Chapter 5
FIVE
DANE
I shouldn’t be here.
That’s the first thought that crosses my mind as I park outside Gina’s place and cut the engine. The second is that I don’t care.
The house glows softly against the dark, a single light on in the living room, snow piled neatly along the walkway like someone actually bothers to keep up with it. The place doesn’t look fancy. It looks lived in. Warm. Solid.
Home.
I shake the thought off before it can dig in too deep and grab the bottle of wine I picked up on the way over. It felt like the right move. Something normal. Something that doesn’t scream I’m here to wreck your carefully rebuilt life.
I knock once.
She opens the door almost immediately, like she’s been waiting behind it.
“Hey,” she says.
“Hey.”
For a moment, we just stand there, looking at each other. She’s changed since the rink—sweatpants, an oversized sweater, her hair loose around her shoulders. No armor. No performance.
It hits me harder than it should.
“Scottie’s asleep,” she says, stepping aside. “Finally.”
I smile. “Long day.”
“You have no idea.”
I step inside, and the door closes behind me with a soft click that sounds louder than it should. The house smells faintly like pizza and something floral. Not artificial. Clean. Intentional.
“You didn’t have to bring anything,” she says, eyeing the bottle.
“I wanted to.”
She hesitates, then takes it from me. “Thank you.”
We move into the living room, the space small but thoughtfully arranged. There are hockey photos on the wall—Scottie in mismatched gear, grinning like she’s already won something important. There are framed flyers for lodge events. A bulletin board full of lists and schedules and handwritten notes.
She’s built a life.
“Make yourself comfortable,” she says.
I sit on the couch, watching as she moves through the room, setting the wine aside, turning down a lamp. She’s efficient without being rigid. Capable. The kind of woman who handles things because no one else is going to do it for her.
It’s attractive as hell.
“So,” she says finally, leaning against the counter. “You want to talk, or do you want to pretend this is just casual?”
I huff a quiet laugh. “You always did hate pretending.”
“And you always avoided the hard stuff.”
Fair.
“I’m trying not to,” I say. “Avoid it, I mean.”
She studies me, arms folded loosely, not defensive. Thoughtful.
“You stood up for Scottie today,” she says. “Without hesitation.”
“Of course I did.”
“I know,” she says. “That’s what scared me.”
I nod slowly. “Because it mattered.”
“Because it mattered,” she agrees.
Silence stretches, heavy but not uncomfortable.
“I saw the way you looked at her,” I say. “On the ice. You’re proud of her.”
“I am,” she says softly. “She’s everything.”
“I can see that.”
She exhales, then straightens. “I should warn you. I’m not very good at casual.”
“I’m not either.”
Her mouth curves slightly. “Funny how we keep ending up here anyway.”
I stand, closing the distance between us. Not touching yet. Just close enough that I can feel her warmth.
“I didn’t come here to complicate things,” I say. “But I won’t pretend I don’t want this.”
Her breath catches. “This being…?”
I reach up, slow enough to give her time to stop me, and brush a strand of hair back from her face. “You.”
She doesn’t pull away.
Instead, she leans in.
The kiss is different here. Slower. Deeper. Less charged by adrenaline and more by intention. Her hands slide into my jacket, gripping the fabric like she’s steadying herself.
I pull back just enough to rest my forehead against hers. “Tell me to leave.”
She laughs softly, breathless. “That’s not fair.”
“I know.”
“Stay,” she says.
So I do.
We kiss again, longer this time, moving together toward the couch without really deciding to. I register the feel of her beneath me, the sound she makes when I kiss along her jaw, the way she arches instinctively closer.
“This doesn’t have to mean everything,” she murmurs.
“I know,” I say, even though I’m not sure I believe it.
We slow before crossing the line completely. We talk. About the lodge. About how hard it is to keep it booked. About the way towns like this survive on stubborn people who refuse to leave.
“I’ve been fixing it up myself,” she says. “Most of it, anyway.”
I glance around again, seeing it with new eyes. “You’ve done an incredible job.”
She shrugs. “I didn’t have much choice.”
The words hit me square in the chest.
Later, when I finally leave—because she asks me to, gently, because Scottie is sleeping down the hall and this deserves more than a hurried ending—I step back into the cold with my head spinning.
I came here thinking this would be a distraction.
Instead, it feels like the beginning of something I don’t know how to walk away from.
And for the first time in a long while, that doesn’t scare me.