Orla
I’d checked myself in the mirror at least twenty times, changed outfits nine times, and swapped my bra three times.
I’d moved operations to my own room because, to be fair, Tyler liked things neat and orderly.
So did I, usually. Right now, though, it looked like a hurricane had torn through the suite.
Why was I so worked up?
He’d already seen every inch of me, felt every curve, kissed every freckle. But this felt different. This wasn’t about sex. This was a date. A proper one that you went all in for, a moment that might actually mean something.
He was fighting to be more than the headlines and the toxic rumors; he was trying to be the man I needed him to be. He was letting himself become something bigger than his own reputation, stripping away the "bad boy" armor one piece at a time.
I’d tried to tell him I’d already seen it.
I saw it that day at Wimbledon, when I stopped him spiralling.
I saw it the night he took care of me when I broke down over too much Jack Daniel’s and that stupid bloody Instagram post. When he’d slept on the sofa so that I wouldn’t feel the weight of my shame spiral in the morning.
I’d been seeing it over and over, in the smallest ways. The way he looked at me, listened, waited. But maybe tonight was for him. Maybe he needed this, to prove it to himself, and I wanted to give him that.
I wasn’t like the girls he was usually papped with—I knew that.
I wasn’t the flirty influencer with airbrushed skin and a practiced pout, the kind who lingered in hotel bars like a predator hoping to land a shiny sports star.
I knew I was attractive, I’d never doubted that and I was glad I wasn’t like them.
I knew I was worth more than that, and more than anything, I wanted Tyler to see that he was too.
Which was why I had my secret weapon on.
If Tyler Reed could barely keep his hands off me when I was swallowed by an LTA polo and standard-issue leggings, he was going to lose his fucking mind when he saw me in this.
The dress was a slinky, midnight-green silk that flowed over my curves like liquid.
It was cut dangerously low at the back, leaving a vast expanse of skin for him to obsess over, and just enough at the front to keep him guessing.
My boobs weren’t huge, but they suited my frame perfectly, and in this silk, they looked—to put it bluntly—fucking phenomenal.
I’d blow-dried my hair into big loose waves, gone heavy on the mascara, and picked my best strappy heels.I looked like a woman who knew exactly what she wanted, and exactly how to get it.
Yeah. He was gonna die.
When the knock came, my stomach dipped. He was early. Of course he would be for this. I hovered at the door for a moment, palms pressed flat against the wood, drew a steadying breath and whispered one last, fuck it, before I opened it.
And there he was.
He was devastatingly handsome in charcoal and crisp, blinding white.
The shirt was buttoned just low enough to show a dangerous flash of his tattoos, the charcoal trousers hugged his thighs in a way that should not be public, and the jacket was tailored to absolute sin.
He had the fancy watch, the expensive, woodsy cologne that always made my mouth water, and his hair was groomed to perfection, save for that one rebellious, golden-brown curl that defied every bit of product he’d used.
His gaze dragged over me inch by inch, slowly and shamelessly gliding across my legs, hips, breasts, before settling on my mouth. His throat worked as he muttered roughly. “Jesus Christ, O. Am I supposed to walk out of here with you looking like that?”
Heat prickled down my spine, a delicious, slow-burn satisfaction blooming low in my belly as I watched him struggle for air.
“Well,” I said, arching a brow, “I do own things other than polo shirts and surgical gloves.”
That boyish, dangerous grin, that always managed to dismantle my insides, spread across his face as he held out his arm. I slid mine through his without a second thought.
“Well,” he said lightly, “let’s go show the world exactly who you belong to tonight."
For a second, something almost stopped me in my tracks. Was I ready for that? For people to see? For whispers to follow? But then his hand brushed the small of my back, steadying me and I let myself choose it.
We walked out of the suite like we’d done it a hundred times, moving with a synchronized, effortless grace. Yet, I felt the shift the moment we hit the lobby. Heads turned, voices dipped into frantic murmurs, and the air seemed to hum with the sudden realization of what they were seeing.
He wasn’t wrong. In the mirrored walls of the elevator and the polished marble of the foyer, our reflection was undeniable. We looked good together.
The black car was waiting against the curb. He opened the door for me, his fingers skimming my bare spine as I slid in. Even that, the most featherlight touch, sent a jolt through me.
