Chapter 5
Chapter Five
ELENA
The cab is rattling down West Broadway when my phone buzzes again, and I swear my stomach tries to exit my body through my spine.
I reread Colt’s last message.
Colt: I’ll meet you there at 7:30.
Uh oh.
Absolutely not.
I slap a hand over my mouth.
“What happened?” the cab driver asks without looking back.
“I… uh… forgot my work badge,” I say.
“That’s rough.”
“And my trainer is bringing it to me.”
He whistles. “That’s nice of him.”
“Is it?” I ask, feeling my voice go too high, too tight. “IS IT??”
He shrugs. “Depends. Are you into him, or…?”
I bury my face in my hands.
“Oh my God.”
By the time I burst into my apartment, I’m in full meltdown mode.
I kick my shoes off so hard they ricochet off the wall.
My phone rings.
It’s Harper with a FaceTime, and I answer immediately. “Help.”
“What did you do?” she demands.
“Nothing!” I pace aggressively. “I forgot my stupid badge and now Colt—my trainer—my TWENTY-SEVEN-YEAR-OLD TRAINER—is bringing it to my DATE.”
Harper lets out a loud giggle that borders on a scream.
“Elena. ELENA. This is—oh my God—this is fate.”
“No,” I say. “This is humiliation. This is the ghost of bad decisions past haunting me.”
“It’s a sign.”
“It’s not a sign!”
“Elena,” she says in her ‘best friend voice.’ “Hot men don’t cross boroughs to return ID badges unless they like you or they’re serial killers. And he doesn’t give serial-killer vibes.”
I flail an arm. “He’s being NICE. He’s a NICE PERSON.
But it’s like, we’re trying to keep things professional.
He gave me this whole talk today that his boss doesn’t want him flirting with clients like me.
So…isn’t this the exact opposite of keeping things professional?
Also my date will probably see him. Oh God, this is so embarrassing.
I just, I’ve had so many things on my mind lately. ”
Harper tsks. “It’s only embarrassing if your dress sucks. Speaking of—what are you wearing?”
I spin in a circle. “I HAVE NOTHING.”
“You have a closet full of clothing, Elena.”
“I have nothing date-worthy! I have business casual! I have yoga leggings! I have that stupid green—”
“Focus,” Harper says. “Go to the back of your closet.”
I yank open the doors and shove hangers aside.
There are black dresses, work blouses, plus a questionable leather skirt from 2018.
An entire section of Depression Sweaters from my emo era.
And then, there it is.
My wine-red wrap dress.
It’s got a deep color and soft fabric, along with a neckline that toes the line between tasteful and dangerous.
Plus a waist tie that cinches just right, and a hem that lands mid-thigh.
I haven’t worn it since…God. Before the breakup. Before everything got gray.
I hold it up.
My breath catches.
Harper squeals. “YES. That is the one. That dress is the reason men start wars.”
“I can’t wear this.”
“You HAVE to wear that.”
“What if Colt thinks—”
“Elena. Thinks what?”
I stop pacing. “You know. Thinks I’m trying to impress him.”
“You’re not dressing for Colt,” she says. “You’re dressing for YOU.”
And something in my chest loosens.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay. I’ll wear it.”
I shower in record time.
Blow-dry my hair until it’s soft and wavy.
Do my makeup carefully—nothing too intense, just a smoky bronze eye and gloss that makes my lips look bitten.
I put on the dress.
It fits like someone tailored it for my soul.
I slip on heeled ankle boots.
Grab my purse.
And stare at myself in the mirror.
I look… good.
Better than good.
Alive.
My phone buzzes.
Mark (the date): Running five minutes behind, sorry!
Fine.
Good.
Better, even.
Because my heart is hammering for a reason that has nothing to do with Mark.
I slip out the door.
Vestry Bar glows like a jewel box—dim lighting, brass fixtures, velvet booths, golden candlelight reflecting off every bottle behind the bar.
I swallow.
This place is fancy even by New York standards.
My heels click softly on the floor as I walk in, scanning the crowd, looking for Mark for some reason even though I know he’s running late.
But instead I see him.
Colt.
Standing near the bar.
