Chapter 20 Garrett
Garrett
The door closes behind us with a soft snick that might as well be a thunderclap.
We stand in her entryway, the warm glow of her apartment lights washing over us, and suddenly the air feels charged with possibility.
"Steve needs a home," she says softly, but there's something in her voice—a tremor that has nothing to do with our ridiculous blue sloth prize and everything to do with the way I'm looking at her.
"He does," I agree, though I can barely focus on anything but the way the lamplight catches the copper in her hair, the way her lips are still pink from our kiss.
I set Steve down carefully by the door, but my eyes never leave her. She's beautiful—she's always beautiful—but tonight there's something different. Something open and unguarded that makes my chest tight with want.
Her apartment is exactly what I expected and nothing like I imagined all at once.
Rich jewel tones and soft textures that scream sophisticated taste, but with little contradictions that make me fall harder: a ratty University of Minnesota sweatshirt draped over a dining chair, mismatched coffee mugs in the sink, romance novels with cracked spines stacked on her coffee table.
"Your place is perfect," I tell her, and I mean it. It's professional Sloane and secret Sloane existing in the same space, and I love every inch of it.
"It's home," she says, then pauses. "Do you want some coffee? Wine? I think I have—"
"Sloane."
She stops mid-sentence, looking at me with those green eyes that have been driving me crazy for months.
"I don't want coffee."
Her breath catches. "What do you want?"
The question hangs between us, loaded with possibility and promise. I take a step toward her, then another, watching the way her pupils dilate as I close the distance.
"You," I say simply. "Just you."
Her response is immediate and devastating.
She rises on her toes, threading her fingers through my hair, and kisses me with a hunger that makes my knees weak.
This kiss is different from the one at her door—deeper, more intentional.
Less about the thrill of stolen moments and more about the luxury of time.
Her hands work at the buttons of my shirt with sure, efficient fingers, and I can feel the exact moment she stops holding back. The tension in her shoulders melts away, replaced by something liquid and wanting.
"Sloane," I murmur against her mouth, and she makes a soft sound that goes straight through me.
"I know," she whispers, her lips trailing along my jaw.
I catch her hands, still them against my chest. Force myself to meet her eyes even though every nerve ending is screaming at me to let her keep going.
"Do you? Because this isn't about the secrecy or the adrenaline or—"
She silences me with a kiss that tastes like certainty.
"It's about you," she whispers against my lips. "About us. About how you make me feel like the only woman in the world when you look at me like that."
My resolve crumbles completely. "You are," I tell her, cupping her face in my hands. "You are."
When she reaches for my shirt again, I don't stop her.
This is slow, deliberate. A conversation conducted in touches and sighs and whispered promises.
She leads me to her bedroom—all cream and sage green, with fairy lights strung around a window that overlooks the city—and I feel like I'm crossing a threshold into something sacred.
"You're sure?" I ask, because I need to hear it one more time.
"I've never been more sure of anything." Her fingers trace the line of my jaw, and I turn into the touch, pressing a kiss to her palm. "Are you?"
Instead of answering with words, I show her.
We undress each other slowly, reverently, with less urgency than last time. Each piece of clothing that falls away feels significant—her sweater, my shirt, the careful reveal of skin that's been hidden for so long behind professional boundaries and careful distance.
When we finally come together, it's not the shock of discovery but the relief of returning to something we've both been craving; a completeness that feels less like falling and more like coming home.
We take our time, feeling each other's rhythms, discovering what makes the other gasp and sigh and whisper each other's names like prayers.
There's something profound in the way she looks at me—not just with desire, but with trust. With the kind of openness that comes from knowing you're safe with someone. From knowing you're seen, really seen, and accepted completely.
"You're beautiful," I tell her, brushing a strand of hair from her face, and watch the way the words make her cheeks flush pink.
Afterwards, I'm sprawled on my back, Sloane curled against my side with her head on my chest, and I've never felt more content in my life. Her fingers trace lazy patterns on my skin while I play with her hair, both of us floating in that perfect haze where the world feels soft around the edges.
"That was..." she starts, then trails off with a satisfied sigh.
"Better than air hockey?" I tease, and feel her smile against my chest.
