Chapter 7
Max
There is a specific kind of silence that exists inside a luxury vehicle. It’s engineered. It’s hermetically sealed. The world outside—the slush, the wind, the noise of traffic—is muffled into insignificance, leaving only the leather, the dashboard lights, and the person sitting next to you.
I adjusted the rearview mirror of my truck, though it didn’t need adjusting. It was a nervous tic.
I didn't do nervous.
But tonight felt... calibrated differently.
Tonight wasn't a mandated study session. It wasn't a rescue mission from a frat party. It wasn't even a negotiation of terms.
It was dinner.
"Steak," Imogen said from the passenger seat, breaking the silence. She sounded like she was purring. "I have been dreaming about red meat for three days. If the cow isn't still moo-ing when it hits the table, I'm sending it back."
I glanced over at her.
The breath caught in my throat, a physical snag that annoyed me with its predictability.
She wasn't wearing sequins tonight. She wasn't wearing leather or plunging necklines designed to give the Board of Trustees a coronary.
She was wearing a dress the color of emeralds.
It was silk, long-sleeved, and high-necked, but it was cut on the bias so that it poured over her body like liquid water.
It clung to every curve, highlighting the shape of her waist, the flare of her hips.
It was modest. And it was the sexiest goddamn thing I had ever seen.
"We're going to The Ironwood," I said, putting the truck in gear. "They know how to cook a steak."
"The Ironwood?" Imogen whistled low. "Fancy. That’s where my dad takes the Senators when he wants to bribe them. Are you bribing me, Warden?"
"I'm feeding you," I corrected, pulling out into the snowy street. "You've been studying for four days straight. You passed the practice quiz. You deserve a reward."
"A reward," she tested the word, turning in her seat to face me. Her knees brushed the center console. "Is that what I am? A Golden Retriever who sat on command?"
"You're not a dog, Imogen," I said, resting my right hand on the gear shift. "You're a high-maintenance investment portfolio."
She laughed. It was that real laugh again—the one that started in her belly and ended in my chest.
Without thinking, I moved my hand. It slid from the gear shift to her thigh.
It was instinct. Muscle memory. Over the last week, the boundaries between us had eroded so slowly I hadn't noticed them disappearing until they were gone.
I touched her constantly now. A hand on her back to guide her through a doorway.
A nudge of my knee under the table when she was zoning out. A tap on her wrist to make her focus.
She didn't flinch. She didn't pull away. She just settled into the touch, her muscles relaxing under my palm. The heat of her skin burned through the silk of her dress.
"So," she said, looking out the window as the town of Cold’s Creek blurred past. "Did you send the money?"
"No," I said.
The silence stretched, but it wasn't awkward. It was shared.
"Good," she whispered.
"She called three times today," I admitted, my thumb sweeping back and forth over her knee. "Left voicemails. Crying. Screaming. Then crying again."
"Did you listen to them?"
"The first three seconds. Then I deleted them."
Imogen reached out and covered my hand with hers. Her fingers were small, her nails painted a dark, vampy red. She squeezed.
"Proud of you," she said.
The words hit me harder than a puck to the chest protector.
I kept my eyes on the road, jaw tightening to keep the emotion from showing on my face.
I wasn't used to pride. I was used to expectations.
People expected me to make the save. They expected me to fix the mess.
No one ever stopped to tell me I did a good job just for surviving it.
"Don't get sentimental," I grunted. "I just didn't want to waste the tuition money."
"Liar," she murmured, tracing the veins on the back of my hand. "You're doing it because you're realizing you don't have to set yourself on fire to keep other people warm."
I looked at her then. The streetlights cast intermittent shadows across her face, illuminating the softness of her expression.
She wasn't looking at me with the hungry, desperate look of the girls at the rink.
She was looking at me like she knew me. Like she had read the blueprint and understood the load-bearing walls.
"We're here," I said roughly, pulling into the valet line.
I needed to get out of this truck. The air was getting too thin.
The Ironwood was the kind of restaurant that smelled like old money. Mahogany paneling, low lighting, white tablecloths that were starched stiff enough to cut you. It was quiet, filled with the murmur of polite conversation and the clink of expensive silverware.
We walked in, and I felt the shift immediately.
Heads turned.
In Cold’s Creek, the starting goalie for the Kodiaks was a minor celebrity. But Imogen Sterling? She was royalty. Infamous, scandalous royalty.
I felt her stiffen beside me. The "Brat" mask started to slide into place—the chin lifted, the eyes went cold, the smile turned brittle. She was preparing for battle.