He’s wearing dark jeans, black boots, and a fitted gray button-down rolled at the sleeves, revealing his forearms.
His hair is pushed back, still a little damp from the shower he definitely took before coming here.
He’s got a freshly clean-shaven jaw, and shoulders that could block out the moon.
He looks different now; older and sharper.
Like he stepped out of an entirely different life.
For a second, I forget how to breathe.
Then he spots me, and his whole expression changes to something like surprise.
Then…something warm and slow. Something he tries to hide—but doesn’t quite manage.
He takes a step toward me, pulling my badge from his coat pocket.
“Hey,” he says, voice low. “You clean up nice.”
God help me.
“So do you.”
“Here.”
He hands me the badge.
Our fingers brush, soft and electric.
He clears his throat. “Your date here yet?”
“No.”
I swallow. “You’re early.”
“Wanted to make sure you got this before he showed up.”
My stomach flips.
“That’s…really sweet.”
He shrugs, trying to play it cool.
“Just being professional.”
I stare at him. “So you’d do this for any client?”
He stares back. “Uh, yeah. Of course I would.”
Neither of us believes that.
“Thanks, Colt,” I say softly. “Guess we have a few minutes to hang out. If you want.”
I lift a brow. “I don’t want to, uh, flirt with you, though. Wouldn’t want to break company protocol. HR is a nightmare these days.”
He huffs a quiet laugh through his nose. “Yeah. Tell me about it. It’s like people are afraid to have fun anymore.”
We stand near the bar, angled toward each other but pretending we’re not. Pretending every nerve in my body isn’t fully dialed to him. Pretending his eyes aren’t very obviously doing a slow, respectful once-over of my dress.
The air shifts—cold breeze from the door, I think, or maybe I’m imagining it—and I instinctively wrap my arms around myself.
Colt sees instantly.
Before I can argue, he shrugs off his coat and drapes it around my shoulders.
Oh…
His coat is warm.
It smells faintly like cedar and clean soap.
The weight of it presses against my collarbone—and so do his fingers, briefly brushing my skin.
I freeze, and he does too.
He pulls his hand back fast. “Sorry—I shouldn’t—”
“No,” I say quickly. “I’m cold. Thank you.”
His jaw works once. “Yeah. Sure.”
A tiny silence blooms between us. Not awkward, just charged.
I swallow. “So…um. I never asked. What do you want to do? In life. Beyond the gym, I mean.”
He blinks.
Genuinely surprised.
“Damn.”
“What?”
“Well, no one’s asked me that in a while,” he says quietly. “God…I don’t know. Not for as long as I can remember.”
I tilt my head. “Well…I’m asking now. I’m on pins and needles.”
He looks at me, and something in his eyes softens.
“I guess…” He scratches the back of his neck. “I’d like to be a coach. Maybe. One day.”
“A football coach?”
“Yeah. High school. Maybe college if I get lucky.” He shrugs like this is embarrassing. “I… like seeing people get better. I like helping them believe they can.”
My heart squeezes.
That is…beautiful.
“Colt,” I murmur. “That’s…really lovely.”
He stares at me like he doesn’t know how to take that.
Then he clears his throat and tries to push the attention away.
“What about you?” he asks. “Tell me about this traumatizing relationship you mentioned. Aside from the zero foreplay situation.”
“Ugh.” I groan. “Why did I even bring that up?”
“Because I asked,” he says. “And because you trusted me with something. So now I’m holding you to it.”
God help me.
I exhale. “Fine. I just…tried so hard to make things work. For years. And it turned out he was cheating on me. He had a whole damn dating app profile going while we were together.”
Colt’s head snaps up so fast I hear his neck crack.
“On you?”
Something in the way he says it—shocked, offended on my behalf—makes my throat go tight.
“What’s that mean?” I ask lightly, even though I know exactly what it means.
“It means…” He gestures at my entire being, vaguely frustrated. “You’re so hot.”
My brain blue-screens.
“I am?”
He nods once. Definitive.
“Okay,” I whisper, “now you’re flirting.”
He smirks a little. “Just stating facts.”
“Oh.”
“And maybe I’m flirting a little,” he adds, voice dropping half an octave. “Not supposed to. Too young for you anyway, like you said.”
