14. February 4, Friday
Chapter fourteen
Zoey
Ilya’s truck was warm in a lived-in, utilitarian way that felt very him. No clutter, just practicality—hockey tape on the console, a travel mug in the cupholder, the faint smell of coffee and leather.
She buckled in, awareness prickling along every nerve.
They pulled away from the bar in silence. The overstimulation faded, replaced by the soft hum of the engine and low country music drifting through the radio.
The quiet wasn’t awkward. It was more like a warm, heavy blanket.
“You okay?” he asked after a minute, eyes on the road.
The question was simple. The way he asked it wasn’t. Not casual, not tossed off. It sounded like an invitation and a safety net.
Something in her chest unclenched.
“I saw a picture,” she said, looking out at the snow-dusted sidewalks sliding past. “Of Mitch. And his new...bunny. On some hockey gossip account.”
His hands tightened on the steering wheel, just for a second. “Ah.”
“They called him a ‘rejuvenated bachelor,’” she continued, the words tasting bitter. “Said he’d finally ‘cut ties with his past.’ I didn’t realize I was a tie. I thought I was a whole...person.”
“You are,” he countered immediately.
“I know,” she said, hating how whiny she sounded. “Logically. But seeing it there, you know? My entire marriage reduced to an obstacle he overcame on his way to greatness and better sex. It made me feel...erased. Like I’m the prequel no one watched because the CGI looked weird.”
His jaw flexed. “They are idiots.”
“The tabloids?”
“Yes.” His mouth twisted. “And him, for letting them.”
“Careful,” she said lightly. “That’s your best friend you’re insulting.”
He exhaled through his nose. “He is my friend. He is also...not perfect.”
Understatement of the century.
“So, I decided,” she began, twining her fingers together in her lap, “that I’d prove I’m still...desirable. That I can be wanted without being somebody’s supporting character. Hence, Operation Barstool.”
His lips twitched. “How is that going?”
“Well, I knocked over an innocent barstool and almost got groped into oblivion. So, fantastic. Ten out of ten.”
He was quiet for a beat. “You do not need some drunk man in a bad shirt to prove anything.”
“I know that. In my brain. But my lizard brain is out here like, no one has checked us out in a decade, Zoey, we might be invisible.”
He made a low sound. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a growl. “You are not invisible.”
Heat crept up her neck. She was very glad he was looking at the road.
Victor’s Diner loomed up on the right, all flickering neon and weary charm. He pulled into the lot, found a spot near the door, and killed the engine.
A bell jingled as they entered. Inside, the diner was a different universe. The air was warm and smelled like coffee, bacon, and syrup. An older waitress with pink hair and a nose ring gave them a once-over and jerked her chin toward a booth.
They slid into opposite sides, vinyl creaking under them. The table between them suddenly felt both too wide and far too narrow.
Menus appeared. They ordered without needing to look—pancakes and bacon for her, omelet and sausage for him. And never-ending coffee.
When the waitress left, Ilya wrapped his hands around his mug like he could coax heat into his bones. “So,” he said. “Tabloid. Bar. Creeper. This is...a lot for one night.”
“It was supposed to be a controlled experiment,” she huffed. “Low stakes. Instead, it turned into a humiliating circus act.”
“Why humiliating?”
“You saw me take out a barstool with my ass.” Unable to stop herself, she mumbled, “The thing has its own zip code at this point.”
“I saw you standing there being too good for that place,” he corrected, tone mild. “And men being too scared to approach.”
Warmth bloomed somewhere under her ribs. She poked at the laminated placemat to have something to do. “You’re biased.”
“That’s possible, but it’s also true,” he said. Then, more soberly, “So, that was Mitch. Now, Nina?”
Zoey blinked. “What about Nina?”
“You mentioned her,” he said. “Earlier this week when we were texting. She made you feel...small.”
After seeing him in the hall with Liam, Zoey had made an effort to reach out more often via text. Just like in college, it was never long essays. Just random thoughts. Memes. A song. A Fido update.
So, of course, he’d logged it when she sent him a clip from Office Space.
Zoey sighed, slumping a little in the booth.
“She does this thing,” she said slowly. “Always with a smile, always technically polite. She’ll say stuff like, ‘We’ll keep this simple since you’ve been out of the workforce for so long,’ or ‘Don’t worry, Zoey, your ideas are very...
creative. Evan and I will handle the complex stakeholder pieces. ’”
His eyes sharpened. “She said that?”
“More than once.” Zoey stared at the sugar packets. “And I know I’m too old to be rattled by mean-girl behavior, but she’s found a way to weaponize my résumé gap.”
