Chapter 7
Leo
The engine of my truck rumbled with a low, steady idle that matched the vibration in my chest. I was parked across the street from the Hotel Vermont, the swankiest, most pretentious establishment in Oakhaven. It was a place with valet parking and chandeliers that cost more than my tuition.
I hated it on principle.
But I sat there, gripping the leather steering wheel, staring at the revolving glass doors like a sniper waiting for a target.
Check the time. 8:15 PM.
She had been in there for two hours and fifteen minutes.
My leg bounced nervously. The Wolf was pacing the perimeter of my mind, agitated, sniffing for distress signals that couldn't possibly travel through brick walls and across a four-lane street.
Is she safe? Is she eating? Are they hurting her?
I wasn't used to this. I wasn't used to caring. My life, up until a week ago, had been a series of violent bursts of energy on the ice followed by disciplined silence off it. I had teammates, not friends. I had puck bunnies, not partners. I had a pack, not a person.
Now, I was a glorified getaway driver for a cellist who smelled like vanilla and trauma.
The revolving door spun.
My head snapped up.
Maya stepped out onto the sidewalk.
The air left my lungs in a rush. She was wearing a black coat over a dress I hadn't seen yet, but I could see the hem of it—midnight blue silk that caught the light of the streetlamps. Her hair was down, curled in loose waves that I knew, from experience, were soft enough to drown in.
She looked small against the towering stone facade of the hotel. She paused, looking left and right, hugging her arms around her waist.
She wasn't crying. That was the first good sign.
I hit the headlights, flashing them once.
She saw the truck. Her posture changed instantly.
The tension that was holding her shoulders up near her ears dropped.
Her face, even from this distance, transformed.
The guarded, polite mask she wore for the world dissolved, replaced by a genuine, relieved smile that hit me straight in the solar plexus.
She walked toward the truck, navigating the slushy sidewalk in her heels. I leaned over and popped the passenger door open for her.
She climbed in, bringing the cold night air and her scent with her.
"Hey," she breathed, slamming the door shut.
"Hey," I rumbled. I didn't move to drive away immediately. I turned in my seat, scanning her face with clinical precision. "Report.Casualties? Damage assessment?"
Maya let out a long, shaky exhale, leaning her head back against the headrest. She closed her eyes.
"Survival. Minimal collateral damage. My mother critiqued my hair, my posture, and my major choice within the first ten minutes, but I didn't cry.
And I didn't agree with her. I just... let it slide past me. "
"Teflon," I said approvingly.
"Exactly. Teflon." She opened her eyes and looked at me. In the dashboard glow, her eyes were warm, liquid brown. "You waited."
"I told you I would."
"You've been sitting here for two hours?"
"I listened to a podcast," I lied. I had sat in silence, staring at the door.
She smiled, and it wasn't the shy smile of the girl in the library. It was a knowing, intimate smile. She reached out and placed her hand on my forearm, her fingers squeezing lightly over the sleeve of my jacket.
"Thank you, Leo. Knowing you were out here... it was like having a secret weapon in my pocket. Every time my dad asked about 'marketable skills,' I just thought about you checking Silas into the boards."
I snorted. "Glad my violence is therapeutic for you."
"It's very grounding."
I put the truck in gear. "You hungry?"
She hesitated. "We had dinner. I ordered the salmon."
"Did you eat the salmon?" I asked, pulling away from the curb.
Silence.
I glanced at her. She was biting her lip. "I pushed it around the plate. My stomach was in knots."
"That's what I thought," I said, hitting the blinker. "We're going to Manny’s."
"Manny's? The diner on Route 9? It’s basically a grease trap with a roof."
"It has the best milkshakes in the state," I corrected. "And nobody there cares about posture or marketable skills. You need calories, Maya. You can't play Elgar on an empty tank."
"You're bossy," she noted, but she didn't pull her hand away from my arm.
"I'm responsible," I corrected. "There's a difference."
I accelerated, the engine growling as we left the pristine, manicured world of the hotel behind and headed toward the neon-soaked comfort of the diner.
Manny’s was a time capsule of 1950s Americana that smelled of frying bacon, old coffee, and lemon pledge. It was 8:45 PM on a Wednesday, so the place was half-empty. A few truckers sat at the counter, and a group of exhausted nursing students huddled in a back booth.
We took a booth near the window. The red vinyl seats were cracked and taped over with duct tape, and the table wobbled.
It was perfect.
Maya slid into the booth, shrugging off her coat.
