Chapter 14
Chapter fourteen
What the hell is bee-keeping age?
Reid
It’s silent for the first few minutes of the drive, with her stealing glances up at me with those tired eyes, and me pretending not to notice. She looks like she needs rest and quiet. A break from being needed.
I pull out of the lot and ease us onto the main road, letting the silence settle. The heater ticks with a low hum, and the dash lights glow a soft gold against the setting sun. She leans her head back, exhaling with what I assume is the first real breath she’s taken all day.
Something inside the cab is holding its breath, waiting to see which one of us will break first, and I already know it’s going to be me.
“Long day?”
“Long week.” Her eyes stay on the road ahead, but her lips quirk slightly. “Is it that obvious?”
I lift a shoulder. “You look like you haven’t slept at all.”
She snorts. “I haven’t. Had five surgeries, one idiotic admin system, and a new intern who called the wrong time of death on a trauma case.”
I grimace. “Shit.”
“Yeah.” She shifts slightly in her seat, head turning just enough for me to catch the curve of her jaw in the low light. “It’s been a week.”
She doesn’t elaborate further or launch into the kind of venting most people do when you ask a simple question about a stressful week, but something in her voice is softer tonight. Lighter and less armoured.
I ease my grip on the wheel. “You said you get tomorrow off, though.”
“That’s the plan.” A pause. “If I don’t get called in.”
“Still,” I say. “Some time away is probably overdue.”
She doesn’t comment on that. Instead, her gaze drifts out the window where the buildings flash past in a steady rhythm.
“How’s the knee?”
I glance down at it instinctively, even though it’s been weeks since I’ve needed to.
“Cleared,” I say. “As of late this morning.”
That gets her attention, and she turns toward me, brows lifted.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “Heidi signed off, my trainer’s signed off. Coach too. I’m on the ice for the next game, but it’s all road stretch. Ten days. Calgary, Edmonton, then east.”
Her expression flickers, and something tightens around the corners of her mouth before she catches it.
“That’s good,” she says, a little too lightly. “I mean, it’s what you’ve been working toward.”
I nod again, eyes back on the road. “Yeah. It is.”
There’s another beat of silence, and I can see her fidgeting with her hands from my periphery. Then her voice cuts through, quiet and careful.
“Could we… I mean, do you mind if we go to your place?”
I blink, not because I’m opposed—not even close—but because it’s her asking. Because it’s her. Dr. Carina Park, with her walls and rules and careful control, is asking to come into my space. With no additional pretext or excuses.
“You sure?”
She nods. “I don’t wanna go home yet.”
My throat goes dry, and I glance over again, but her gaze is fixed now. She means it. And maybe it’s stupid how much that matters to me, but I don’t care.
“Okay,” I say, and take the next turn.
By the time we pull into my driveway, she’s kicked her shoes off and curled her legs beneath her in her seat, talking animatedly as the city passed us by. I tried not to steal sideways looks at her the whole drive, but she’s fucking adorable like this.
Once I cut the engine, I step out and meet her on the passenger side before she even reaches for the handle.
“Really?” she says, watching me open it. “You gonna do this every time?”
“Pretty much.” I offer a hand. “Get used to it.”
She rolls her eyes but takes it anyway, and I spot the slightest curl at the corner of her lip as I help her down.
Inside, my house is quiet and dimly lit, just as I left it. I hit the entryway lights and watch her as she steps over the threshold.
There’s no polite guest shuffle, and she doesn’t hover awkwardly or ask where to put her coat. She slips it off, tosses it over the stair railing, and steps further in like she belongs.
“Just a heads up,” I say as I toe off my boots. “My cat’s a dick.”
She glances over her shoulder, one brow raised.
“I’m serious,” I add. “She’ll only barely tolerate me and my friend’s kid, but everyone else, she tries to murder.”
As if summoned, Gremlin, the little demon, slinks out from the shadows and makes a beeline for her.
Carina stops mid-step. “So this is—”
“Yeah,” I say grimly. “That’s Gremlin.”
The cat freezes, eyes narrowed and locked on Carina like she’s already planning where to sink her teeth first.
“Shit,” I mutter, stepping forward. “Don’t move. She goes for the ankles.”
But instead of extending a singular claw, Gremlin lets out a soft chirp, then rubs herself against Carina’s leg with a full-body lean.
Carina crouches down and runs a hand over the cat’s arched back. “Hi, gorgeous. You must be Gremlin.”
The little traitor purrs.
“No fucking way.” I stare, stunned. “You hate everyone.”
