Chapter 8
Rowyn
With his hand still warming my back, he guides me toward the staircase.
I start to climb, aware of how close he’s staying behind me, and that my butt is basically level with his face.
Not that it matters. It’s not like he’s admiring the view or anything.
And when he said he wanted me out of my clothes, he wasn’t looking to seduce me.
Which, of course, I’m grateful for… I think.
Ugh.
But seriously, it’s late and we both need to get to bed.
Separately.
The first room we come to is his. He steps inside and I peek in, my gaze cataloguing the massive king-sized bed front and center, the kind that could sleep three people comfortably.
I can’t help but wonder if he ever shared it with Poppy.
Or someone else. Or maybe a few someones at a time.
The thought hits somewhere I don’t want to name.
I should be happy for him—he used to love life outside of hockey.
But lately he’s been stuck in a rut, and I hate seeing that spark dim.
It’s not fair. I want to fix it somehow, but I don’t even know where to start.
“Nice room,” I say, tentatively stepping inside.
He heads to his dresser while I take it all in.
I expected bachelor minimalism, neutral walls, furniture that looks rented.
But the space is warm, comfortable, and lived-in.
Not at all like mine. The fireplace, the rich tones, the throw pillows that definitely didn’t come from a guy’s solo shopping trip.
“Your mom helped decorate this too?”
“You know it.”
I grin, moving toward the loveseat by the stone fireplace. “This is incredible, Jaxon.”
A chill still clings to me from the rink, so when he flicks on the fire, I drift closer, holding out my hands to the heat.
“I don’t remember the last time I lit it,” he says quietly, the sadness in his voice hitting me in the chest, right around the vicinity of my heart. “Didn’t really have a reason to. Until tonight.”
My pulse trips. Wait, did he light it when Poppy stayed over? Or did he find other ways to keep her warm?
Jeez, girl. Cut it out.
“These are big, but they’ll do for one night.” He hands me a pair of sweats and a T-shirt.
“They’re perfect, thanks.” I bring the shirt to my nose. “I like your fabric softener.” I nudge him, teasing. “Didn’t know you were so domestic.”
“Tell no one,” he warns, mock-serious.
I laugh. “You’re just lucky we didn’t end up at my place, or I’d be the one lending you clothes.”
He gives me a slow, teasing once-over. “Why? You sleep in something lacy and sexy? Something you think I wouldn’t look good in?”
Oh God. My face heats instantly. “Something you wouldn’t fit in,” I counter, though the truth is I don’t own a single thing that could be described as lacy or sexy.
My wardrobe’s all loose skirts, blouses, and sweaters.
Practical. Safe. Not exactly irresistible.
No wonder guys don’t look at me. I’m not sexy or feminine or… approachable.
Touchable.
“No worries,” he says easily. “I sleep hot.” I cock my head and he explains. “I don’t wear clothes.”
A strangled sound escapes my throat before I can stop it. He grins.
“TMI?”
I shake my head, trying for casual, failing miserably.
“Or,” he adds with that wicked glint. “Did I just set you up for a nightmare?”
“Probably.” I laugh, shaking my head. Needing a distraction, because I now have that image in my brain, I glance toward the door. “How about you show me to my room so I can get changed?”
“You’re in it.”
“What? No. This is your room.” I give a hard shake of my head. “I’m not taking your bed, Jaxon.”
“Yes, you are.” His tone leaves no room for argument.
“This is the only room with a fire, and you’re still half-frozen.
I want you to be warm and actually get a good night’s sleep.
Besides, I accidently kidnapped you, which means you’re now my responsibility.
I think it’s a Chinese proverb or something.
Can’t mess with proverbs. Karma and all that. ”
“The proverb,” I counter, “is if you save a life, you’re responsible for that life.”
“Same thing,” he says easily. “And again, karma.”
I’m pretty sure he’s full of it, but I can’t help smiling. “Karma is a theological concept of cosmic accountability. Proverbs are cultural expressions of wisdom. One has nothing to do with the other.”
He lightly taps my temple. “See, like I said, smart.” He exhales and gives a slow, teasing shake of his head. “And yet…still staying here with me.”
“I’m not afraid of you, Jaxon,” I tease in return. I pick up my wine and take a slow sip, stepping closer to the fire. The warmth hits my chilled skin and makes arguing feel pointless. “Okay, fine. When you stay at my place, you can have my bed.”
He grins. “Deal.” A yawn breaks through his smile. “You still want that tour?”
“Tomorrow,” I say softly. “I have an early morning and you need your rest before your next game. Let’s just get some sleep.”
He points across the hall. “I’ll be there if you need anything.”
“Thanks, Jaxon.”
He stops at the door, turning back to me with an easy smile that hits me in the chest. “Thanks for coming tonight. It was fun seeing you in the box.”
“I really enjoyed it,” I admit.
“Hopefully coffee shop guy sees pictures of us together and that gets the ball rolling.”
“You mean get the donut rolling,” I correct.
He blinks. “What?”
“Get the donut rolling. You know…it’s a coffee shop and they sell donuts and donuts are round? There’s no balls there.”
He stares at me for a long beat, brow furrowing, like I’ve lost my marbles. “I’ve really kept you up too late, haven’t I?”
“Oh my God.” I grab a pillow and toss it at him. He catches it easily, laughing. “That was funny,” I insist.
“Sure, whatever you say. But I think you should stick to hard hitting news stories, Rapunzel. I don’t quite think you’re ready for cartoon editorials.
