Chapter Three
Saturday morning, late-summer light stretched across Dad’s kitchen while I stood at the island planning breakfast for the man I’d kissed the night before.
I’d gone home alone after that kiss. Nothing else had happened between us, which should’ve made this morning feel exactly like the arrangement we’d made yesterday.
It didn’t.
The groceries were easier.
If Dane had followed the list I’d dictated, I could do crisp potatoes with peppers, soft eggs with Parmesan, greens, toast, and whatever fruit he’d ordered beyond the depressing collection of apples I’d found in his refrigerator.
Enough food for a six-foot-four professional athlete who’d apparently spent years believing breakfast needed to accomplish something rather than taste good.
I wrote herbs beside the eggs, then crossed it out. He’d bought herbs.
Probably.
I added them back with a question mark.
This was the kind of problem I liked. Ingredients, timing, temperature, appetite. Give me a stocked kitchen and a person to feed, and I knew exactly what to do.
The fact that the person in question had kissed me against his kitchen island less than twelve hours ago complicated the workflow considerably.
Not because I regretted it.
That would’ve been convenient.
I closed the notebook and carried it toward the pantry, where I found a small container that would work for anything Dane had forgotten to buy.
I was halfway through deciding whether taking my own chives qualified as professional preparedness or an alarming level of investment in somebody else’s breakfast when my phone buzzed on the counter.
I knew who I wanted it to be before I looked.
That was probably worth examining later.
DANE: Training’s done. I bought everything on your list. Come over when you’re ready.
I read it twice, which was unnecessary.
Then I looked at the breakfast plan I’d already made for him.
Apparently I’d been ready for a while.
Before I could answer, another message appeared.
PAIGE: Important literary emergency. I found our next monster romance.
I laughed and leaned against the island.
Under normal circumstances I would’ve called her immediately and demanded details. Unfortunately, a call increased the chances of questions about Europe, and I was already running out of believable ways to avoid showing her where I supposedly was.
CHRISHELLE: Finding another book does not qualify as an emergency.
Her answer came fast.
PAIGE: You haven’t seen the cover. Also, where’s my picture? You still owe me Europe.
There it was.
I looked through the windows at Dad’s quiet Colorado property: evergreens, pale blue sky, mountains in the distance, and absolutely nothing that could survive even casual inspection as Europe.
Yesterday I’d told myself I had another day before dealing with this.
Apparently yesterday’s version of me had been an optimist.
CHRISHELLE: I haven’t forgotten. Give me a little time to become photographically presentable.
PAIGE: You’ve been gone almost two weeks. At this point I’ll accept cheese, scenery, or one blurry European stranger.
I smiled despite the guilt tightening beneath my ribs.
Making up the trip had been easy when it was one panicked sentence. Maintaining it with somebody who’d known me since prep school was becoming a full-time administrative burden.
CHRISHELLE: No strangers. I’ll find something less likely to get me arrested.
PAIGE: Fine. I still expect one.
I set the phone facedown before she could turn that into a FaceTime request.
Dane was easier.
That realization wasn’t especially flattering.
I changed into a clean tank and casual shorts, pulled my hair back, and slipped my feet into sneakers. The chives went into a small container, because I’d already accepted that bringing my own herbs to a professional athlete’s house before nine in the morning was somehow part of my life now.
Then I texted Dane.
CHRISHELLE: I’m coming over. Do not touch the potatoes.
His reply arrived before I reached the mudroom.
DANE: I wasn’t planning to.
Good.
At least one man in my life currently understood boundaries.
The path between the properties looked different in the morning. Sunlight filtered through the evergreens, warming patches of packed earth and pine needles, and Dane’s house appeared gradually through the trees instead of emerging as a dark shape beyond the deck.
He opened the rear door before I knocked.
His hair was still damp from a shower, and he’d changed out of whatever he trained in. A dark T-shirt stretched across his shoulders, athletic shorts showed off an unreasonable amount of powerful thigh, and the clean scent of soap did nothing useful for my concentration.
“Morning.”
“Morning.”
For one second we stood there like two people who hadn’t spent part of the previous night pressed against each other.
I solved that problem by stepping inside, catching the front of his shirt, and kissing him.
Dane made a low sound of surprise before one arm came around my waist. The kiss deepened just enough to remind me what his mouth could do, then I pulled away before breakfast turned into something considerably less organized.
