Chapter 18 Taking It Slow （Eden）
TAKING IT SLOW (EDEN)
The door clicks shut, and I don’t move. I’m still braced against the treatment table—the only thing holding me up—my heart pounding so hard it hurts. My lips tingle, my skin feels too hot, and my brain is a wrecking yard of thoughts that don’t belong in this room.
“I want you in my bed.”
He didn’t murmur it—he announced it. A bold and unapologetic claim.
The words hit some switch I didn’t know was still wired, sending a rush of want so fierce, it terrifies me.
Because under it is the fear I’ve carried for years—that when the clothes come off, I’ll freeze.
That he’ll see what Josh saw. That he’ll realize I’m not enough.
I should shove the thought away, bury it. I’ve done it with every man that has shown interest in me since Josh. But all I can see is Nate’s mouth on mine, the way his body fit against me, the way he made me feel.
I hate him for making me want to find out. I hate myself for trembling with the need to try.
I force myself to move. Tie my hair back into a bun.
Clean the room. Reset the table. Pretend nothing happened.
My hands are shaking so badly I nearly drop the sanitizer bottle.
Patients come and go, and I plaster on a smile, guiding stretches, adjusting positions, answering questions on autopilot.
On the surface, I’m steady. Inside, I’m chaos.
Every time I blink, I feel him again—his mouth, his hands, the way his eyes burned into me when he said he’d show me.
I want to scream. I want to kiss him again. I want to crawl under the treatment table and stay there until the world stops spinning.
“Eden?”
Monica’s voice pulls me out of my spiral. She’s standing at the front desk with her usual calm smile.
“Yeah?” My voice sounds too thin.
She clicks on the clinic’s calendar on the screen.
“Quick update. Nate Russo’s next session was rescheduled.
It’s now tomorrow at two o’clock in the afternoon, instead of at eight in the morning.
They want it at his house. I already adjusted your schedule so you’re done after that—less running around for you. ”
“At his house?”
“Yes. His team said it’s better for his recovery routine.” She looks back at her monitor as if she merely informed me of the weather.
I manage a nod, though my heart is thundering. Two o’clock. At his house. No other patients after. He planned this. My hands tremble as I grab my phone.
Eden
I know what you’re doing.
The reply comes ten seconds later.
Nate
Good.
Another ping.
Nate
Also, this way, you don’t have to take the train before sunrise.
My heart trips over itself. He would turn his trap into an act of kindness.
Eden
That’s not why you did it.
Nate
No. But it’s a nice bonus, isn’t it?
I won’t pretend I’m not selfish. I want you here. My bed is here.
I’ll be good for the session. After that—it’s your call, Trouble.
Well that’s blunt. Before I can fully process it, Melissa steps out of her office, beaming. “Eden, got a sec?”
I follow her in, nerves raw and buzzing.
She’s practically glowing. “I just got off the phone with the Defenders. They’ve requested you to travel with them to the West Coast. Five days—Montreal, Vancouver, Seattle.
Three games. Nate needs continuity in treatment.
” Her eyes sparkle with excitement. “They’re paying top dollar for this, Eden.
This is huge for our practice. For you. It will put you on the map; you could be opening your own doors even this year. ”
A laugh slips out, half disbelieving, half overwhelmed. “You realize you’re the only business owner in Manhattan who cheers when her staff talks about starting a competing practice?”
Melissa waves me off, smiling. “Competing? Please. There are enough elite clients in this city to keep us both booked solid for life. This isn’t competition; it’s growth.
We’ll be supporting each other, sending referrals back-and-forth, building something bigger than either of us could do alone.
” She leans in, eyes kind. “I want to see you succeed, Eden. Truly. You deserve this. It will be good for both of us.”
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. That’s Melissa—big-hearted, steady, always moving with the current instead of against it. She makes it sound simple. In her worldview, success is inevitable if I just let myself believe it.
She keeps going, oblivious to the way my stomach knots tighter with every word. “We’ll reshuffle your other clients, probably cover most of it with overtime. This is huge, Eden. You’ll crush it.”
“Five days?” The words scrape out, barely more than a whisper.
Melissa nods, still glowing. “Exactly. You leave the day after tomorrow. The kind of exposure this brings? We’ll be swimming in athlete referrals.”
I nod because it’s the only thing my body remembers how to do. My brain’s gone static, everything blurring together. When I step out of her office, I fumble for my phone, fingers trembling as I type a text.
