Chapter 5 #5
The kitchen went too quiet. I had no idea what to do with a man like him when he said things like that.
So, obviously, I ruined it. “Careful, Cross Check,” I said, slipping the marble back into the tote bag. “If you say emotionally intelligent things in my apartment, I’ll have to report you to the hockey player union.”
His mouth curved, but his eyes stayed warm. “I’ll deny everything.”
“Good. Very on brand.”
We finished the potatoes, packed them with foil, and I turned to wash my hands.
Cade stepped closer to reach the towel hanging beside me, and for half a second we moved wrong in the tiny space.
My hip bumped the counter. His hand caught the edge near mine.
His body angled close enough that I had to tip my head back to look at him.
Neither of us moved.
Water dripped from my fingers into the sink.
His gaze dropped to my mouth again, slower this time, less accidental, and the air in my kitchen tightened until even breathing felt like admitting something.
He smelled like coffee and clean soap and warm sugar, and some reckless, ruined part of me wondered what it would feel like if he leaned down.
Cade’s voice came lower when he finally spoke. “You have glaze on your thumb.”
I blinked. “What?”
His eyes flicked down. “Cronut casualty.”
I looked at my hand and found a streak of sugar glaze near my thumb. Before I could grab the towel, Cade reached slowly, giving me enough time to pull away if I wanted to.
I didn’t.
His fingers wrapped lightly around my wrist, careful and warm, and he lifted my hand between us with the same slow precision he used for everything. Like he was giving me three separate chances to stop him. Like the choice mattered more than the impulse.
My pulse hit hard beneath his thumb.
His eyes stayed on mine as he lowered his mouth to my hand.
The first touch of his tongue against my thumb was soft.
Barely there. A warm, deliberate sweep over the sticky glaze that sent every nerve in my body straight into free fall.
He didn’t rush it. Didn’t make it playful.
Didn’t make it accidental. He held my wrist like something fragile and watched my face like my reaction was the only answer he cared about.
The kitchen went impossibly quiet around us. When he lifted his head, his thumb was still pressed over my pulse.
I forgot how to breathe like a normal person. “You’re doing it again,” I whispered.
His eyes darkened, and that slow, devastating smile cut across his mouth with so much intent my knees almost forgot their purpose. “I know.”
The words landed low and rough between us, less apology than confession.
My lips parted, but nothing came out.
Cade’s gaze dropped there for one dangerous second before coming back to my eyes. He didn’t move closer. Didn’t take another inch. He just stayed there, holding my wrist, letting me feel every bit of restraint in his body like a second touch.
“That vibe?” he murmured.
My throat worked around absolutely nothing. I should have reminded him that this was for school and potatoes and Sunday dinner and definitely not whatever insane thing had just happened in my kitchen.
Instead, I stood there with my pulse beating against his thumb and every inch of me aware that Cade Mercer had not just crossed a line.
He had walked right up to it. Looked me dead in the eyes. And waited to see if I would step closer.
It should not have felt like anything but it felt like everything.
My pulse hit hard against my throat. “Very heroic.”
His thumb rested against the inside of my wrist for one extra second, right over the frantic beat of my pulse. His eyes lifted to mine, and the faintest smile touched his mouth. “Your standards are low.”
“Apparently.”
The word came out quieter than I meant it to.
His gaze sharpened, but he still didn’t move closer. He let go first, stepping back just enough for the air to return, and somehow that restraint made the heat worse instead of better.
I turned away under the very mature pretense of checking my camera bag. “Back to the project.”
“Right,” he said behind me, voice still slightly rough. “The reason I’m here.”
“For school,” I said quickly.
“Of course.”
He came back into the living room and sat with a nonchalance I could not muster if I had tried.
“So, what else?”
I placed the containers on my table and brushed my hands down my shorts. “Human-interest stories only work if the audience feels like they’re being trusted with something, not sold something. I don’t want to make you look perfect. I don’t even think perfect is interesting.”
Before he could respond, my phone buzzed again. Charm’s name flashed on the screen.
Charm: Is he there?
Charm: Did he eat the cronuts?
Charm: Did he flirt at all?
Charm: If yes, he is a perfect fling.
I stared at the messages for one beat too long.
Cade’s mouth curved. “Do I want to know?”
“No.”
“That means yes.”
“That means my friends are unwell.”
“About me?”
“About everything.”
Another message popped up.
Charm: Also do NOT forget your dad wants potatoes.
I locked the phone and dropped it face-down on the coffee table. “We should go over release forms before my friends start live-commentating my downfall.”
“Your downfall?”
“For the project.”
“For school,” he said, nodding solemnly.
“Yes.”
“Academic downfall.”
“Exactly.”
His eyes warmed. “I’ll do it.”
The words landed softly.
I blinked, too scared to smile yet. “You’ll do it?”
“I’ll be your project.”
“My subject,” I clarified, as if the word made a difference when the chemistry was perfect.
“That sounds worse.”
“It sounds professional.”
“It sounds like you’re going to tag and release me into the wild when it’s over.”
“I might.”
His mouth twitched. “Fine. I’ll be your subject.”
I should have felt excited because of the assignment, and I was.
Beneath the academic relief and the thrill of knowing Professor Simpson would probably approve my concept, there was something else too.
Something warmer. Something softer. Something that had nothing to do with human-interest pieces and everything to do with the fact that Cade Mercer had just given me access to parts of him everyone else only guessed at.
Dangerous, dangerous, dangerous.
“Thank you,” I said, quieter than I meant to, but he heard it anyway. Cade seemed like the kind of man who would hear me through all the noise even when there wasn’t any.
“You’re welcome, Pip.”
I should have corrected him. I really should have. Instead, I rolled my eyes and picked up my coffee.
His smile made me feel seen in a way I wasn’t sure I could survive.
By the time we packed the potatoes and stepped out into the warm Michigan afternoon with coffee still on my tongue, Cade Mercer’s laugh playing somewhere in the back of my mind, and one small moth marble tucked safely inside my bag, I knew two things with absolute certainty.
The project was going to be incredible, and I was in so much trouble.