Chapter Nine
MASON
I can’t stop grinning.
I step under the spray of the shower and let the water hit me square in the chest, hoping it might cool me down in more ways than one.
It’s no use. My heart’s still thudding, not from the workout but from the way Victoria had looked at me just now—like I was a dessert tray and she hadn’t had sugar in years.
What does it say about me that I absolutely loved the reaction? We’re supposed to be just friends, business partners working together for a happy outcome.
And all I could imagine was a happy ending…for both of us.
She could claim all she wanted that her muddled brain was due to the exhaustion of trying to build her bed frame alone, but I knew better. While she (tried) to talk, she kept looking down at my chest, and her cheeks bloomed an adorable dark pink.
The way her eyes had gone all wide and glassy, like she was trying to memorize every sweaty inch of me. And that rambling? Gold. Absolute gold. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her that flustered. And the part where she accused me of having “arms”? That’s going on my gravestone.
And now, I get to spend the next hour or so helping her build a bed frame.
Alone. In her apartment. Possibly sweating again.
On any other day, with any other person, that scenario would be my nightmare.
Not to sound snobby, but I pay people to complete tasks like this so that I can focus on other things.
My personal free time is far and few during the hockey season, and during the off, I just want to veg and relax, knowing it’s only for a short period.
Yet with Victoria, I’m looking forward to the time together.
And how hard could it be? Instructions are included for a reason. You just read and repeat the described action. Easy.
I towel off quickly, run a hand through my hair, and toss on a fitted T-shirt and jeans before heading down to her floor. I take the stairs, too amped up to wait for the elevator.
When I reach her door, I take a moment to catch my breath. I don’t want her thinking—or knowing—that I rushed to get back to her.
I’ve just pushed my damp hair out of my face again when I hear a crash from inside. I’m instantly in action.
I slam into the door.
What the hell? Why is the door locked? She knew I was coming.
Knocking, I hear her shuffling around, muttering something I can’t make out. Then the door opens, and there she is, still flushed, still slightly embarrassed, and still the most distracting woman I’ve ever met.
“Hey,” she says, stepping aside to let me in.
“Hi,” I say back, eyeing her up and down for injuries. “Did I just hear something fall? And why was your door locked?”
She rolls her eyes, an amused grin on her face at my question.
“I lock it for safety. Something you should be doing too.”
“But you knew I was coming,” I state, confused at her logic. Stepping into the condo, I follow her down the short hall.
“Yes, I did. But I don’t know who else is going to decide to visit me today uninvited. An obsessed fan, a murderer. Or worse yet, Girl Guides.”
“How are Girl Guides worse than a murderer?”
“Because I have no self-control when cookies are put in front of me. A murderer, I could probably fight off. A little girl in cute pigtails, wielding the weapon of sugar and carbs—I’m powerless.”
I chuckle, loving the way she thinks.
Following her deeper into her apartment, I fight not to stare at her ass as she walks ahead. I’m only so strong, so I sneak a peek or two.
When she turns into her room, I glance to the other side of the hall and notice two unopened boxes sitting in the middle of her second bedroom. The rest of the house seems to be unpacked, but these boxes almost look like they’ve been set up as a shrine.
I’m just about to ask about them when Victoria cuts me off.
“Thanks again for the help.”
Switching my attention back to her, I shake my head. “No problem.” My mouth opens to make a joke, but the words die on my tongue as I scan the battlefield of bolts and boards littered across her bedroom floor. “Wow. This is…aggressive.”
“Yeah,” she agrees, drawing out the word as she gazes at the mess too. “It was winning the war until reinforcements arrived,” she mutters, crossing her arms over her chest. “The instructions might as well be written in Ancient Greek.”
“Well, lucky for you,” I say, clapping my hands together, “I’m fluent in interpreting squiggles and arrows—years of decoding coaching boards. This? This is just strategy with screws…and I’m pretty good with those too.”
Her head snaps up, eyes narrowing. “Was that a double entendre, Mr. Warren? I’m shocked such filth came from the Golden Boy.”
“Watch it,” I warn with a playful growl. God, this woman really knows how to give it back. I lift a shoulder, smirking. “Did it work?”
She rolls her eyes, but the smile tugging at her lips gives her away. “If it gets this damn bed frame built, you can innuendo your way through the whole instruction manual.”
“Is that so?”
She lets out a laugh that feels like sunshine. “Let’s get to work before I lose what’s left of my sanity.”
We sit on the floor side by side, sorting through screws and washers like we’re trying to defuse a bomb.
I’m not saying we’re completely incompetent, but we do spend the first twenty minutes accidentally attaching the headboard backward, dropping bolts under the dresser, and arguing about whether “panel B” is actually mislabelled or if we just can’t read.
“This can’t be right,” she says, holding a wooden leg up and squinting at it like it personally insulted her. “There has to be a page missing or something.”
“That’s definitely a side rail.”
“No. It has to be a leg. It’s leg-shaped.”
“It’s horizontal.”
