Chapter 7
Rules of Engagement
Sage
Morning light spills through the blinds, scattering stripes across the quartz countertop.
The hum of the fridge and the faint sizzle of eggs in the pan are the only sounds in my kitchen — my small, efficient, perfectly ordinary kitchen.
The stainless steel appliances gleam, but they’re not luxury-grade.
The island is compact, the counter space barely enough for meal prep if I spread out too much.
It’s cozy. Mine. But compared to Leo’s penthouse kitchen — or what used to be his penthouse kitchen — it suddenly feels small.
I glance around, trying to see the space through his eyes. The cheap overhead light, the single oven, the faucet that drips when it feels dramatic. Fine for me, but to him? Probably quaint. Functional, not impressive.
He’s at the counter.
Shoulders slightly hunched, scrolling through something on his iPad — game film, I think. His hair’s damp from his post-practice shower, curling just enough to look unfairly good for someone who grumbles through breakfast. There’s a half-drunk mug of black coffee beside him, steam curling lazily.
I chop strawberries for his recovery bowl, the knife rhythmic against the cutting board. My cheeks warm before I can stop it. Why do I care what he thinks of my kitchen? I lived here for years before he showed up. I love this place. Except now, the air feels… smaller. Like I’m performing.
Grayson’s voice sneaks in, uninvited, curling through my memory with the faint smell of his cologne and the echo of his drawl—sharp as the blade in my hand: “Cute setup, Sage. Very Food Network Jr.” He used to smirk when he said it, leaning against my counter like he owned it. “Real chefs need real kitchens.”
I blink, forcing the thought away, and stir the chia base instead. “It’s not about the kitchen,” I mutter under my breath. “It’s about the food.”
Leo doesn’t look up, but his voice rumbles low. “You say something?”
“Nothing.” My laugh comes out light, practiced. Deflect, always. “Just talking to my fantasy kitchen. You know — double ovens, six-burner gas range, endless counter space. The works.”
He finally glances over, and for a beat my breath stalls—the word efficient lands in my chest like a tiny bruise, equal parts praise and distance, eyes flicking up from the iPad. “Efficient,” he says, then returns to scrolling.
Efficient. That’s it? My chest tightens, stupidly. I was aiming for charming banter, and he gave me a performance review.
I slide the recovery bowl toward him — precise timing, twenty minutes post-workout. The mix is perfect: chia, oats, protein, fruit, honey drizzle. I shouldn’t care if he notices. But when he takes a bite and murmurs, “Thanks,” something tightens low in my stomach.
“You’re welcome,” I say, too fast, turning away to rinse the knife.
My reflection catches in the window — hair messy, shoulders tense — and I let out a slow breath.
I remind myself I’m not here to impress him.
I’m here because it’s temporary. Because the universe flooded a hockey legend’s penthouse and I happened to have a guest room.
Still, when I glance back, he’s watching his screen, not me. The silence stretches. The kitchen feels even smaller.
I wipe my hands on a towel, trying to shake off the weird twinge in my chest. This isn’t a date. It’s breakfast. For an injured, displaced hockey player who just happens to have a jawline sculpted by the gods and a vocabulary that could fit on a sticky note.
He’s still at the counter, reviewing game film, the blue glow from the iPad painting his face in cold light. Every so often he rewinds, pauses, scribbles something in a small notebook. The level of focus he has — it’s both impressive and infuriating. Like nothing exists outside those clips.
I open the fridge for almond milk, mostly to give my hands something to do. “You know, ‘efficient’ might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
Leo doesn’t look up. “I said that?”
I let out a short laugh. “Yeah. Just now. About my kitchen.”
He nods once, eyes still on the screen. “It’s true.”
That’s it. No smile. No follow-up. I bite back the urge to fill the silence. My brain scrambles for levity — something to make this less awkward, less lopsided.
“I’ll add that to my Yelp reviews,” I mumble, half under my breath. “Chef Sage Hart: certified efficient by Leo Voss.”
He snorts — barely audible, but real — and it warms something in me I wish it didn’t. My lips twitch before I can stop them, a smile I try to hide as heat crawls up my neck. I can’t tell if it’s amusement or exasperation, but it’s sound. From him. Progress.
I turn back to the counter, pretending to check his empty bowl. “How’s the timing on that meal?” I ask casually, though I already know. Perfect window for glycogen replenishment. I track his schedule more closely than my own.
“Good,” he says. “You nailed it.”
My pulse skips. “I mean… that’s kind of the job.” I shrug, trying to keep it light, but there’s something intimate about knowing exactly when his body needs fuel. Like reading a language I shouldn’t be fluent in.
He finishes the last bite, sets the spoon down, and the silence lingers a heartbeat—just long enough for the air to thicken—before he sets the spoon down, and finally looks at me — really looks. “Thanks,” he says again, quieter this time. Less automatic.
I force a smile, masking the flicker of warmth that hits too deep. “Don’t mention it.”
When he glances back at the film, I grab a marker from the fridge and, on impulse, scribble something on the corner of his to-do list: Eat joyfully. It’s stupid, probably too whimsical for him, but it makes me smile.
He notices the motion, eyes flicking up. His expression gives nothing away. He just nods once — acknowledgment, not approval — then goes right back to analyzing a defensive shift.
The small spark I’d felt dims, snuffed out by that familiar emptiness. Disappointment slides in, quiet but sharp. I remind myself it’s not his job to notice. Or to care.
My phone buzzes on the counter, vibrating hard enough to rattle against the cutting board. Leo barely glances up, but my stomach drops the second I see the name flash across the screen.
Grayson.
Even muted, the name hits like a slap. I shouldn’t look. I know better. But the preview text pops up before I can stop myself — a voicemail transcription.
Miss your cooking. You were better with me.
My throat tightens. The world narrows to that one line, those five stupid words. I can almost hear the smirk in his voice, dripping with condescension. The kind of tone that used to make me feel small and flattered at the same time.
Leo’s chair creaks slightly. “You okay?”
I blink hard, forcing air into my lungs. “Yeah. Fine.” My voice sounds too bright, brittle around the edges.
He studies me for a second longer than usual, like he’s weighing whether to push. Then, maybe mercifully, he doesn’t. He just goes back to his film.
I delete the message without listening, thumb shaking a little as I hit confirm. Gone. Out of sight, out of mind — except it never really is. The ache under my ribs is familiar, dull but deep. Old habits die slow, especially the ones shaped like people who taught you to doubt yourself.
The silence stretches again, thicker this time.
The hum of the fridge fills the space, loud enough to mingle with the steady thrum of my pulse, tightening the air between us until it almost vibrates.
this time. I grip the counter, trying to anchor myself.
The knife glints beside the fruit bowl, and I pick it up more for something to hold than anything else. The handle feels solid, grounding.
Then the intercom buzzes — loud, abrupt, slicing through the quiet. I jump, heart thudding.
Leo looks up. “Expecting someone?”
I shake my head, setting the knife down carefully. “No.”
He pushes back from the stool, moving toward the door with that easy, contained power. The buzz sounds again, sharper. When he opens it, a courier stands there, holding a large box stamped with a gear logo and Leo’s name.
“Delivery,” the guy says. “For Voss.”
Leo signs, shuts the door, and sets the package on the floor. His jaw’s tight when he glances at me. “Equipment drop.”
“Right.” My voice comes out low, steady. Too steady. The pulse in my wrist hammers, and I grip the counter again, fingers whitening.
For some reason, I can’t shake the creeping sense that everything safe in this kitchen could change in a heartbeat— the feeling that something’s about to shift — that this ordinary morning has tilted, just slightly, into something else.