He looked down at me.
“I wasn’t sure what the rules were this morning.”
“Neither was I.” I stepped back and looked toward the kitchen. “But I clarified one.”
His smile came slowly. “Which one?”
“I still like kissing you. Now show me whether you can follow a grocery list.”
He’d done better than I expected.
The refrigerator held everything I’d named the night before, plus a few things I hadn’t. The produce was good, the bread wasn’t tragic, and he’d even bought fresh berries along with peaches and more apples.
I held up the butter.
“I’m proud of you.”
“I clicked the brand with the best reviews.”
“That’s not how I’d choose butter, but I’ll allow it.”
Dane shook his head while I pulled out peppers, greens, eggs, and Parmesan and he set potatoes on the island.
“Those I can touch now?”
“You’ve earned potato privileges.”
He laughed and reached for a cutting board.
I tied on the apron I’d brought from Dad’s house, then stopped when Dane picked up a knife.
“What are you doing?”
“Cutting potatoes. I grew up around construction sites, and I’ve played professional hockey for years. I can operate a knife.”
“I’m deciding whether those are convincing breakfast-prep qualifications.”
He started cutting, and the pieces came out annoyingly even.
I watched him finish half a potato before I turned toward the stove.
“Fine. Keep going.”
“Thank you for your confidence.”
I turned on a burner. “Don’t get emotional.”
Breakfast settled into an easy rhythm after that. Dane handled potatoes and peppers while I worked the eggs and greens. He did his part without trying to prove he belonged in my space, and when I told him to lower the heat under a skillet, he did it instead of arguing.
That alone put him ahead of several men I’d worked with professionally.
“You always train this early?” I asked.
“When I’m on my own, usually. Today was strength work and some conditioning. I had yogurt and fruit first.” He pushed the chopped peppers toward me.
“Good. You passed the test. I was prepared to be offended if you’d trained on nothing and expected breakfast to fix it.”
Dane smiled. “I’m not trying to make your life difficult.”
I slid the potatoes into the skillet. “That would make you the first man to enter a kitchen with that goal.”
He smiled but didn’t turn it into another joke.
We ate at the island with the windows open enough to let cool mountain air move through the room. The potatoes had crisped properly, the eggs stayed soft, and the berries were sweet enough that I forgave Dane for ordering more apples.
He cleaned his plate.
“That’s better than oatmeal,” he said.
“An endorsement for the ages, especially from a man who actually likes oatmeal.”
He reached for another piece of toast. “You know this still works for me, right? Training-wise.”
“That’s why I made it.”
“I figured.”
Something in the simple certainty of that answer warmed me more than the compliment had the night before.
He wasn’t treating the food as indulgence because it tasted good. He trusted that I knew what I was doing.
I took a drink of water.
“When do you actually have to leave for New York?”
“Not immediately. I’ve got some flexibility this weekend, then I need to get back and settle in before camp gets serious. I’ve already got a place lined up for the season.”
I nodded. “New York’s home for me too.”
His expression shifted. “Your restaurants were there?”
There it was.
An easy question with a complicated neighborhood behind it.
“Most of them.”
It was true.
He waited a moment, then nodded instead of asking which one I was between or what had happened.
The relief came too quickly.
I hated that I needed it.
“So when this weekend ends,” he said, “we’re not actually heading in opposite directions.”
I looked down at my plate, though there wasn’t much left on it.
“No.”
The word carried more weight than it should’ve.
Dane didn’t push it into anything bigger.
He got up, collected our plates, and took them to the sink.
That helped too.
By late morning I’d gone back to Dad’s house with a plan to return at six.
I spent the afternoon doing ordinary things badly.
I tried reading a replacement book on the back deck but found myself rereading the same page.
I checked my phone more often than necessary even though Dane hadn’t promised to text.
I made myself eat a snack and drink a glass of water because breakfast had been hours ago, then opened the refrigerator again later without being hungry.
Eventually I gave up pretending I wasn’t looking forward to dinner.
That, at least, was easier to admit than why.
***
At six, I walked back through the trees carrying nothing except my apron.
Dane had the steak out on the counter and the vegetables washed. He’d changed into jeans and a soft gray henley with the sleeves pushed up his forearms, which seemed unnecessarily attractive for someone whose only assigned task was opening the back door.
“You’re early,” he said.