Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Cal
She’s been staring out the window for twenty minutes, arms crossed tight, one finger tapping against her sleeve like she’s keeping time only she can hear.
The snow’s eased up, but it’s still thick out there—soft white drifts, cars half-buried, a few flakes floating lazy in the air.
It’s a full-on snowmageddon, and Atlanta is at a standstill.
I lean against the counter, pretending to scroll my phone. I’m not. I’m watching her reflection in the glass.
After we cleaned up the kitchen in silence, she thankfully went and put on the joggers I loaned her last night.
It was starting to become a problem in my pants watching her walk around in bare legs with my flannel shirt skimming her thighs.
Now, she’s restless. I can feel it coming off of her in waves. That edge of someone who isn’t used to sitting still this long.
Finally, she exhales through her nose. “I need to get out of here for a bit.”
My chest tightens. “Out where?”
“Downstairs. Maybe grab a coffee, stretch my legs. I’m not built for sitting still.”
I can’t argue with that—she’s been pure motion since I met her. Always moving, always planning, always one breath ahead of whatever’s coming next.
The thought of her standing still makes about as much sense as a shark taking a nap.
Still…
“It’s freezing,” I say. “Sidewalks are probably a mess.”
She turns, one brow arched, a hint of a smile tugging at her mouth. “You’re adorable when you worry, Reid. I’m not planning on sledding to Midtown. Just coffee.”
“In your dress?”
She sighs, but the corner of her mouth softens. “Of course not; I’m not an idiot. I’m sure you have something I can wear.”
That earns a quiet laugh out of me before I can help it.
She walks toward my bedroom, stopping in the doorway. “Mind if I raid your closet?”
“Go for it.”
I push off the counter and follow her into my room, where she makes a beeline for my closet.
She scans the options, and ends up pulling out my gray sweatshirt and a thick parka I haven’t worn since I lived in New Hampshire.
When she pulls it on over the already too big clothes she’s wearing of mine, she looks ridiculous and perfect in it—hood too big, sleeves hanging past her hands, hem brushing her knees.
“You look like a kid playing dress-up,” I say, chuckling.
Her eyes flick toward mine, sharp but amused. “And you look like someone who’s about to get stuck with cabin fever here,” she points to herself, “and regret it.”
That makes me grin. “You’re not walking out there in those heels or your emergency flats.”
“I didn’t bring boots, Cal. Kind of didn’t plan on a snowstorm trapping me in a stranger’s apartment.”
She’s right. Still doesn’t mean I like it.
I grab my boots from the rack—black leather, beat to hell from years of winters that never really left me—and set them down beside her feet. “Wear these.”
She looks from them to me. “You’re serious.”
“They’ll keep your feet dry. You can fold the tops down if you need to. I’ll—” I stop before I can say carry you if you fall like an idiot. “They’ll work.”
She hesitates for half a second, then slides her hands into the sleeves of my parka and tugs one boot toward her with the toe of her sock. When she bends to pull it on, her hair falls forward, the deep red brushing her pale cheeks.
The movement is simple—ordinary—but it knocks something loose inside me anyway.
She laughs quietly when she stands. “I look ridiculous.”
“You look warm.”
Those green eyes catch mine for a beat too long. Something flickers there—something I can’t name without risking it all.
She gestures toward the door. “Coming?”
No. Yes. Fuck me.
The idea of her walking out into that cold alone twists in my chest.
“Yeah,” I say, voice low. “I’m coming.”
I grab another pair of boots and my coat, pulling them on before following her out into the hallway.
She presses the elevator button, and for a second I catch her profile reflected in the polished metal doors—eyes bright, cheeks flushed with anticipation.
She looks alive again.
All I can think is that the world out there doesn’t deserve her warmth.
And if I stay behind, I’ll start thinking about what it means that I don’t want her to leave.
We don’t go far.
The snow’s slushy now—half-melted on the sidewalks, shoveled in uneven patches that force us to walk single file, then side by side, then single file again.
Atlanta doesn’t do snow. It tolerates it.
We hit the coffeehouse across from the Lofts. The guy behind the counter gives Noelle a once-over, but then he clocks me behind her and gives a nod.
Her eyes skim the handwritten signs, with the Christmas lights strung behind them.
“What’s good here?” she asks me.
I shrug. “I’m just plain coffee, cream and sugar kind of guy.”
Her lips twitch, eyes twinkling up at me. “Reid, I would expect nothing less from you.”
She smiles at the barista. “Two plain coffees please. One black, one cream and sugar.”
He mumbles the order back, clearly not pleased to be manning the cafe today.
Can’t say I blame him.
But Noelle smiles at him and compliments his music taste when she hears the low hum of Al Green playing through the speakers.
I watch her charm the grumpy dude into a smile without even trying.
And I hate how easy it is to imagine her fitting into my world.
She pays before I can argue. “You saved me from freezing to death. Let me at least buy you a cup of coffee.”
I grumble something noncommittal and hold the door open for her.
Outside, she exhales like the cold clears her thoughts. “God, I missed this air. The kind that punches your lungs a little.”
