Chapter 2 #2
Her hair was dry now, a fluffy, platinum halo around her face. She wasn't wearing makeup. She looked younger. Softer.
She looked up as I entered, her cheeks full of apple. She froze, looking like a deer caught in headlights, if the deer was wearing Cartier bracelets.
She chewed quickly and swallowed.
"You're back," she said.
"I live here," I replied, dropping my gym bag on the floor with a heavy thud. "And get off the counter. That is for food preparation, not for your ass."
She rolled her eyes—an honest-to-god eye roll—but she hopped down. The shirt rode up. I saw a flash of lace panties.
I looked away, grinding my teeth.
"I didn't touch anything," she said, raising her hands defensively. "Except the apple. And the shower. And this shirt. My dress was ruined. I couldn't wear it."
"You went through my drawers?" I asked, my voice low.
"I didn't go through them. I opened the top one, grabbed the first black thing I saw, and closed it. I didn't look at your... intimate items. Though, judging by the rest of this place, I assume your underwear is color-coded and folded by a robot."
She was trying to be snarky, trying to keep up the 'Brat' persona, but I could hear the tremor in her voice. She was terrified I was going to kick her out.
I walked past her to the fridge. I needed water. I needed ice. I needed to not be looking at her legs.
"I spoke to Henri downstairs," I said, grabbing a bottle of Pellegrino. "I told him you were a guest. I told him not to log your presence."
I turned to face her. She was leaning against the cabinets, her arms crossed, hugging herself.
"You... you did?" Her eyes widened. "Why?"
"Because if your father finds out you're here, he'll think I'm harboring a fugitive. Or sleeping with you. Both are bad for my draft stock."
"So it's just about you," she said, her voice turning bitter. "God forbid the Golden Boy gets a smudge on his record."
"Yes," I said ruthlessly. "It is about me. This is my house. My career. You are just a variable I am trying to manage."
"A variable," she repeated. "Wow. You really are a charmer, Kincaid. No wonder you’re single."
"I'm single because I choose to be. Relationships are a distraction."
"And what am I?" she asked, stepping closer. "Am I a distraction?"
She was challenging me. Pushing buttons to see what would happen. It was a defense mechanism. She wanted me to yell so she could categorize me as 'just another asshole man' and dismiss me.
I wasn't going to give her the satisfaction.
I took a step toward her. Then another. She didn't retreat. She held her ground, tilting her chin up, her blue eyes blazing.
"You are a problem," I whispered, looming over her. "A very expensive, very loud problem."
"Then kick me out," she dared me. "Do it. Throw me out in the snow."
"I can't," I admitted, the truth tearing out of me. "Because if I throw you out, and you get hurt, or the press finds you sleeping in a bus station, your father will blame me. He’s petty, Georgia. You know that better than anyone."
Her expression crumbled slightly at the mention of her father's pettiness.
"So we're stuck," she said softly.
"We're stuck."
I placed my hands on the counter on either side of her, trapping her. I wasn't touching her, but I was surrounding her. Her breath hitched. The scent of her—my soap, her vanilla skin—filled my nose.
"If you stay," I said, my voice dropping into the command register, "there are rules. Real rules. Not suggestions."
She swallowed. Her eyes dropped to my mouth, then back up to my eyes. "What kind of rules?"
"One," I said, holding up a finger. "You stay in the apartment. No wandering the building. No gym. No lobby."
"I'm a prisoner?"
"You're a guest who is hiding. Act like it."
She bit her lip. "Fine."
"Two. You clean up after yourself. I don't have a maid service for you. If you cook, you clean. If you shower, you wipe down the glass."
"I've never cleaned a bathroom in my life," she scoffed.
"Learn," I said. "Or leave."
She glared at me. "Fine. Three?"
I leaned in closer. My face was inches from hers. I could see the gold flecks in her blue irises. I could see the pulse jumping in the hollow of her throat.
"Three," I murmured, "you do not provoke me."
"Provoke you?" she whispered. "How?"
"Like you did last night. Like you're doing right now." My gaze dropped to her legs, then back to her face. "Walking around in my shirt. Giving me attitude. Testing my patience. I am a disciplined man, Georgia. But everyone has a breaking point. Do not test mine."
The air between us crackled. It was thick, heavy, suffocating. It wasn't just anger. It was awareness. It was the biological fact that we were two young, attractive people trapped in a high tower, and we hated each other just enough to make it dangerous.
"And if I do?" she breathed. It wasn't a question; it was a taunt.
"If you do," I said, pushing off the counter and stepping back, severing the connection before I did something stupid like kiss the defiance right out of her mouth. "You won't like the consequences."
I walked to the living room, putting distance between us.
"I made up the guest bed," I said over my shoulder. "There’s food in the fridge. I have film to watch. Don't interrupt me."
I sat down in my Eames chair and opened my laptop, staring blindly at the screen.
My heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
Rules. I had set rules. I had established boundaries.
But as I listened to the soft padding of her bare feet retreating down the hallway, I knew the truth.
Rules were just lines in the sand. And the tide was already coming in.
The Next Morning
Forced proximity, I quickly learned, was a special kind of hell.
I managed to avoid her for the morning skate, but fate—or perhaps the sadistic humor of the universe—wasn't done with me.
At 11:00 AM, I had my mandatory physio appointment. My hip flexor had been tight for weeks, and the team trainer, Doc Henderson, had ordered me to get it worked on before the weekend series against Minnesota State.
I walked into the training facility, the smell of Deep Heat and chlorine assaulting my senses. It was a sanctuary of pain and recovery.
"Doc?" I called out, walking past the rows of taping tables.
"In here, Kincaid!" Doc’s voice came from the office. "I'm swamped with the freshmen physicals. I've got the student assistant setting up Table 3 for you. Go get stripped down."
"Copy."
I walked to Table 3, dropping my bag. I pulled off my shirt, wincing as the movement stretched my sore ribs. I unbuckled my belt and shimmied out of my jeans, leaving me in my compression shorts.
I sat on the edge of the table, staring at the floor, waiting.
"Okay," a voice said behind me. "Doc said you need soft tissue work on the right hip flexor and... oh my God."
I froze.
I knew that voice.
I turned my head slowly, praying I was hallucinating.