Chapter 5
Reese
Istare up at the sleek exterior of Maple & Ash, my heart doing that thing it's been doing on and off since Logan texted this morning. "Dinner tonight? I know a place."
When I said yes, I wasn't expecting one of Chicago's most expensive steakhouses—the kind where even the air feels rich, where people like me only go for milestone birthdays or engagement celebrations.
But then again, I wasn't expecting any of this—not the coffee mishap, not wearing his jacket around my apartment nonstop, or texting obsessively with a man who is nothing like what I expected.
I smooth down my dress—the nicest one I own, a deep emerald wrap dress that Elena once said makes my curves look "illegal in several states"—and take a deep breath. Just dinner. With an absurdly attractive professional athlete who could literally have any woman in Chicago. No pressure.
I push through the heavy door into a space where everything gleams—polished wood, sparkling crystal, the soft glow of candles reflecting off wine glasses. The hostess gives me a once-over, her perfectly shaped eyebrow arching slightly.
"I'm meeting someone," I say, suddenly feeling like I should have worn something more expensive, something that didn't come from last season's clearance rack.
"Name of the reservation?" she asks, her voice as smooth as the marble counter between us.
"McCoy," I say, and just like that, her expression transforms. The eyebrow settles, her smile warms, and she practically vibrates with excitement.
"Of course. Mr. McCoy mentioned you'd be joining him. He's already arrived. Please, follow me."
I trail behind her through the dining room, aware of the sidelong glances from other diners. Are they looking at me? Do I have something on my dress? But then I spot Logan, and the rest of the room fades to black.
He’s sitting at a corner booth, but stands when he sees me. The navy suit he’s wearing fits him like Giorgio Armani had tailored it himself, emphasizing his broad shoulders and trim waist. His smile makes me tingle—warm, genuine, slightly crooked on one side.
"Reese," he says, my name sounding somehow special in his voice. He moves forward, his hand finding the small of my back as he leans in to kiss my cheek. The touch is gentle but electric, sending a current up my spine. "You look beautiful."
"Thanks," I manage, hoping he can't feel the heat rising to my face. "You clean up pretty well yourself. No coffee stains in sight."
He laughs, guiding me to the booth with that hand still on my back. "I made sure to keep all beverages at a safe distance until you arrived."
As we slide into the booth—a secluded corner that feels simultaneously exposed and intimate—I notice a couple at a nearby table openly staring. The woman leans to whisper something to her companion, her eyes never leaving Logan.
"Does that happen everywhere you go?" I ask, nodding subtly in their direction.
Logan glances over, then back to me with a shrug. "Sometimes. Part of the job." He leans in slightly. "But tonight, I'm just a guy having dinner with a beautiful woman who assaulted me with coffee."
I laugh, some of my nervousness dissipating. "I feel like we need to establish that it was an accident. I don't make a habit of attacking hot men with random beverages…”
He smiles and waits for me to process what I just said.
It takes me a second, “Oh jeez—random men with hot beverages.” I giggle, correcting myself as my cheeks flush.
"A likely story." His eyes twinkle. "For all I know, you've got a whole MO. Bump into unsuspecting athletes, douse them in coffee, then charm them into buying you dinner."
"You caught me.” I wink and smile, “It's how I supplement my lavish kindergarten teacher salary."
A waiter appears, offering us menus bound in leather that feels softer than any jacket I've ever owned. Logan doesn't even open his.
"Would you like me to order for us?" he asks, his attention completely on me despite the server hovering nearby. "Or would that be too presumptuous?"
"Usually I'd say too presumptuous," I admit, scanning the menu where the prices make my stomach tighten. "But considering I've never been here and you have, I'll trust your judgment."
He nods to the waiter. "We'll start with the seafood tower, then the bone-in ribeye for two, medium rare. And the truffle pasta as a side." He turns back to me.