” He tosses the pillow back onto the bed and jerks his chin toward the bathroom.
“Spare toothbrush is in the top right drawer. Sleep well in your tower.”
I grin. “Night, prince.”
He snorts, shaking his head as he walks out. My eyes follow, taking in broad shoulders, his easy stride, the faintest glimpse of a smile before the door clicks shut.
I turn back to the fire, feeling a new kind of warmth settle in. Maybe it’s the wine, maybe it’s him. Either way, it’s dangerous.
I take the last sip from my glass and set it on the nightstand before heading into the bathroom. His bathroom is ridiculous, and speaking of marbles. There’s marble everywhere, and a shower with so many buttons I’d need a degree in engineering just to rinse my hair. Should I?
“Maybe tomorrow,” I whisper, laughing softly to myself.
Back in the bedroom, the fatigue hits hard. I strip out of my clothes and pull on his sweats and T-shirt. They’re soft and oversized, and they smell like him: clean, fresh, a little woodsy.
I set my phone alarm and put it on the nightstand. When I crawl into his bed, that same scent lingers on the sheets—pure Jaxon—and I swear it wraps around me tighter than any blanket ever could.
I close my eyes, and the soft hum of the wind outside lulls me under.
The fire’s glow fades behind my eyelids, and the scent of Jaxon on the sheets seeps into my dreams, warm, safe, comforting.
Somewhere in the night, the wind howls louder, rattling the windowpanes, but it only pulls me deeper into sleep.
A sound wakes me later, a low groan, the kind that doesn’t quite fit with the creak of old wood or the sigh of the furnace.
My lashes flutter open. For a moment, I’m disoriented, the ceiling too high, the sheets too soft, the air too heavy with something that isn’t mine.
Then it hits me: Jaxon’s room. Right. The fireplace.
The wine. The teasing. I close my eyes again, smiling faintly.
The wind picks up, brushing against the glass, a soothing whisper that calms my soul.
Until my alarm goes off.
I groan and roll to silence it, but something feels… strange. There’s a tug, a pull toward the middle of the bed, like gravity itself has shifted. My brow furrows. I blink into the pale morning light.
And that’s when I see him.
Jaxon.
Staring at me.
His eyes are wide, his expression somewhere between shock and terror, as if he’s not sure whether to bolt or apologize to the universe.
“Jaxon,” I breathe, voice barely there.
He doesn’t answer, just blinks like maybe if he stays still enough, this will all go away.
I push myself up, and the blankets slip from my shoulders. The sound he makes, a low, strangled groan that sends every nerve in my body on high alert, does not help.
Oh God.
Oh dear God.
It was hot last night, wasn’t it? I remember tossing and turning, kicking off the covers…
Please tell me I’m not—
I lower my gaze.
I am.
Naked. In Jaxon’s bed.
My breath catches. My brain short-circuits. My hands fumble uselessly for the sheets, as if my fingers forgot how to work.
Then—mercifully—he moves, grabbing the edge of the blanket and pulling it up, shielding me from his view. “Sorry,” he mutters, his voice rough.
Sorry? For what? For looking? For not looking? For existing? My brain refuses to process.
Maybe he’s sorry because the naked sight of me was horrible for him? Did I scar him for life? Or dear Lord was it not horrible, and that’s the problem?
I need coffee. Immediately. A gallon.
“What… how… how did you…?” I finally manage, gesturing weakly between us, because words are a thing I apparently can’t do before caffeine, or during naked emergencies.
He runs a hand over his face, eyes squeezed shut. “I don’t know,” he groans. “I got up in the night to get a drink, and I must’ve just… come back in here. Autopilot. Total accident. I swear I didn’t mean to crawl in here, Rowyn.”
“Autopilot,” I repeat slowly. My brain is still catching up. “Right. Because sleepwalking into someone else’s bed half-naked happens all the time.”
“I’m serious,” he says, voice muffled against the pillow. “You have to believe me.”
And the thing is—I do. Completely. Because if Jaxon had meant to crawl in here, I’d probably still be dreaming.
“I believe you,” I say softly. “It’s fine. Easy mistake.”
He exhales, relieved, and rolls away from me. Unfortunately, that means I now have a perfect view of his very cute, very bare backside.
Oh no.
Oh no no no.
My brain screams at me to look away. My eyes… do not listen.
“I got hot through the night,” I mumble, clutching the blanket tighter. “That’s why I, uh…” I gesture vaguely to my current state of undress. “Not that I was doing anything inappropriate, in your bed.”
What the ever-loving hell am I saying?
“Hot, yeah,” He gulps. “Makes sense.”
“Did you… are you…” I can’t even finish the question.
“Naked?” he supplies, clearing his throat. “Yeah.”
Oh God.
He shifts, still facing away, his voice rough when he says, “So, uh… should we… I don’t know… move? Or—”
“Yeah,” I blurt. “Move. Definitely move.”
Neither of us do and I can’t freaking help but want to know what was going to come after ‘Or’.
For a long, suspended moment, we just… stay there.
Him, half-buried in his pillow. Me, wrapped in his sheets. The morning light spilling through the curtains, catching on the flames in the fireplace. The air between us feels thick, charged, like we both know something’s changed, even if we can’t say what.
He finally lets out a shaky laugh. “Well… this isn’t awkward at all.”
And despite everything—my pounding heart, my flushed face—I can’t help but laugh too.
“Not even a little,” I whisper.
“So, uh, how are we going to do this?”