My breath catches. I feel it. I’m certain he feels it too. He doesn’t move back, doesn’t apologize, doesn’t fill the silence with noise. He just holds the moment, and it pins me in place like a hand between my shoulder blades.
He leans in just enough to make my pulse sprint.
“So what do you like?” he asks quietly.
“What… do I like?”
His brow quirks, playful shadow flashing for a second. “In bed.”
I swallow hard and my throat goes dry. “I like a lot of things.”
“Oh?” His voice warms at the edges, curious now. “Do tell.”
And I do—without meaning to. The words come out like a dam cracking:
“I like being wanted,” I admit, quieter than intended. “Not rushed through like a task, but chosen. But I want to feel safe, too, you know? I want to know I can trust someone. Even if it’s just…oh boy.”
“Say it.”
“Like even if it were just a casual situation. I’d want to know we’re not with other people. Not that I’ve ever done…casual. Not yet anyway.”
“Not…yet.”
I take a breath in. The hallway is warm. Probably him.
“And I miss heat,” I add, honest now, maybe reckless. “The kind that sneaks up your back when someone looks at you too long.”
His eyes flick down, then back up, and the warmth rolls through me again.
“I like hands that know what they’re doing,” I continue, the corners of my mouth betraying me into a shaky smile. “Calloused in all the right ways. Forearms are my kryptonite.”
He glances at his own, like he’s trying to hide a grin. Too late. I already saw it.
“And I like mystery,” I add. “Not chaos. But the feeling that someone could surprise me, and I wouldn’t run from it.”
He smiles at that, slower now, like I just handed him a map he didn’t expect.
“Anything else?”
“And…I wouldn’t mind something feral, and raw, you know? Like…just taking me. And then there’s the, uh…hate sex fantasy.”
His eyes widen. “Hate sex…?”
“Well I don’t want to have sex with someone I actually hate. But like…”
Before I can elaborate, my phone dings.
We both jolt like teenagers caught stealing cookies.
I glance down, and feel my stomach sink.
His expression shutters, like he’s taking in everything I just laid on him.
“Oh,” I say. “That’s my date.”
“Right.”
His voice goes tight at the edges. “I should go.”
He reaches for the bar, grabs the tab before I can react, and signs it quickly.
“You don’t have to pay.”
“I got it,” he says softly but firmly.
He holds out his hand for his coat and I slip it off, suddenly too aware of everything—my neckline, his eyes, the warmth of him still lingering in the fabric.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“For the coat?” he asks.
“For…everything.”
“Anytime.” He clears his throat, professional mask sliding back on.
“See you next week in the gym. We worked hard today. Make sure you get some good recovery sleep.”
“Yes.” My voice is too soft, too warm.
“I’m looking forward to it.”
I turn, and there he is.
Mark.
Walking toward us like he owns the sidewalk.
Tall and cocky, a typical New York man who knows this city’s ratio is skewed with nine women to every man here.
Okay, maybe that’s a slight exaggeration. But he’s the human embodiment of a misbuttoned shirt and too much cologne.
He takes one look at me—an appraising, almost transactional sweep—and then flicks his eyes to Colt.
“Friend of yours?” Mark asks, tone dismissive, borderline smug.
Before I can respond, I glance back toward Colt, but he’s already stepping away.
Already putting distance between us, shoving his hands into his pockets as he heads for the door.
But not before I see it.
It’s just a flicker, sharp and uncontrolled.
I feel…jealousy coming from him?
Something he tries too hard to bury as he disappears into the night.
Am I crazy?
“Wow,” Mark says loudly with a smirk, pulling my attention back with all the finesse of a rusty hinge. “Didn’t expect you to show up looking like this. That is one sexy dress.”
“…Thanks?” I manage.
He grins a grin that somehow contains both arrogance and insecurity.
“So, uh, I’m starving. Hope you don’t mind—I already ordered myself an appetizer on the app. Figured you’d be late.” He shrugs, like this is reasonable. “Traffic, you know?”
I blink.
Okay.
This is going to be…something.
Because even though I’m on a date with him? My mind is on someone else completely.