He stayed quiet.
“And the fact that I hit pause on my career for a decade to be someone else’s supporting cast,” she finished. “Now I’m playing catch-up against people who never had to.”
The waitress slid their plates in front of them. The pancakes steamed, butter melting into golden pools.
Zoey took a sip of her coffee and quickly set it back down. Sweet baby Jesus, that was strong enough to wake the dead.
When they were alone again, he said, “Outreach is not lesser work. It is different work. And you’re good at it.”
“You don’t have to say that,” she muttered, cutting into a pancake. “You’re contractually obligated to like my programs. You volunteered your entire team to run drills with foster kids.”
“I volunteered my team because it was good idea,” he insisted, handsome face sincere. “And because those kids deserve someone who looks at them like you do.”
Her fork paused halfway to her mouth. “Like I do?”
“Like they are...precious,” he said, like he’d picked each word up, examined it, and set it down carefully. “Not broken. Not...projects. Like they are children.”
Her throat went tight.
“Speaking of children,” she began because apparently tonight was ‘Tell Ilya All the Things Night’, “I started my foster application.”
His gaze snapped up. “You did?”
She nodded, setting the fork down so she wouldn’t fling syrup everywhere with her suddenly shaky hands.
“I’ve been doing a ton of research and working with Babs.
I finally filled out most of the paperwork.
It’s just...taking forever. Background checks, home visits, training.
It’s like trying to get clearance to tour the Pentagon.
But you’re one of my references, so I thought you should know before they called. ”
He didn’t laugh. His expression went serious in a way that made her skin feel too hot. “You want to foster.” His eyes worked like he was fitting puzzle pieces together. “Like an emergency placement when something happens?”
Lightning zinged along her skin. Finally. Someone besides Kayla and Kira to gush about this to.
“Yeah. Sometimes. That’s part of it...” Zoey wanted to tell him everything but didn’t want to bore him to death either.
“They’d probably only drop off one kid at a time.
I marked that I was open to taking siblings, though.
Babs said I should try some short-term at first.” Her chest squeezed.
“But yeah. I’d be open to emergency placements.
I’d...want to be that safe place. Even if it was just for a night or two. ”
He was silent for a long moment. Then, his voice low, he said, “That is...an amazing thing to do, Zo.”
The words sank into her, heavy and warm. Amazing. Not crazy. Not na?ve. Not do you really think you can handle that?
“Not many people would open their home like that,” he went on. “Not many people could.”
“Plenty of people do,” she protested weakly.
“Yes. And they are also amazing. You are not...less, just because there are others. You are...still.” He gestured, like he couldn’t quite find the right word. “Big.”
Her lips curved despite herself. “Big?”
“Heart,” he amended, ears faintly pink. “You have a big heart. Maybe too big at times.”
“Careful,” she teased. “Someone might hear you and revoke your stoic hockey captain card.”
He shrugged one shoulder, unbothered. “You’re right. I’d hate for a tabloid to come out and say that after dining with you, I was now a sensitive soul who was working on healing and rejuvenating my inner cuddle bear.”
Zoey grinned. “You scare the PR team.”
He grinned wickedly over the raised mug. “I know.”
Zoey chuckled and pointed her fork at him. “They’d reassess that if they saw you sitting outside waiting for Fido, though.”
“I guess we shouldn’t tell them about the custom dog jersey we had made with the team logo.”
She pressed her lips together to smother a smile.
The warmth from his teasing settled under her skin, mingling with the sugar and coffee. It loosened something in her that had been cinched tight for months. Maybe years.
Which was probably why her filter slipped.
“I might need the contact information for the custom jersey maker so I can get some for any of my future foster placements...” she said, waving a strip of bacon for emphasis. “If I get approved, that is.”
“You will,” he said without hesitation.
“Assuming the state of Massachusetts doesn’t blacklist me for emotional instability.” She gestured at herself. “Woman whose ex publicly implied she was a plague to be healed from and ‘cut ties’ from, and who got caught trying to rebound with a man who smelled like Axe body spray and entitlement.”
He made an impressed face before quipping, “You can smell that?”
Zoey rolled her eyes. “And also, let’s be real, my divorce diet of fluffernutters and stress-snacking Nutella straight from the jar is not exactly prime brochure material.
I should probably get in better shape before I start chasing toddlers around my apartment.
Right now, if a kid took off down the sidewalk, I’d just yell ‘good luck’ and hope they circled back someday. But hey, round is a shape, right?”