I froze.
The dress was... a problem. It was a slip dress, dark blue, clinging to every curve of her body like a second skin. The straps were spaghetti thin, exposing the delicate line of her collarbones and the slope of her shoulders.
I felt my pupils dilate. The Wolf growled a low, appreciative note of approval.
"Stop looking at me like you're going to eat me," she whispered, picking up the laminated menu.
"I am going to eat," I said, sliding into the booth opposite her. "But first, burgers."
A waitress named Barb, who had been working at Manny’s since the Nixon administration, shuffled over with a notepad. She popped her gum, looking us over.
"What can I get you kids?"
"Two double cheeseburgers," I ordered without looking at the menu. "Fries. Onion rings. And a chocolate milkshake. Two straws."
Maya’s eyes widened. "Leo, I can't eat a double cheeseburger. I'll explode."
"You'll eat half," I compromised. "I'll eat the rest. You need the protein."
Barb scribbled on her pad, eyeing me with a smirk. "He's a feeder, huh? My husband was like that. Italians. Always trying to fatten you up so you can't run away."
Maya laughed—a bright, genuine sound that made the truckers at the counter turn their heads. "Something like that."
"We aren't Italian," I said dryly. "Just hungry."
"Uh-huh," Barb said, snatching the menus. "It'll be out in ten."
When she walked away, I leaned across the table, invading Maya’s space. I loved this—the bubble. The way the rest of the world faded into background noise when I focused on her.
"So," I said, resting my elbows on the sticky table. "Tell me about the investors."
Maya sighed, tracing a crack in the Formica with her fingernail.
"It was... polite. That's the worst part.
They don't yell. They just ask questions that make you feel like you're three inches tall.
'Are you still wasting time with that chamber orchestra?
' 'Have you looked into teaching positions, just in case? '"
"And what did you say?"
"I said yes," she admitted, looking down. "I nodded. I smiled. I played the part."
"Strategy," I said. "Don't beat yourself up for survival tactics. You got through the dinner. That was the mission objective."
"I felt like a coward," she whispered.
"You're not a coward," I said firmly. I reached across the table and covered her hand with mine.
My hand engulfed hers completely. "A coward wouldn't be sitting here with me.
A coward wouldn't have let me touch her in the gym yesterday.
You're biding your time, Maya. You're waiting for the right moment to strike. "
She looked up at me, her eyes searching mine. "Is that what you do? Bide your time?"
"Every day," I admitted. "I spend every minute of every day holding back. waiting for the ice. Waiting for the moment I’m allowed to let go."
"And with me?" she asked softly. "Are you holding back with me?"
The air between us grew heavy, charged with static.
"Maya," I said, my voice dropping to a rumble. "If I wasn't holding back with you, we wouldn't be in a diner. We would be back at The Hive, and I wouldn't be letting you wear that dress."
She shivered. I felt the vibration travel through the table.
"Here you go, lovebirds."
Barb slammed two heavy plates onto the table, shattering the moment. The smell of grease and melted cheese wafted up, momentarily overpowering the scent of arousal.
"Eat," I commanded, pushing the milkshake toward her.
Maya took a sip. Her eyes rolled back in her head. "Oh my god. That is sinful."
I watched her. I watched her lips wrap around the straw. I watched the column of her throat move as she swallowed. I watched her pick up a fry and bite into it, a drop of grease glistening on her lip.
It was domestic. It was mundane. And it was the most erotic thing I had ever seen.
I ate my burger with mechanical efficiency, never taking my eyes off her. We shared the food. I stole onion rings from her plate; she dipped her fries in my ketchup. We moved around each other like we had been doing this for years, not days.
"You have mustard," she said, pointing to the corner of her own mouth to mirror me.
I wiped my mouth with a napkin. "Got it?"
"No," she said. She reached out with her thumb and wiped the spot on my lip. Her skin was warm, soft.
My breath hitched. I caught her wrist before she could pull away. I turned my head slightly and kissed the pad of her thumb, tasting the salt and the mustard.
It was a blatant, possessive move.
Maya froze. Her pupils blew wide, swallowing the brown irises.
"You missed a spot," I murmured against her skin.
From the counter, Barb let out a loud cackle. "Lord have mercy. You two are gonna melt the snow off the roof."
We broke apart, laughing awkwardly. But the heat didn't dissipate. It settled low in my gut, a heavy, coiling weight.
"Check, please," I called out.
I needed to get her out of here. I needed to get her alone.
We didn't go back to campus.