I slipped my hand to the small of her back, pressing firmly.
I’ve got you.
She exhaled, her shoulders dropping an inch. She leaned back into my hand, grounding herself.
"Mr. Vane," the maitre d' greeted us, smoothing his tuxedo. "And Ms. Sterling. A pleasure. We have a booth in the back for you."
"Thank you," I said.
We were led through the dining room. I saw the looks. The whispers behind menus.
Is that the Dean's daughter?
I heard she got kicked out of the dorms.
Is she dating Vane?
I thought he was a monk.
I stared them down. One by one. I met every curious gaze with a flat, cold look that said, Keep looking and I’ll make you regret it. They looked away.
We sat in a curved leather booth in the corner. It was intimate. Secluded.
"Wine?" the sommelier appeared instantly.
"The Cabernet," I said without looking at the list. "The ‘18. And bring the bottle."
"Excellent choice, sir."
Imogen watched him leave, then turned her amused hazel eyes on me. "Sir? You're really leaning into the Daddy energy tonight, aren't you?"
"I know wine," I shrugged. "Chemistry. Tannins. Oxidation. It’s science."
"It’s alcohol," she corrected. "But sure. Science."
The wine arrived. We ordered. Two ribeyes. Rare. Asparagus. Truffle fries (her choice).
When the waiter left, a comfortable silence settled over the table. Imogen picked up her glass, swirling the dark red liquid.
"This is weird," she said.
"What is?"
"Us. Out. In public. Not fighting. Not saving me from a disaster." She took a sip, her eyes closing briefly in appreciation. "It feels... illicit."
"We're having dinner, Imogen. It’s not a crime."
"Isn't it?" She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. "My dad thinks you're rehabilitating me. If he saw us right now... drinking sixty-dollar wine and playing footsie under the table..."
I realized my foot was hooked around her ankle. I didn't move it.
"He'd think I was doing a thorough job," I said dryly. "Socialization is part of rehabilitation."
"Is that what this is?" Her eyes sparkled. "Socialization?"
"It’s maintenance," I said, taking a sip of my wine. "If I keep you fed and watered, you’re less likely to bite the neighbors."
"I might still bite," she teased, lowering her voice. Her gaze dropped to my neck. "If the mood strikes."
The air between us grew hot. Charged.
"Max! Maxwell Vane!"
The bubble popped.
I suppressed a groan as a man approached our table. He was in his fifties, wearing a suit that cost more than my truck, with a face that was red from too much scotch.
Mr. Kensington. One of the biggest donors to the athletic program. A man who thought buying a skybox gave him the right to coach the team from the stands.
"Mr. Kensington," I said, not standing up. I kept my hand on the table, fingers relaxed. "Good evening."
"Good to see you, son!" He slapped my shoulder a little too hard. "Great game last Saturday. That shutout? magnificent."
He turned his watery gaze to Imogen. His smile faltered, turning into something oily and patronizing.
"And little Imogen Sterling," he boomed. "I haven't seen you since... well, since the Ice Breaker. That was quite the show, young lady."
Imogen froze. Her hand tightened on her wine glass.
"Mr. Kensington," she said, her voice tight. "Lovely to see you."
"Your father was distraught," Kensington continued, leaning in, invading our space. "Absolutely distraught. You know, in my day, girls like you were sent to finishing school. Not allowed to run wild on campus distracting the talent."
He winked at me. "She must be a handful, eh, Max? Keeping you on your toes? I bet she's expensive to keep happy."
The insult was clear. She's a distraction. She's a burden. She's a whore.
Imogen opened her mouth, a retort ready on her tongue. I saw the fire in her eyes. She was going to burn him down, and he was going to destroy her reputation for it.
I didn't let her.
I moved.
I shifted in the booth, sliding my arm along the back of the seat behind Imogen’s head. I didn't touch her, but I claimed the space. I expanded. I let the Warden come out.
"Actually, Mr. Kensington," I said, my voice dropping to that low, dangerous register that made defensemen flinch. "You have it backward."
Kensington blinked, confused. "Excuse me?"
I looked him dead in the eye. I didn't smile.
"Imogen isn't a distraction," I said calmly. "She's the reason my GPA is up. She's the reason I'm focused. And frankly, she's the only person in this town who understands that there's more to life than the score of a hockey game."
I picked up my wine glass, taking a slow sip, never breaking eye contact.
"And as for expensive..." I looked at Imogen. I let my gaze soften, intentionally, letting him see exactly how I felt. "Quality always is. But she's worth every penny."
The silence at the table was deafening.