. "I hope you had a pleasant night."
I swallow hard. This guy seriously has the nerve to stand here and completely erase the kiss, my panicked flight, and the entire sexual tension from the record.
"The bed was excellent, thank you for asking," I squeeze out. My voice slips half an octave higher than planned. I force myself to return his gaze without blinking. If he wants to play this game, I’ll play along. I certainly won’t give him the satisfaction of being the first to crack.
Cayden leans one hand on the edge of the kitchen island, lifts the cup to his lips, and drinks.
He watches me over the porcelain rim. A tiny, extremely slow twitch at the right corner of his mouth tells me he is enjoying my irritation to the fullest. He knows damn well I didn't sleep a wink while he’s here playing the deep-chilled master of the house.
"The Royals are playing at home tonight, right?" Parker suddenly blurts out, wiping the syrup from his chin with his sleeve and tapping excitedly on his display. "Against the Vipers. It's a huge match for the playoff rankings. The Vipers have a nasty defense, but our offensive line is much faster."
I set my coffee down on the coaster with a clack that’s far too loud. "Parker, we’ve got a lot on the agenda today. You need to revise that German essay, finish your math homework for Monday, and I need to type up my notes from yesterday."
Parker’s shoulders drop instantly. He pushes the half-full plate away and looks at me with that typical, heartbreaking puppy-dog gaze, with Cayden’s exact eye color boring into my face. "But it's Friday, Mom! We have all day tomorrow for math. Can't we go to the game? Please? Just this once?"
"No," I say firmly, shaking my head. "Of course," Cayden says at the exact same millisecond.
Our voices collide. I gasp, shifting on my bar stool and throwing Cayden a look that should have set him on fire. He calmly puts his empty cup in the sink and crosses his arms over his chest. The fine fabric of his shirt tightens over his biceps.
"He has a home game for his own team practically in his backyard, Miss Sterling," Cayden notes. He tilts his head slightly. "It would be a pure waste to have him sitting in the house simplifying fractions while the actual mathematics of the game is happening downtown."
"That is certainly not for you to decide," I snap at him. The 'you' slips out before I can pull my professional distance back up. I grip the edge of the kitchen island. "I’m not dragging my son into a crowded stadium where he’ll just be in the way and we’ll ruin your evening."
Cayden walks slowly around the island and looms right next to my stool. The distance between us shrinks to an arm's length.
"I am the owner of this club, Jade," he explains, looking me straight in the eye. "I am at every home game. However, I don’t watch these games among beer-drinking fans in folding seats, but in my private box. No one is in the way there. There is plenty of room, an unobstructed view, and probably better catering than you’ve ever seen in a press box. "
"We’re still not going..." I start, but he leans in a bit further and cuts me off.
"You signed a contract," he reminds me, switching back to 'Miss Sterling' and a formal tone.
His eyes narrow into two thin blue slits.
The businessman has taken the wheel. "Unrestricted access. You want to write a profile on the man who wants to build the new billion-dollar stadium? You want to understand why I pump my money into this club? Then you need to see how my team plays. My life is happening in that box tonight. If you take your job seriously, you’ll be there. And the boy comes along."
He uses my own professional obligation as a crowbar to pry my arguments apart.
He nails me down mercilessly. And the worst part: he’s right.
If I want to deliver this feature to Collins, I have to observe Cayden in his element.
I have to write down how he curses when his players miss a pass.
I have to see how he handles the sponsors in the box.
I look at Parker. My son is holding his breath, looking back and forth between Cayden and me with wide eyes. The anticipation shines so brightly on his face that it gives me another deep sting. If I say no now, I’ll break his heart. And Cayden knew that perfectly well when he played his hand.
"Fine," I finally squeeze out through gritted teeth. I strictly refuse to look at Cayden, staring instead at the dark grain of the granite. "We’ll come. But Parker does his homework tomorrow morning without any discussion."
"Yes!" Parker yells, jumping off his stool and throwing both fists in the air as if he’d just won the Cup. "That’s going to be so awesome! I’m putting on my blue jersey right now!"
He storms out of the kitchen. His sneakers squeak loudly across the tiles, the door swings shut, and then a thundering silence envelops Cayden and me.
I slowly raise my head, and Cayden is still standing incredibly close to me. The professional mask of the team owner has slipped by a tiny fraction. An expression of deep, lurking satisfaction lies on his features.
"You're playing a crooked game, Cayden," I say quietly. I have to tilt my head back to look him in the eye. "You act all relaxed here, as if nothing happened last night, and in the next breath, you force me into a box with you where we’ll be stuck next to each other half the night."
He rests a hand flat on my thigh, leans over me, and brings his face so close to mine that I smell his aftershave, which almost hypnotizes me.
"I’m not forcing you to do anything, Miss Sterling," he says. His voice vibrates deep in his chest. "I am merely adhering to the contractual agreements. You wanted unvarnished access. You wanted no excuses. So you’re getting exactly what you signed for."
I don't move back a single millimeter on my stool, even though my body immediately switches to alarm at his proximity. "This has absolutely nothing to do with the contract. You just want to throw me off balance."
A predatory smile appears on his lips. "If a simple hockey game throws you off balance, you’ve definitely chosen the wrong career path in this tough business. Or are you panicked about being in a room with me where we’re not talking about balance sheets?"
"I am certainly not panicked by you," I hiss, finally sliding off the stool and bumping roughly against his arm.
"Excellent," he says, taking half a step back and straightening the cuff of his shirt as if I hadn't touched him at all. "Then put on something appropriate. Henry will have the car out front at six. Don’t ruin the boy’s evening later with your bad mood."
He turns around and leaves the kitchen with those calm, unburdened steps, while I am left alone at the counter.
That asshole. He’s not just acting like nothing happened. I wish I could say none of this affects me. But it does.