I tilt my head, studying Logan's confident expression and whisper to him in a teasing voice. "I thought we’d talk it through first and then you’d order for both of us. What if I don’t like seafood? What if I'm a vegetarian?" I make eye contact so he knows I’m mostly joking.
Logan's eyes widen slightly, and I catch a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. It's oddly satisfying to see him momentarily thrown off his game. But then he winks at me and plays along.
"I—you're right," he says, looking genuinely chagrined. "That was presumptuous." He turns to the waiter, who's standing there with practiced patience. "Actually, can you give us a moment?"
The waiter smiles and tells us he’ll be back soon.
"Any allergies or strong dislikes I should know about?"
"No allergies. And the only food I genuinely hate is black licorice, which I doubt is on the menu."
"Not yet," he says with mock seriousness. "But I hear it's coming next season as a palate cleanser."
The waiter returns, pen poised. “Perhaps you’d like to start with something to drink besides water?”
Logan doesn't even hesitate. "The 2015 Caymus Special Selection, please."
I have no idea what that is, but from the waiter's approving nod, I'm guessing it's not the house red. When the waiter leaves, I find myself fidgeting with my napkin, folding and refolding the crisp linen.
"So," I say, desperate to fill what feels like a growing silence. "I forgot to bring your jacket. It's hanging in my closet. I still need to dry-clean it."
"You don’t need to do that."
"Of course I do. That thing probably costs more than my rent."
He smiles, but doesn't deny it. "Well, thank you. Though I meant what I said—you can keep it if you want—it looks better on you than it ever did on me."
The wine arrives, and the waiter makes a show of presenting it to Logan, who nods without checking the label.
"To unexpected collisions," Logan says, raising his glass.
The wine is incredible—rich and velvety, nothing like the $20 bottles I split with Elena on our girls' nights. I take another sip, letting myself enjoy it without thinking about the price tag.
"So," Logan says, leaning forward slightly. "Tell me about kindergarten. What made you want to teach the little monsters?"
"They're not monsters," I say automatically, then laugh.
"Okay, sometimes they are. But mostly they're just these amazing little humans figuring out how the world works.
Every day is different. One minute you're explaining why we don't eat glue, the next you're watching a kid have this incredible breakthrough with reading or making a friend. "
As I talk about my classroom, my students, the daily victories and challenges, Logan listens with an intensity that's almost unnerving. He asks thoughtful questions, laughs at my stories about classroom mishaps, and seems genuinely interested in what my days are like.
"What about you?" I ask as our appetizer arrives—a towering display of seafood that looks like it belongs in a food magazine. "How does a boy from small-town Minnesota end up captain of the Chicago Blades?"
He tells me about growing up in Hibbing, about frozen ponds and early morning practices, about his dad who ran a one-man plumbing business and worked long hours to pay for hockey equipment.
"I wasn't a natural talent," he admits, using a tiny fork to extract crab meat. "Not like some guys who just have this gift. I had to work twice as hard for half the recognition."
"But you made it," I say.
"Eventually. After a lot of long bus rides in minor leagues, a lot of soggy road subs, a lot of wondering if I should just give up and go be a fireman back in Hibbing." His smile turns reflective.
As we talk, our hands occasionally brush across the table—reaching for bread, gesturing to make a point.
The touch is nothing, really, just skin against skin, but it shoots straight through me like a live wire.
My fingers tingle, my thighs clench under the table, and I wonder if he notices the way I keep inventing excuses to reach across.
The main course arrives, and the conversation flows as easily as the wine.
I tell him about my most challenging student, a boy with selective mutism who finally spoke in class last week.
He tells me about the rookies on his team, how he sees himself in their nervousness, their desperation to belong.
"You're really good with them," I say. "The way you talk about the younger players—it's how I think about my students."
"I never thought about it that way," he says, looking genuinely surprised. "But yeah, I guess there are similarities. Minus the tantrums and nose-picking."
"Oh, hockey players don't have tantrums? I find that hard to believe."