Eden
Really, Nate?
And again, the response comes instantly.
Nate
Yes, really. We’ll head to the airport together in the morning.
My heart slams against my ribs. This is too fast. Too much. There will be nowhere to run.
Another ping, as if he’s reading my mind.
Nate
Don’t worry. We’ll start slow. I have plenty of guest rooms.
Oh well, now I’m totally fine, I think bitterly, panic clawing up my throat.
When I walk back into the hallway, the clinic feels too bright and too quiet for my frayed nervous system. Tomorrow, I’m going to his house. In two days, I’ll be on a plane with him.
The rational part of me whispers this is good. Professional. Career changing. But the part still feeling the weight of his hands, the heat of his breath, knows I’m in far more trouble than I can handle.
The Uber winds through quiet, tree-lined streets, a world away from Manhattan. Tarrytown is calmer, slower, but the knot in my stomach only tightens the closer we get. When the car pulls up to Nate’s house, I have to force myself to breathe.
The place is exactly what I should have expected—modern and sleek, with big glass panes catching the late-afternoon light. It’s minimalist to the point of intimidating: clean lines, no clutter, a home where everything inside has a purpose.
I step out, thank the driver with a voice that barely works, and walk up the stone path to the door. My hand trembles as I lift it.
The door swings open before I can knock twice. Was Nate waiting? He fills the frame—broad shoulders, damp hair, clean scent of soap on warm skin. Heat rolls off him, forearms corded, throat shadowed with stubble. He looks maddeningly at ease; my pulse tries to punch out of my throat.
His eyes sweep over me in one slow pass, landing on the empty space beside me. The corner of his mouth curves, not in a smile—amusement maybe. “No suitcase?”
My stomach twists. “What?”
He leans one shoulder against the doorframe, voice low. “You were supposed to bring a suitcase. For the trip tomorrow. We are leaving in the morning together.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. “I thought you were joking.”
“Hmm.” His gaze holds mine. The air between us hums, thick and charged. My lips part, but no sound comes out. Then a slow, dangerous smile curves his mouth. “You’re a brat, aren’t you? Testing the limits?”
His voice dips, playful with an edge that flips my stomach. “Do you know what happens to brats, Trouble?”
No. Tell me. Do it.
Heat floods my throat. My tongue goes useless. Every rule I ever set for myself peels away in strips until I’m left with one truth: I want his hands, his orders, the filthy promise behind that question.
Finally, he steps aside, letting me pass. “You’ll learn,” he says lightly, though the weight in his tone makes my knees weak.
I step into his house, every nerve buzzing, and the door lands in place with a quiet, merciless click.
He leads me through the entryway, his hand brushing the small of my back long enough to make my breath hitch. The house is as intimidating inside as it is outside—sunlight spills over polished wood and steel, wide open spaces with nothing out of order.
“Nice place,” I manage, my voice thinner than I want.
He glances at me over his shoulder, eyes glinting. “Thanks. It’s quiet here. No distractions.”
He takes me down a hall to a room enclosed by floor-to-ceiling glass, sunlight streaming in from every angle.
It overlooks the garden, the winter light catching on the frost-dusted branches outside.
The space is immaculate—modern exercise equipment and dumbbells lined against one wall, a mat rolled out in the center, everything arranged with precision and purpose.
It’s more than a training room; it’s a sanctuary.
“This is where we’ll work,” Nate says, stepping onto the mat. “Plenty of room. Everything we need.”
And everything I’m suddenly not sure I can handle.
I set my bag down in the corner, trying to hide that my hands are shaking. “Let’s start with warm-ups. Mobility first.” My voice is steady, but only because I’ve practiced sounding that way.
Nate doesn’t argue. He gives me a low, unreadable look and steps onto the mat.
For a few blessed seconds, it almost feels normal.
I cue the first drill, and he moves with me, precise and strong, his body responding exactly the way it should.
Except his eyes never leave me. Even when he’s stretching, even when he’s supposed to be focusing on his form, his gaze stays locked, heavy on my skin, burning through the thin fabric of my scrubs.
The air feels different here—thicker, every breath dragging him deeper into me.
“Good,” I say, forcing clinical into my tone. “Keep your hips steady. Breathe through it.”
He smirks, not breaking eye contact. “You’re very…commanding.”
“It’s my job,” I snap, a little too quickly.
“Mm,” he hums, as if he doesn’t believe me, and shifts into the next stretch.