"Way better than air hockey." She lifts her head to look at me, and her expression is so open, so full of affection, that my breath catches. "Though I'm still not admitting defeat on that front."
"Rematch next week?"
"You're on." She settles back down, her arm tightening around my waist like she's trying to keep me anchored here. "This is nice. Just... being able to take our time."
"No risk of interruption," I agree, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "No having to sneak around."
"Just us."
"Just us."
We lie in comfortable silence for a while, and I let myself memorize this moment—the weight of her against me, the rhythm of her breathing, the way her bedroom smells like her perfume and us. I want to bottle this feeling, this perfect rightness, and carry it with me always.
"I should probably go soon," I say eventually, though every fiber of my being rebels against the idea.
"Probably." But she doesn't loosen her grip on me. "Early practice tomorrow."
"And you've got that early meeting."
"Sure do."
Neither of us moves.
"Five more minutes," I say.
"Five more minutes," she agrees.
We both know it'll be longer than five minutes. We both know I don't want to leave, and she doesn't want me to. But this is how it has to be. For now.
When I finally force myself to get dressed and kiss her goodbye at her door—a softer, sweeter goodbye than any we've shared before—I feel like I'm walking on air.
The drive back to my loft passes in a haze of contentment.
I can still taste the sweetness of cotton candy on my lips, still hear Sloane's laugh echoing in my truck as she tried to buckle Steve the sloth into the backseat.
The memory of her face when she said "This was perfect" plays on repeat, and I catch myself grinning like an idiot at red lights.
Back in my apartment, I pour two fingers of bourbon and sink into the leather chair by the window. The city glitters, but all I see is her—lighting up the arcade, destroying me at air hockey, melting against me when we finally came together.
Perfect. She called it perfect. She was right.
Still grinning, I scroll through social media. Photos of teammates with their families. Late-night dinners. The usual.
Then I see it.
A post from Derek—my old linemate. The guy who helped wreck my last relationship. He's at a gala with his wife. She's beaming. He's holding her like she's everything.
"Couldn't be prouder of my incredible wife for chairing tonight's children's hospital fundraiser. This woman amazes me every single day. Lucky doesn't even begin to cover it. #PowerCouple #ProudHusband"
The bourbon in my glass suddenly tastes sour.
Derek looks proud. Proud in a way I feel every second with Sloane but never get to show.
My thumb freezes above the screen. And then I hear Emma's voice, razor-sharp and painfully familiar:
"You never fought for me. When things got hard, when people talked, you just... disappeared. Like you were ashamed of me."
It gutted me then. Because beneath all the drama, it was true. When the press circled, when the rumors hit, I shut down. I called it discretion. Dignity. But really? I was protecting myself.
"Not once," she screamed in our final fight, "not once did you stand up and say you were proud to be with me."
I set the phone down.
I'm doing it again.
The realization hits like a punch to the ribs.
Here I am—hiding the most extraordinary woman I've ever known. Making her sneak through shadows. Acting like this thing between us is some shameful secret instead of the best part of my life.
Sloane says secrecy protects her career, but what if I'm just using that as armor? What if I'm using her legitimate concerns as an excuse to avoid the vulnerability of going public again? What if I'm making her pay the price for my cowardice?
Derek gets to post photos with his wife at charity galas while I can't even acknowledge that the woman who just revolutionized my world exists in my life. He gets to call her his partner while I pretend Sloane is just another coworker.
I think of tonight. Her smile. Her trust. The way she looked at me like I was her whole world.
She deserves more than shadows. She deserves to be claimed. Fought for.
Emma was wrong about a lot. But she was right about this: Silence isn't dignity. It's cowardice.
No. Not this time. Not with Sloane.
I won't make the same mistake twice. When the right moment comes—when she's proving to everyone how extraordinary she is—I won't let her stand there alone.
I'll make sure everyone understands exactly what they're witnessing: not just a brilliant woman, but excellence delivered by the most remarkable woman I've ever known.
I'll find a way to show them all what she means to this team, what she means to this organization. I'll make sure she gets the recognition she deserves.
This time, I'll fight for her the way she deserves to be fought for.