He laughs, deep and genuine. "Okay, fair point. To be honest, we also have tantrums and pick our noses. Maybe we're not so different from kindergartners after all."
By the time dessert arrives—a chocolate soufflé that melts on my tongue—I've almost forgotten where we are, who he is. It just feels like dinner with someone I've known much longer than a day, someone who gets my jokes and challenges my thoughts and makes me feel seen in a way I haven’t in a long time. All of that and he’s kind, charming, and definitely the hottest guy I’ve ever been on a date with.
When the bill arrives, discreetly tucked into a leather folder, I reach for my purse out of habit. Logan's hand gently covers mine.
"I've got this," he says, and I notice for the first time a slight scar across his knuckles. "You can get the next one."
The next one. The promise in those words makes my heart skip.
He slips a credit card into the folder without checking the total, but I catch a glimpse of the figure as the waiter takes it away. The amount makes me tense momentarily—but Logan doesn't seem to notice or care.
"Ready?" he asks, standing and offering his hand.
I place my palm against his, feeling the warmth of his skin, the slight calluses on his fingertips. My heart races. "Ready." I lie.
As we weave through the restaurant toward the exit, I notice the glances again—the subtle phones raised to take discreet photos, the whispers behind hands.
But Logan keeps his focus entirely on me, his hand a steady presence at the small of my back, guiding me through the crowd like we're the only two people in the room.
Outside, the night air is cool against my heated skin. I look up at him, suddenly shy again now that we're alone.
"Thank you for dinner," I say. "It was... amazing."
He leans in, our faces closer than ever, and for a split second I think he’s going to kiss me right there in front of the valet stand. But he goes for my ear instead, his breath warm on my cheek, making all my nerve endings fire.
“Thank you for saying yes,” he whispers, his words sending a shiver from the base of my neck down to my belly.
His cologne hits me, dark and clean, and my knees almost give out.
I can’t decide if I want to melt into his arms or drag him back into the restaurant bathroom and do unspeakable things to him.
Then he pulls back, searching my face, and I’m pretty sure he can see every dirty thought flickering in my eyes. But he just grins, boyish and wolfish at once, and whispers, “Can I drive you home?”
I nod because my mouth is useless at the moment, my words stuck somewhere behind my tongue. The cool air on the sidewalk almost sobers me, but then Logan squeezes my hand, igniting another round of fireworks in my blood.
The car is predictably ridiculous—a matte black Land Rover.
The valet bows when he sees Logan and practically sprints to open the door.
The entire drive home takes place wrapped in leather and silence, every second is thick with exquisite tension.
When his knuckles brush mine on the console and linger there, my stomach flips.
At my apartment, Logan kills the engine but doesn’t move. For a moment it feels like the whole city is holding its breath. Then he reaches out, brushes a strand of hair behind my ear, and says, “I had a really good time tonight, Reese.”
My name in his voice is enough to tip me over. “Do you want to come up?” I ask, barely more than a whisper.
His smile answers for him.
When we get to my door, my shaking hands fumble in my purse for my keys. When I pull them out, he gently takes them and opens the door for us. He puts his warm hand on my lower back as we walk in.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, as we turn to face each other.
This time he doesn’t hesitate—he just kisses me.
Not polite or restrained, but real and hungry, the kind of kiss that makes me forget we’re in a dim hallway with a neighbor’s dog barking two doors down.
He tastes like wine and spices, and I grab his lapels to pull him closer.
I’m greedy for the weight and heat of his body.
Logan groans, low and reverberating, and deepens the kiss with a flick of his tongue that sends a shock through my thighs, melting my knees.
When I slide my hands up his chest, I’m not prepared for how solid he is under his tightly fitted shirt.
I feel the breadth of his shoulders, the solid weight of him under my hands, my fingers winding into his hair, and he responds with a nip at my lower lip that makes my entire core clench in anticipation.
When we finally break apart, I’m dizzy, breathless, and absolutely certain my life just changed.