Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Toni Amato
“I don’t need help getting dressed.”
“You absolutely do,” Elena says, already halfway inside my closet like she pays rent here. I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching her hold up two dresses like she’s judging a beauty pageant.
“One says competent professional,” she says, lifting the black one.
“That’s the goal.”
“The other says mysterious woman with secrets who drinks expensive liquor and ruins men’s lives.” She lifts the deep emerald one. I hesitate. She smiles. “Ah. That’s the one.”
“I am not ruining anyone’s life.”
“Not yet.”
I push off the wall and take the green dress from her. “It’s a girls’ night.”
“Mm-hmm.” She watches me slip it on, her gaze sharp in that way that sees too much. “You like him,” she says casually. “So is there a chance he’ll stop by his sister’s house randomly?”
I don’t look at her. “I tolerate him.”
“You changed outfits twice.”
“I spilled coffee.”
“You don’t drink coffee at night.”
I turn, narrowing my eyes. “You’re exhausting.”
She grins. “And right.”
I move to the mirror, smoothing the fabric over my hips. The dress fits as if it was made to betray me. Elena leans against the dresser, arms crossed. “Tell me again. Why are you not sleeping with him?”
“I’m not sleeping with anyone.”
“Deflection.”
“My father—“
“Ah,” she says, pointing. “There’s the ghost in the room.”
I bite my bottom lip. “My father officiates his games.”
“And?”
“And he already hates Max.”
“Does he hate him,” she asks, “or the version of him he’s decided is true?” I don’t answer. She steps closer. “You said you left two years ago because of your father.”
“I did.”
“You also said you didn’t leave a note.”
I meet her gaze in the mirror. “That was the smart choice.”
“That was the scared choice.”
My spine stiffens. “You don’t understand—“
“Show me.”
“What?”
“A picture,” she says. “Of the terrifying man who has you running from a hockey player you clearly want to climb.”
“Elena.”
She holds out her hand. I hesitate. Then, against better judgment, I grab my phone and pull up a photo. My father in full officiating uniform. Whistle. Authority. Presence that fills a rink without trying. She studies it longer than I expect, and her expression shifts. “Well,” she says finally.
“Well?”
“I get it.”
Relief flickers—and dies immediately.
“Because I would absolutely date him.”
I stare at her. “You cannot be serious.”
“Oh, I am deeply serious,” she says, zooming in. “That is a man who knows how to take control of a room.”
“That is my father.”
“And a single one, from what you’ve told me.”
I snatch my phone. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I’m practical. Because if I keep him,” she clears her throat, “occupied, he won’t be trying to run your life. Hence, Max time on the horizon.” She adds. “Also, imagine holidays.”
“He would terrify you,” I say.
Elena smiles. “Good. I like men who think they’re in control.”
“Stop talking.”
She giggles, moving toward the door. “Go,” she says. “Drink. Let women tell you things you don’t want to hear.”
“I already have you for that.”
“And yet, you keep needing more.”
I almost don’t go.
I sit in my car outside Piper’s house with the engine running, watching the reflection of the mature trees distort across the windshield.
Getting closer to people who know him is a mistake.
Letting them talk about him is worse. I turn the engine off anyway.
Piper’s house looks exactly like a suburban oasis, and also exactly like what happens when a woman with excellent taste marries a former professional athlete who has an opinion about storage solutions.
There are hooks for everything. The mudroom has a system.
But the living room has three different kinds of throw pillows and a vintage lamp that doesn’t quite go with anything else and clearly isn’t going anywhere.
The house has been lived in, not staged.
It has fingerprints on the light switches and a crayon mark low on the hallway wall that someone has made a cursory effort to remove and then decided was someone else’s problem.
There’s a specific smell to houses with small children that you can’t quite separate into its component parts.
Warmth, baked goods, and the particular ambient scent of small humans who’ve recently been outdoors.
It hits me at the door and settles somewhere complicated.
My apartment smells like cedar diffuser and controlled conditions.
This smells like people actually live here.
Piper’s house smells like Sunday. Music hums low. I pause inside the door. This is a lot.
I’m standing in the doorway registering this when Scarlett appears and I stop registering anything. “Hey!” Scarlett hugs me in a blur of silk and perfect hair. “You made it.”
“I said I might.”
“And I said you would,” Piper pops up behind her with a glass of wine already in hand. “For courage,” she warns, pressing it into mine.
“I don’t need courage.”
“You wore that dress,” she replies. “You need courage.”
Sophie lounges on the couch. “We’re keeping her.”
“I’m not a stray,” I say.
Scarlett tilts her head. “Debatable.” Laughter ripples through the room. It’s easy. Too easy. I take a sip of wine. Mistake. Tastes good.
