Chapter Twelve A Good Friend
HADLEY
The shower does help. The hot water eases some of the tension in my shoulders and washes away the grime from the night before. I feel much more like myself by the time I’m done.
Wearing a towel, I slip out of the bathroom. Pausing in the hallway on the way to the bedroom, I listen to the sounds of Julian moving around in the kitchen.
Pans clanging against each other. Cabinets opening and closing. My stomach gives a traitorous flutter. Not from the hunger, but from the sheer, intimate domesticity of the moment. I close my eyes, leaning my damp forehead against the wall.
The thought of Julian moving through my kitchen specifically to take care of me makes my breath hitch.
My mind continues wandering, imagining what it would feel like to walk up behind him, to wrap my arms around his waist and press my face into that warm space between his shoulder blades.
I can almost feel the scratch of his beard against my neck and the weight of his hands pulling me flush against him while the rest of the world stays locked outside.
I let out a shaky breath, forcing my eyes open and shaking my head to clear the heat. Stop it.
He’s doing this out of respect for my grandfather. He’s doing this because he’s a good man. A good friend who doesn't leave people face-down on a couch. He is not mine, and in this world of high-stakes hockey and my father’s crushing expectations, being just friends is a good thing. Right?
A moment later, I hear sizzling, and the smell of cooking bacon floats through the air and hits my nose.
I get dressed, pulling on sweatpants and a t-shirt before making my way out to the kitchen. Julian’s standing at the stove, his back to me, one hand resting on the counter while the other holds a spatula and stirs something in another pan.
He looks so at ease, like he’s right at home here in my space.
He moves around the sleek, marble-countered kitchen with an effortless, fluid grace that catches me completely off guard.
He isn't fumbling with the high-end, state-of-the-art appliances or hunting aimlessly through drawers. He handles the heavy cast-iron skillet like an absolute pro, his motions practiced and confident. It’s a sharp contrast to the chaotic, hyper-masculine energy he radiates on the ice.
Seeing this domestic, capable side of him shouldn't be so hot, but it is.
The last person who cooked for me was my grandmother.
The thought hits me out of nowhere, making my chest ache.
Not my mom, who’s always been more of a free spirit, and not my dad, either.
He’s always…well…busy. Always busy. My grandmother used to cook for me all the time.
She felt like the only person who ever really took the time to care for me.
I don’t realize I’ve been standing, gazing off at nothing, when Julian glances over his shoulder. “You gonna just watch me, or…?”
I blink, snapping out of my daze. “Right. Sorry.”
I move further into the kitchen and lean against the counter.
“It smells really good,” I say, smiling softly at him. “Can I help?”
He shakes his head, then points his spatula toward the small kitchen table. “Sit.”
I do, and a few minutes later, he sets a plate in front of me. It’s piled with eggs, toast, and bacon. My stomach churns, but my mouth waters as I gaze down at the food.
“Eat,” he says, already turning back to the stove.
I pick up the fork, hesitating for half a second, a little worried about my stomach, before taking a bite.
“Oh my God,” I moan.
Julian glances at me again, brow raised. I realize what noise I just made and how…sensual it sounded. My cheeks flush. I swallow and drop my gaze to my food.
“That good?” he asks with a chuckle.
I nod, taking another bite as I mumble, “Ridiculously good.”
“Hmm.” It’s such a minimal response, but his lips twitch into a half-smile.
I eat slowly, letting the food settle in my stomach. The silence stretches between us, and eventually, I clear my throat.
“Julian, this is incredible,” I murmur, offering him a grateful smile. “Thank you. Truly. You really didn't have to do all of this for me.”
A faint, almost imperceptible softening touches the corners of his mouth. “Eat more. There’s plenty.”
I pause, looking up at him. “Aren't you going to join me?”
He shrugs his massive shoulders, looking completely unaffected by the invitation. His eyes linger on mine a second longer. “I ate a couple of strips of bacon while it was sizzling. I’m good.”
I find that hard to believe for a guy his size.
“Where did you learn how to cook like this?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Mrs. Clay.”
The easy, lazy smirk disappears entirely, replaced by a momentary tightness around his jaw and a distant, guarded look in his dark eyes. I can feel the invisible boundary line he just drew between us, and because I know how fiercely Julian protects his walls, I don’t press.
Instead, I smile and redirect the conversation away from him. “My Grandma Sullivan taught me to cook,” I share, hoping opening up to him more will help him one day open up to me as well.
He shoots me another look. “That must have been nice.”
“It was,” I continue, setting my fork down on the edge of the plate as a warm, bittersweet wave of nostalgia washes over me. “When I was little, her kitchen was my favorite place in the whole world. Just the smell of vanilla reminds me of her.”
Julian huffs out a quiet, amused sound. “Yeah, I get that.”
I pick my fork back up, finishing the rest of the plate. He leans his massive frame against the opposite counter, tracking every movement of my fork. His dark eyes watch me eat, and it makes a flush creep right back up my neck, his gaze lingering on my lips every time I take a bite.
The moment I set my fork down on the cleared plate, he springs into action with a smooth, efficient precision that catches me by surprise all over again. He doesn't miss a beat as he begins loading the dishwasher.