“You know you sound deranged, right?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t love it too.”
I don’t answer. But yeah—I do.
Full-blown winters in Michigan, I don’t miss. But I do miss snow every so often and that biting cold you can only get from Mother Nature.
We walk in silence for a few steps, then she speaks again, voice softer now. “So… Venom Lofts. Hockey player central.”
I glance sideways. “Yeah, a few of us live here. Riley, a couple of rookies, me. Coach likes to keep us rookies close to The Pit.”
“And you like that?”
I shrug. “Why not? I can walk to work, and that beats driving in Atlanta any day. It’s why I moved over here.”
She hums like she’s filing that away.
I nod toward her with my cup. “So, you do event planning?”
“Not just any events,” she says, grinning. “Mostly sports charity events. Football, baseball, soccer, hockey. Which, as you can imagine, means corralling giant man-children and corporate sponsors who think it’s all just a tax write-off.”
I laugh. “Sounds like a nightmare.”
“It is,” she says brightly. “But at least there’s usually alcohol and glitter involved.”
Another beat.
Then, softer, “I used to be corporate. Suits, structure, ninety-hour weeks.”
“Why’d you leave?”
She pauses. Long enough that I glance over. Her gaze is straight ahead, not on me. “My mother died rather suddenly. She was always on me about how much I worked. And I realized—after she was gone—that she was right. It made me rethink what I wanted my life to look like.”
The words land heavy. Not dramatic. Just true.
“I’m sorry.”
She nods, sips her coffee, doesn’t say anything more for a few steps.
“You ever had that moment?” she asks. “Where everything’s fine, until it’s not? And you can’t go back to who you were before it happened?”
Yeah.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her about the call. The frozen weight in my chest when I realized she was gone. How quiet the world got after.
Instead, I say, “Yeah. I know that moment.”
She glances at me, and the look in her eyes says she knows I didn’t say all of it. But she doesn’t push.
We round the corner back toward the building. Her boots—the ones I gave her—are comically large, and the right one slips sideways on a patch of ice I didn’t see coming.
She gasps. Stumbles.
I drop my coffee and reach for her.
My arm wraps around her waist, steadying her as both cups hit the ground with a muted thunk and a slosh of brown across the slush.
Her palms land flat against my chest.
My breath catches.
So does hers.
For a split second, we’re frozen like that—my arm locked around her, her face inches from mine, eyes wide, mouth parted just slightly.
If I lean in, just a little…
I don’t.
Instead, I pull back half a beat too fast and let her go.
“You okay?” My voice comes out low, rough.
She nods, cheeks flushed. “Yeah. Sorry. Guess I didn’t stick the landing.”
Her tone’s light, but something flickers behind her smile.
We both look down at the ruined coffees.
“Well,” she says, brushing hair from her face, “guess that was our heroic moment for the morning.”
“Tragic end to a solid cup of coffee. Wanna go back for another?”
“Nah, I’m good.”
We walk the rest of the way in silence.
And I keep thinking—if I’d let myself hold her for one second longer, I wouldn’t have wanted to let go.
When we finally make it into the building, we still haven’t spoken.
The elevator dings louder than it should.
We step inside like we didn’t just lose two perfectly good coffees and nearly kiss on a street corner. Like my hand wasn’t on her waist and her breath wasn’t warm against my neck.
Like my pulse isn’t still hammering behind my ribs.
Noelle tugs the sleeves of my sweatshirt down over her hands. It swallows her whole. Makes her look small. Or maybe just softer.
She doesn’t meet my eyes.
Neither of us speaks until the doors slide closed and the hum of the lift kicks in.
Then, quiet.
“So…you catch women like that often? Or is it a holiday special?”
She’s teasing.
But it doesn’t land.
Not today.
Not after the way she looked at me. Like maybe she felt it too.
I glance down. Her arms are crossed tight. Chin tilted just a little too high. Like she’s trying to roll over it, pretend it didn’t get under her skin.
I give her a half-smile I don’t mean. “Only when they wear clown shoes and tempt fate.”
That gets a breathy laugh out of her, but it sounds forced.
We get off the elevator on the fourth floor and I unlock the door to my apartment, letting her in first.
I stand in the hallway for a few seconds, alone. Trying to get my thoughts together after that near kiss.
My hands are still twitching at the need to tunnel them through all that thick auburn hair.
I think I’ve become low key obsessed with her hair.
She shrugs out of the coat and kicks off the boots, then heads to the kitchen like she’s looking for a reset button.
“I’ll make us a pot,” she says, already reaching for the coffee. “Can’t end the morning on a caffeine tragedy.”
I watch her back. The way her shoulders tense, how she moves faster than necessary.
And I know I screwed it up.
Should’ve said something real.
Should’ve let that moment breathe.
Should’ve asked her what she was thinking instead of pretending it didn’t matter.
But I didn’t.
Because if I ask and the answer’s not what I want, I don’t know what the hell I’ll do.
So, I toe off my boots and head to the bathroom, mumbling something about needing a shower.
I’ve never wanted something so much.
And never been so afraid to ruin it.