Twenty minutes later, I’m seated with a blanket in an Adirondack chair in front of the wood fire pit with four women who clearly know too much about each other. And now, apparently, me.
“So,” Sophie says, swirling her drink. “You and Max.”
“There is no ‘me and Max.’” Piper snorts.
Scarlett raises a brow. “Bold lie.”
“I’m his compliance trainer.”
“And I’m a casual movie star,” Scarlett replies. Laughter again. I set my glass on the stone ledge of the fire pit.
“He’s a problem.” I shift, pulling the blanket up like a figurative shield.
Piper leans forward, delighted. “Oh, tell me more.”
“He takes unnecessary penalties. He escalates situations. He—“
“When my sink exploded, he showed up at three in the morning,” Piper interrupts.
I blink. “What?”
“Plumbing disaster,” she says. “Chase was out of town. I called him because I didn’t know who else to call, and he drove across the city half-asleep and fixed it.”
I stare. “He what?”
“He YouTubed it,” she adds. “But still.”
Sophie grins. “He also built my entire patio furniture set because I ‘looked frustrated.’ Didn’t ask. Showed up with tools.”
Scarlett sighs. “He carries protein bars in his car for people who forget to eat.”
“That’s not—“ I start.
“Not sexy?” she finishes.
“It’s odd.”
“It’s thoughtful,” Piper corrects. “Even though it’s mainly because he has an insatiable appetite and eats everything in my kitchen.
But in a cute, helpful, brotherly way. He’s not here to eat; he helps with the kids whenever I ask.
Tonight he’s with Chase at the indoor kids’ park.
” She pauses. “He does the thing where he shows up. When things were bad with Chase’s hips. He didn’t leave. Not once.”
That sinks in differently. Because staying is not what I associate with him. Or men like him. Or men I’ve chosen. I shake my head. “That doesn’t erase his behavior on the ice.”
“No,” Scarlett agrees. “But it explains it.”
I frown. “How?”
“He takes care of people,” she says. “That’s his thing. On and off the ice.”
Piper nods. “Someone gets hit, he’s there.”
“If someone’s struggling, he’s there,” Sophie adds.
“Need stuff fixed, lifted, distracted, protected…” Scarlett trails off.
“He’s there,” they all finish. Silence settles. Uncomfortable. Because it aligns with what I've seen. Piper grins. “Oh my God, tell her about when he tried to babysit all three kids alone.”
Scarlett lights up. “Yes.”
“No,”
Piper chuckles. “Yes.”
I squeeze my eyes tight and rub at my brow. “Why am I here?”
“Growth,” Sophie says sweetly, filling my glass and handing it back.
Piper launches in. “He thought it would be ‘easy.’ His words. Fifteen minutes in, one was crying, one was naked, and one had locked themselves in the bathroom.” I choke on my drink. “He called me,” she continues. “Whispering, like he was in a hostage situation.”
“What did he say?” Scarlett asks, already dying.
“’I respect you more than anyone alive. Please come home.’” The room erupts. I try not to smile. I fail. Barely. But it happens. And they all see it.
Scarlett points. “Obvious.”
I wipe at my mouth. “That changes nothing.” I have built an entire system around not misreading men. Not assigning depth where there is none. And around not confusing intensity for realness.
The problem is this doesn’t feel like a misread.
“Of course not,” Sophie says.
Piper raises her glass. “To Toni,” she says.
I narrow my eyes. “What is this toast for?”
She grins. “For someone who is absolutely not falling for Max Stevens.”
They all clink glasses. I stare at mine. Then take a long sip.
Because the worst part isn’t what they said. None of it was exaggerated. That's the worst part.
I’m not sure exactly when the second bottle becomes the third.
Or when the fire pit goes from roaring to glowing embers.
Or when the conversation shifts from Max to Scarlett’s horror story about a director who tried to reshoot her emotional breakdown scene eighteen times, which Sophie maintains is the reason Scarlett now carries her own tea on a set like a threat.
“He said my crying wasn’t ‘cinematically proportionate,’” Scarlett announces, finishing her wine with the dignity of a woman who has moved past it entirely. “I cried harder. He got his shot. I charged him double.”
“Queen behavior,” Sophie says.
“Survival behavior,” Scarlett corrects. “There’s a difference.”
Harper, who has been tranquilly devastating all evening with one-liners delivered from behind her glass, looks at me over the rim. “Knox told me Max hasn’t been called for a single unnecessary penalty since you arrived.”
The fire crackles. Everyone looks at me. “He’s responding to the program,” I say.
“The program,” Harper repeats.
“The behavioral framework.“
“Toni,” Piper’s voice is fond and merciless. “Knox calls you the Whisperer.”
“The what?”