The drive into Toronto was silent but charged. I curled comfortably into his side, his palm resting heavily on my knee, like it had found its rightful place. He didn’t let go the whole journey.
The restaurant he’d picked was breathtaking.
Floor-to-ceiling glass framed the Toronto skyline, the city lit up like a scatter of stars.
Dark wood tables gleamed under pools of amber light, and the deep green velvet of the chairs matched the silk of my dress so perfectly it felt like Tyler had designed the entire room around me.
Conversations bustled around us, glasses clinked soft against plates, but at our private window table it felt like we were in our own world.
“So? This where you bring all your flings, Reed?” I teased as we sat. “Impress them with skyline views and expensive pinot?”
He didn’t even look at the wine list. His eyes stayed locked on mine, dragging over the emerald silk of my bodice like he was undressing me with every slow, deliberate blink.
“Wouldn’t know,” he said, his voice dropping into that dangerous, honeyed rasp.
“To be honest, I never usually made it as far as dinner with most of them.”
“Charming.” I scoffed.
“You’re the only one who ever made me care enough to bring you somewhere with actual cutlery, Orla.” He leaned forward, the golden light of the candle catching the sharp line of his jaw. “The only one I wanted to sit across from when the lights were actually on.”
I shook my head, a helpless smile tugging at my lips despite my best efforts to play it cool. The heat wasn't just coming from the candle anymore; it was creeping up my neck, a slow-burn reaction to the sheer weight of his focus.
“So, what’s the plan then?” I asked, leaning in until the scent of his woodsy cologne was the only thing I could breathe. “Wine me, dine me, try your best to behave, then take me back and ruin me all over again?”
He leaned in, the candlelight catching the predatory glint in his eyes.
“Well, the plan was to behave until at least dessert. But then you showed up in that silk, and now all I can think about is finding out exactly what that pretty mouth sounds like when I’ve got my hands under your dress and I'm making you come under the table.”
Bastard.
I shifted, my legs crossing with a sudden, tight friction that I knew he felt. The knowing smirk that flickered across his face confirmed it. Of course he noticed.
“You’re terrible,” I muttered.
He just shrugged, unrepentant. “You started it.”
I took a long, steadying sip of the pinot, trying to cool the fire he’d just ignited. We were only fifteen minutes into this date, and I was already halfway to letting him have his way with me in the back of the car on the ride home. But then, the atmospheric pressure between us shifted.
“You do look beautiful, by the way,” he said, his voice dropping a register. “Like... stop-time, forget-how-to-breathe beautiful.”
His gaze settled on mine, seeing straight through the emerald silk and the expertly applied mascara.
I swallowed, the air in the restaurant suddenly feeling very thin. “You’re really trying, aren’t you?”
He blinked, looking momentarily caught off guard. “What do you mean?”
“This,” I gestured to the gleaming table, the skyline, the sheer effort of his presence. “The way you’re showing up for this. For me.”
His brow furrowed, and he looked down, his thumb tracing the base of his wine glass with a rhythmic, nervous energy. “I haven’t done this in a long time, Orla.”
“Dinner?” I teased, trying to puncture the ache blooming in my chest.
He shook his head, his expression dead serious. “Not like this. Not when I’ve actually given a shit if it meant something. It’s no secret—I know the headlines. I used to chase the noise. The validation. I didn’t even realize that’s what I was doing until I met you.”
“Tyler…”
“You see through the dumb shit I used to hide behind,” he went on, rubbing the back of his neck as if the honesty was physically uncomfortable. “And you’ve never made me feel like I had to be anyone else to deserve you. That... that fucked me up for a while.”
My chest tightened until it was hard to draw a full breath. “I’m not trying to fix you, Tyler. I never wanted that.”
“I know.” His eyes locked back onto mine, steady and unwavering. “That’s what makes it worse. You weren't even trying, and I still ended up wanting to be better.”
The weight of it was staggering. “What’s changed for you?” I whispered.
“You,” he said simply. “You make me want things I never thought I could want. Things that didn't fit the brand.”
I forced a tiny, shaky smirk. “Seriously, Reed? Like what?”
He hesitated, a small shrug of his shoulders suggesting it cost him a great deal of pride to admit it. “Someone to come home to. Stability. Someone who actually listens. Maybe... a family.”
The word hung in the air between us, shimmering like the city lights outside. “You... want kids?” I replied, lifting my brows.