10. Jaxson
CHAPTER TEN
JAXSON
The private airfield is nothing but endless gray tarmac, windswept and desolate under a Seattle sky that’s slowly choking itself with clouds.
I check my watch again. That’s four times in two minutes, and the damn thing feels colder each time.
I wanted to pick Harper up, but she flat refused like I should’ve guessed she would.
Says she never lets a man come to her place on a first date.
Smart, I know. Problem is, it reminds me that I’m not the first man she’s dated.
And the thought of her dating anyone else makes me want to put my fist through concrete. God. I’m losing my fucking mind.
Her car finally rolls through the gates, and I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
The relief almost knocks me on my ass. She parks, steps out, and even from half a football field away, the way she moves gets me.
The trench coat she’s wearing is a soft cream, tied at the waist, and the fact that I’m standing here on an empty tarmac waiting for her tells you exactly how close to the fucking edge she’s got me.
I start toward her before she’s even halfway across the lot.
She hits me with her sass right on arrival. “You look like you’re about to lead a tactical mission,” Harper says, eyes bright and wicked, the runway lights catching every spark. “Is this a date or am I being kidnapped?”
“Depends on how the evening goes.” I try for a smile, but I’m not sure I manage it. In that moment, I catch myself reaching for her elbow. She stiffens a little, then lets me lead her toward the hangar. “Figured I’d cover all my bases.”
She glances past me and finally spots the blacked-out Airbus H130, rotors already spinning up, a vibration you feel in your bones. “You don’t do anything halfway, do you?” She says it just loud enough to hear over the engine noise.
I shake my head and let my hand find the small of her back. “I had to go all out since I only get one chance to impress you.”
I give her a light kiss and have to force myself not to take it further, then I walk her out to the chopper.
Miller, my agent’s favorite pilot, gives us a nod.
I help Harper up into the cabin, which smells like money and antiseptic.
Then I climb in right next to her. The second I strap in, we’re shoulder to shoulder, and suddenly it’s way more intimate than I’d imagined when I booked it.
I notice her fumbling with the headset, so I jump in. “Need a hand with that?” Not waiting, just doing it, letting my fingers brush her neck as I slip the headphones into place. She shivers, just a little, but it’s enough to make my blood move.
“I’m fine,” she says, not moving away. Eyes locked on mine. For one split second, I wonder if she sees how hard I’m fighting for this, for her, and if she knows why. I don’t have anything clever to say, so I just tighten her headset and get myself buckled in.
The lift is smooth. Heart-in-your-throat, gravity-flipping, and then suddenly the world drops out and we’re over the city.
Seattle opens up below us like a grid of gold and white against the dark, the Space Needle stabbing into the sky, and all of it reflected in the water.
I don’t look at the city. I watch Harper taking it in, her face lit by the city’s glow and her eyes sharp, taking in every detail.
“It’s beautiful,” she says through the comm, her voice echoing in my ear. “I can’t believe the view from up here.”
“Me neither,” I say, but I don’t mean the view outside the helicopter.
We ride north, the city shrinking behind us, replaced by pitch-black water and forests.
The resort at Alderbrook glows like an island of warmth, tucked up against the shoreline.
Miller sets us down on the private pad, dead smooth, exactly like he promised.
The whump of the rotors fades, and suddenly, I can hear the silence of the peninsula. It’s almost jarring.
The air here is sharper, smelling of salt and damp cedar.
I lead Harper down a winding stone path toward the restaurant, where I’ve reserved a table on the far edge of the deck, shielded by a glass windbreak and a roaring stone fireplace.
The staff is discreet, treating us like any other couple, which is the greatest luxury I can offer her right now.
"You’re staring again," Harper says after the waiter departs with our drink orders. She’s tucked a stray lock of dark hair behind her ear, her emerald earrings catching the light of the fire.
"I’m assessing," I counter, leaning back in the heavy wooden chair. "I spent twenty minutes at the rink today trying to remember the exact shade of your eyes. I settled on 'storm-cloud gray,' but I see now I was wrong. They’re more like the Sound just before a squall."
She lets out a soft, melodic laugh that makes the tension in my shoulders finally dissolve. "You’re a poet, Thorne? Who would have guessed, beneath all that athleticism lives a man who compares eyes to weather patterns?"
"I never did this shit before I met you," I say, taking a sip of the water the waiter placed on the table.
“Oh.” She bites her bottom lip and glances around the restaurant deck.
"I spend sixty minutes a night reading body language. The tilt of a shoulder, the way a player grips his stick, the focus in their eyes. It’s survival on the ice, but it’s a hard habit to break at the dinner table."
"And what is my body language telling you right now?" she asks, leaning forward, her chin resting on her hand. The movement brings her closer, the scent of her perfume, something like vanilla and rain, drifting across the table.
I look at her, really look at her, letting the silence stretch between us.
"It tells me you’re trying very hard to remember your 'no-athlete' rule. It tells me you’re wondering how you’re going to tell your brother you’re dating me.
And it tells me that despite all that, you’re glad you got on that helicopter. "
Her smile falters just enough to tell me I’ve hit the mark. "Ryan is… he’s protective. You know that. He’s seen what this life does to people. He’s seen the girls who come and go, the way players treat relationships like something expendable. He doesn't want that for me."
"I don't want that for you either," I say, my voice cracking with a sudden, sharp honesty.
I reach across the table, my hand covering hers.
Her skin is warm, a stark contrast to the cool night air.
"Harper, I know who I am in the papers. I know what your brother thinks of me.
But I haven't had a 'regular' life since I was eighteen years old, not even before then.
Everything has been a transaction. Everything has been about the game.
" I trace the line of her thumb with my own, watching the way her pulse flutters at her wrist. "When I saw you at that gala, it was the first time in years I felt like I was looking at something real. Something I want more than I want my next breath.”
"Wow," she says, though she doesn't pull her hand away. Her fingers curl around mine, a small, tentative squeeze that feels more significant than any victory I've ever had on the ice. “You’ve turned into a smooth talker.”
Dinner is a blur of rich flavors and intense conversation.
We talk about her work in the ER, the way she finds peace in the quiet moments of her small apartment, and her love of mystery books.
I tell her about the realities of my life.
The endless traveling, the late nights sleeping alone in different hotels, and the way the silence of my penthouse feels like a physical weight when I come home after a game.
"It's a big space for one person," I say, describing the glass-and-steel cathedral I call home.
"Everything is white and gray and perfectly placed.
It looks like a magazine spread, and it feels like a museum.
I built it to be a sanctuary, but I think I just ended up building a really expensive vault. "
"Maybe you just haven't found the right things to put in it," she suggests quietly. The fire has burned down to glowing embers, and the staff is beginning to clear the other tables. We are the last ones on the deck, wrapped in a cocoon of warmth and shadow.
"Maybe," I agree. I stand up and walk around the table, offering her my hand.
When she takes it, I pull her close, my arm sliding naturally around her waist. She fits against me perfectly, her head reaching just past my shoulder.
We walk back toward the helicopter pad, the sound of the water lapping against the pilings the only music in the night.