“Julian, stop, please,” I say, sliding off the barstool and reaching for the empty glass on the table. “You’ve already done so much. Let me at least do the dishes.”
He doesn't even look up as his large hand intercepts mine, his fingers brushing against my skin and sending a sharp, electric jolt straight up my arm. He takes the glass from my grip, his jaw setting in a firm, unyielding line.
“Sit back down, Hadley,” he rumbles, his tone leaving no room for negotiation as he turns his broad back to me and rinses the glass under the tap. “I didn’t cook you breakfast just to watch you do manual labor while you’re still sporting a hangover. I’ve got it.”
Sensing this is important to him, I hesitate a moment before sitting back down. “Okay.”
“There’s a slight drip in your faucet,” he mutters while finishing what he’s doing. “I’ll fix it later.”
I blink. “You don’t have to…”
“It’s fine,” he insists, turning to face me while leaning back against the counter and crossing his arms. “So, what’s your plan now that you’re here?”
The question catches me off guard. I was too busy tracking the ripple of his shoulder blades to think about my future.
It feels different hearing him ask it in person.
Over text, it was just words. Here, with his intense brown eyes turning to lock onto mine, it feels like a more significant conversation.
“I start at the University of Denver next week,” I reply, my voice steadier than I expected. “The campus is beautiful, but it’s…a lot. Smaller than London, but more focused. My dad already had the transfer credits and the enrollment arranged before I even touched down in Colorado.”
Julian nods, listening.
“I’ve got a commute,” I continue. “It’s not too terrible. Classes are already set, and my schedule’s packed.”
“And your major?” He furrows his brow expectantly.
I hesitate, then shrug. “Same.”
He frowns. “You like it?”
I huff out a breath. “Does that matter?”
“Yeah, it does,” he replies.
I shake my head, looking down at my hands. “It’s what my dad wants, and he’s paying for everything, so…”
I trail off, embarrassed to confess just how dependent I really am on Dad. He watches me for a second, then shakes his head.
“You’re gonna have to figure out a way not to rely on him.”
The words aren’t harsh, just direct and honest.
“I wouldn’t even know where to start,” I admit in a soft voice.
“You got yourself back to Denver,” he shrugs. “I’m pretty sure you’ll be able to figure out the rest too.”
A wave of emotion rises inside me. I swallow it back down.
“I’ll help,” he adds, almost like an afterthought. “If you need it.”
I can’t stop my smile at that.
“Thank you,” I murmur. “You’re a good friend.”
The second the words leave my mouth, I wish I could take them back. Something in his posture shifts in an instant. His muscles tense and he glances away before clearing his throat.
“What are friends for?” he says, then pushes away from the counters. “All right, I should get going now that I know you’re alive and well.”
I don’t want him to leave, but I keep my protest to myself as I walk him to the door.
Julian stops just before he reaches the door. He pauses, his massive frame turning back toward me as he looks down, those dark, intense eyes locking onto mine.
“Hey,” he begins. His gaze tracks the movement of my lips before rising back to my eyes. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”
I blink, tilting my head up to meet his stare. “What’s that?”
“Why do you call me Julian?” he asks, a faint, curious crease forming between his dark brows.
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“Everyone else calls me Wilder,” he explains, his eyes searching my face. “You’re the only one who doesn't.”
I think about it for a long, quiet moment, my eyes tracing the rugged line of his jaw and the dark curls framing his face. I don't want the distance that comes with going by his last name. I want the intimacy of the man standing in my kitchen.
I shake my head. “I don’t want to call you what everyone else does.” I take a small step closer to him, my voice softening. “I like calling you Julian.”
He gazes down at me for a few agonizing, silent seconds, his eyes darkening as they drop back to my mouth, a heavy, unspoken hunger flashing through his expression. He swallows hard, his jaw tight, before he finally lets out a low, rough exhale.
“Good,” he mutters, his voice thick and raspy as he opens the door. “Because I like hearing it from you.”
My eyes dip to the plump lips visible in his thick beard.
I want to feel that scratch against my skin.
I want to step forward and slide my hands beneath the hem of his black t-shirt to feel the burning heat of his skin.
I want to anchor myself against those hard, solid muscles that kept me safe all night.
The urge to close the distance between us hits me like a physical wave, pulling at my center. I can picture myself wrapping my fingers into the dark curls at the back of his neck, pulling his head down, and finding out exactly what his lips taste like.
The thought of him kissing me…of those large, heavy hands grabbing my waist and pushing me flush against the wall…
is so sudden, so all-consuming, that it knocks the breath out of me.
My lips part, a quiet gasp escaping into the small space left between us, my body practically humming with a desperate, electric heat.
Julian’s eyes track the movement, darkening to a shade that looks almost black as his jaw tightly flexes. He doesn't move away, and for one agonizing, breathless second, I think he might actually close the gap himself.
He doesn’t, and I just stand there and watch him say goodbye before turning and walking out the apartment door. It clicks softly behind him. Silence settles over the apartment.
Pressing a hand against the door, I lean into it, struggling to slow my heartbeat down and trying not to think about the reasons it’s throbbing so hard to begin with.