“Maybe it’s a horizontal leg.”
I snort. “Do you hear yourself right now?”
She huffs, throwing the instruction pages up into the air so she can cross her arms. “I don’t know!
” she cries. “Nothing is making sense anymore. Up is down. Panel B is really panel G. You’re lucky you’re so cute, or your suggestion to use a drill instead of the provided Allen key would have gotten you banned from the apartment. ”
I pause mid-reach and glance up at her, and she realizes what she said at the same time I do.
“Oh my God,” she whispers, horrified. “Did I say that out loud?”
“You did,” I say, fighting the smirk spreading across my face. “And I’m happy you restrained yourself with my banishment. But cute? I don’t think I’ve been called that in a long while. Handsome, dashing, roguishly good-looking—all terms that are in constant rotation when describing me.”
“Annoying. Conceited. Big ego. All terms I would use in constant rotation to describe you.”
“Big…” I pause, looking at her and making my eyebrows dance up and down. “…help, more like.”
“You’re not allowed to be this smug and helpful.”
“Sorry, it’s in my contract.”
That gets a laugh out of her. “Okay, okay, we need to refocus before the hysteria hits. Let’s…try putting these two parts together.” She points to what should be the final joint pieces for the frame.
We manage to reorient the frame after a few more false starts, both of us getting more comfortable and laughing more freely.
At one point, she’s bracing the base with her foot while I twist a bolt in place, and our shoulders bump.
Her hair brushes my cheek, and I nearly screw the thing into my own hand.
Eventually, by some miracle—or maybe it’s just our stubbornness—we get the last bolt in place.
“Victory!” she announces, throwing her arms up in triumph.
“You doubted us?” I say, tightening the final screw and leaning back on my palms.
“I doubted everything. My life. My choices. Our combined intelligence.”
“You’re hard on yourself,” I say, softer now. “You’re doing better than you think.”
Her eyes meet mine, and something shifts. She gives me a small smile before turning toward the mattress propped against the wall. “Let’s do this.”
We lift the mattress together and plop it onto the new frame. She immediately flops backward onto it with a dramatic groan of relief, her hair splaying out around her like a halo.
“Oh yes,” she moans. “I’m never moving again.”
I’m frozen. Completely still.
Because this image—her lying on the bed, flushed from laughter and effort, breathing heavily with her tank top clinging to her—yeah, this is going to be seared into my memory forever.
Now I’m the one who’s screwed.
I’m imagining things I shouldn’t. Definitely things that don’t belong in the “fake relationship” rule book we very clearly laid out.
But rules don’t seem to matter much right now. Did they ever?
I’m coming to realize that while I had sincere intentions starting out, the fake relationship we planned together is becoming more real to me by the day. There’s something so captivating about Victoria that none of this feels fake. Every moment we’ve spent together has been genuine. Real.
Her eyes find mine, and I swear I feel the moment her smile falters—just slightly—like she’s thinking the same thing I am.
She blinks once, slowly. Her gaze drops to my mouth, then back to my eyes. My heart stutters in response.
I take one step forward.
Her breath hitches.
She wants me to kiss her. I can feel it. And God, I want to. I want to see what she tastes like when she’s smiling like that. I want to know what it feels like when she pulls me down beside her and tugs me close—
My phone buzzes on the floor, rattling louder than normal due to it lying on leftover bolts.
The notification cuts through the moment like a bucket of ice water. I curse under my breath and reach for it. Victoria springs up and off the bed at the intrusion, walking out of the room without a word.
Deflating, I shake my head and swipe my cell screen. There’s a message from my teammate Max.
MAX: Picking you up in 10. Coach has called a team dinner. Probably to go over best behaviour for that charity thing on Sat.
I stare at the message, trying to remember how to exist in the real world again.
“Everything okay?” she asks from the doorway, voice quiet now.
“Yeah,” I say, reluctantly slipping the phone back into my pocket. “My teammate Max is coming to grab me. Coach has called a dinner.”
She nods, her smile a little less bright now.
“But before I go…” I trail off, rubbing the back of my neck.
“You want to come with me to a charity event on Saturday?” She looks like spending time with me is the last thing she should do now, and I fear she’s about to say no.
“Could be good for…the image,” I end up blurting out.
“And I also wouldn’t mind having you there. I can guarantee a fun, wholesome time.”
Her eyes lift in surprise. Her lips roll inward as she considers my offer. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. That does sound fun. It’s been a while since I broke out a fancy dress.”
“Great.” I nod, trying not to grin too hard. “I’ll text you the details.”
I head toward the door, pausing before I open it. Glancing back at her, I let my eyes run over the rumpled bed, her slightly flushed cheeks, and the way her hair is still a mess from lying down.
“I’ll have my assistant reach out to get your shoe size for your skates and send you a jersey.” With those last words, I’m out the door, grinning like a fool.
“Wait. What?” I hear her say from out in the hallway, but I don’t stop to give her more information. It will be more fun this way.
Screw the rules. I’m going to make her mine.