Carina smirks up at me, one hand scratching the side of Gremlin’s chin like she’s a practiced cat whisperer. “Maybe she just has taste.”
Gremlin flops onto her side with a happy grunt, exposing her belly as though she’s never once clawed someone to death for trying.
“You bit Walton again last week,” I tell the cat, who promptly ignores me. “You drew blood.”
“She’s perfect,” Carina says smugly, giving one last chin scritch before rising.
Gremlin twines around her legs like she’s claiming her, and I watch them both for a beat, completely thrown.
“Want the tour?” I ask, shaking myself internally.
“Sure.” Carina nods, brushing fur from her hands. “Impress me.”
I walk her through the downstairs rooms, feeling like a glorified real estate agent. We go through the kitchen, living areas, and the small office I barely use, where she notices everything.
The photos on the office wall—me as a toddler between my parents, barely walking yet.
One of me at thirteen, arm slung around Harry’s neck after a win.
Another from the Storm’s most recent Cup win—Jake with Charlie and the kids, Eli and Tamara, Logan in his rookie year, grinning with his arm raised, Chase flipping off the person behind the camera who was, incidentally, Zoe.
And I’m in the back, smiling but still somehow looking serious.
“Your family wall?” She quietly studies every person in the photos.
I nod once. “Yeah.”
She doesn’t say anything else, just nods silently and takes them in for a second longer, then follows me back toward the kitchen.
The sliding doors open to the backyard, and I push them wide open. It’s past sunset now, but the garden’s still visible in the ambient light from the patio and outdoor lighting. There’s a line of squat wooden boxes along the back fence line—my beehives, tucked into the edge of the property.
“You keep bees?” she asks, incredulous.
“Yeah. For honey.”
She turns, blinking. “You make honey?”
“It’s not a euphemism.”
A short laugh escapes her. “Didn’t think it was, I just… didn’t expect it.”
There’s amusement in her tone, but it’s not mockery. She’s intrigued more than anything else, and the way that makes something shift in my ribs throws me. Because that means she thinks she knows me, or at least wants to.
And I want her to.
I point out the fire pit ring further down the backyard. There’s charcoal dust still visible, the mismatched chairs I’ve never replaced, a cracked beer bottle that someone—likely Chase—forgot to bring back inside. A half-burned marshmallow stick resting on the bricks, probably Meadow’s.
“Storm guys come here a lot?”
“Yeah,” I say. “And their families. We do a Sunday brunch thing, usually at their places. But the guys like to come up here to hang, too. Mostly in the off-season, or if we’re off a win and someone doesn’t wanna deal with crowds.”
“And you let them?”
I glance at her. “What, you think I’d say no?”
She shrugs. “Just doesn’t seem like your thing.”
“It’s not.” I pause. “But they are.”
There’s something unreadable in her face at that, but she doesn’t push. Instead, she turns slowly in place, taking it all in. The house, the garden, the bees, the view.
“It’s nice,” she says. “Not what I expected.”
“Yeah?”
“I thought it’d be all concrete and protein powder and expensive furniture you never sit on.”
“Wow.”
She grins and turns to look back at the view of the city, now bathed in an evening glow, and the light catches her face—half shadowed, hair pulled loose, eyes softer than usual.
“Beautiful view,” she murmurs.
Fuck, I know.
She turns back when I don’t reply, and catches me staring right at her. I clear my throat and look at the ground, kicking a pebble that’s fallen loose from the garden.
“It’s better upstairs.” I look back up at her. “From my balcony.”
She lifts an eyebrow. “Of course it is.”
I smile softly and nod my head back toward the house, then stop at the door to let her through first, watching as she steps back inside. And yeah, maybe her pace is tired, her body finally starting to sag with exhaustion, but her steps don’t falter.
She wants to be here, and I want her here too.
Her fingers trail along the walls as she moves toward the stairs, and when I catch up behind her, I slip my hand to the small of her back, guiding her gently as we climb.
Gesturing her toward the master bedroom, she glides through carefully, her eyes trailing over my bed, my lamp shades, and art on the walls, until she turns toward the French doors. I open them onto the balcony, and the second she steps through, her breath catches.
“Damn,” she murmurs, moving out into the crisp air. “You weren’t joking.”
The view from up here is magical. Denver is sprawled below in a sea of amber and cobalt, the city lights glimmering beneath the inky swell of the sky. It’s quiet, save for the wind rustling through the pines that edge the hill.
I step in behind her, slow enough that she can feel it coming, and wrap my arms around her waist, tugging her gently back against me. Her body reacts instantly, softening as I press my lips to the side of her hairline.