Chapter Thirty
This Is Not a Date (But I Shaved My Legs Anyway)
Scarlett
I stare into my full-length mirror like it just personally offended me.
The maxi dress that promised looks good on everyone looks like a sack on me.
Ultra flattering, my ass. Seriously, I look like I’m wearing a diaper underneath it.
I toss it straight into the pile of other returns that must go back this week and grab a pair of jeans and a cream-colored sweater.
Because I shouldn’t be overthinking this.
I’m going to a coffee shop. To work. With a guy who makes my heart race and my brain melt and who kissed me like it meant something—which, for the record, is not something I should still be thinking about days later.
But I am.
Unfortunately.
I tug on the soft, oversized sweater and glance in the mirror, then promptly yank it off again. Too cozy. Too much like I’m trying to look cute without trying to look cute.
Which, okay—maybe I am. But still.
Next comes a sleek black top that hugs my waist a little too nicely. I scowl. Off.
I finally land on a gray V-neck and my favorite jeans. Safe. Neutral. Not date-worthy.
Because this isn’t a date.
We’re just… working together. I told him I needed to write a little bit today, and he promised he’d let me work while he got some of his own stuff done.
So, see? Not a date.
I add a swipe of mascara anyway. Just… for my lashes.
My phone buzzes.
Chase: On my way. Try not to miss me too much.
I snort. Out loud.
My heart does a dumb little flip anyway.
I grab my laptop, shove it into my tote bag, and march out the door before I can think myself into another spiral.
Besides, I’ve got words to write, coffee to drink, and exactly zero time to wonder what it means that I can’t stop smiling every time he texts me.
Not a date.
Totally fine.
Everything’s fine.
The little bell above the coffee shop door jingles as I step inside, the familiar scent of espresso and warm baked goods wrapping around me like a hug I didn’t ask for but kind of needed.
It’s bustling but not packed—just enough background chatter to feel lively, not overwhelming.
I spot him instantly.
Chase is at a corner table, already sipping a coffee, laptop open, brows drawn in concentration.
His hair’s still damp from a shower, curling slightly at the ends, and he’s wearing a dark hoodie pushed up at the sleeves, exposing his forearms in a way that should absolutely not be legal before noon.
He hasn’t seen me yet.
Which means I have a solid ten seconds to get my heartbeat under control.
Because he looks good.
Too good.
And I’m annoyed about it.
I head toward the counter, order my usual, and by the time I make my way to the table, he looks up—and grins like I just made his whole morning.
“Hey,” he says, voice warm. “You made it.”
“Obviously,” I reply, sliding into the seat across from him. “I was promised caffeine and chaos.”
He chuckles, pushing a scone toward me. “I got your favorite. Figured it would soften your contempt.”
I eye it suspiciously. “You bribing me, Remington?”
“Always.”
We settle in. I open my laptop, determined to focus, but there’s a strange sort of… energy buzzing between us. Comfortable. Charged. Like we’ve slipped into something familiar without realizing it.
“So,” I say, pretending not to care, “what are you working on?”
“Team stuff,” he replies, running a hand through his hair. “They’ve got me prepping this leadership pitch for captain. Presentation, goals, ideas on team culture. I swear, I didn’t know hockey came with PowerPoint.”
I blink. “You’re making a PowerPoint? That’s... shockingly responsible of you.”
“I know,” he says, mock solemn. “Please hold your applause.”
I smirk, taking another sip. “Well, I’m proud of you, Remington. Look at you. All grown up and goal-oriented.”
He leans back, eyes on me. “You bring out my best.”
It’s so smooth, I almost choke on my sip of coffee.
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” I mutter.
“You loved it.”
My cheeks flush.
I busy myself with typing, and after a beat, the only sounds are the soft clacks of our keyboards and the occasional hum of espresso machines. This new book idea is actually flowing.
But he’s still looking at me. I can feel it.
“What?” I ask without glancing up.
“You look happy,” he says, quiet now.
I freeze.
“Like, writing-happy. It’s a good look on you.” And just like that, my walls threaten to crumble. Because no one’s ever noticed that before.
I lift my gaze to meet his.
“Thanks,” I murmur.
And somehow, without meaning to, this not-a-date feels like so much more.
The coffee shop is warm and bustling, full of soft indie music, clinking mugs, and the faint scent of espresso.
And the guy sitting across from me is an annoyingly attractive temptation. Baseball cap backward, hoodie pushed to his elbows, a pen in his mouth as he studies something on his tablet like it holds the meaning of life.
Focus, Scottie.
I get to work, and soon, I’m in the zone.
“Are you going to let me read what you’re writing?” he asks a little while later.
I consider it for half a second before shaking my head. “I never let anyone read a work in progress. Sorry.”
He leans back. “That’s fine. It’s just… you’ve got this glow about you. I can tell you like what you’re writing.”
I feel my cheeks warm and promptly focus on my keyboard. “I do not have a glow.”
“You do,” he says, very sure of himself. “It’s cute.”
I glance up at him. “You’re cute.”
His brows shoot up.
“...I mean in a golden retriever way,” I add quickly.
“Uh-huh,” he says, clearly enjoying this.
We go back to working, the air between us charged in that quiet, content way. My fingers fly across the keyboard, the words coming like a faucet finally turned back on. I know exactly what this character is feeling. I know how she’s falling even though she doesn’t want to.
I’ll be honest, I had my doubts if I could get much done with him today, but I’ve already written 1,000 words. Not bad.
Across the table, Chase’s pen is moving again, scribbling notes. He catches me looking.
“What?” he says with a smirk.
“Nothing,” I say too quickly.
He raises a brow. “You checking me out, Calloway?”
“Nope.” I busy myself with my scone—breaking off a hunk and shoving it in my mouth.
“Thanks,” I say quietly.
“For the scone?” he teases.
“For this,” I say, gesturing between us.
An hour later, we both start packing up at the same time, him stretching with a groan as he shuts his laptop.
“Productive morning,” he says, grabbing our empty mugs to return to the counter. “I only made three memes in the team group chat and rewrote the same paragraph six times.”
I smirk as I slip my laptop into my tote. “I wrote an entire chapter and only freaked out once. So, really, we’re both thriving.”
“Look at us,” he says, holding the door open for me as we step into the warm Dallas afternoon. “Functioning adults with goals and everything. It’s disgusting.”
I laugh, and it feels easy. Too easy. Which should probably concern me.
He falls into step beside me as we stroll toward the parking lot, his hand brushing mine for a second—just enough to make me hyperaware of how close we’re walking.
“So,” he says casually, “you remember that thing I invited you to?”
I blink. “You’re gonna have to be more specific. You say a lot of things.”
“The team dinner,” he replies, nudging me with his elbow. “Tomorrow night. A few guys, some plus-ones, nothing too fancy. You in?”
I hesitate. It’s one thing to spend time with him. It’s another to waltz into a dinner with his teammates like… we’re a thing.
He notices my pause and adds, “No pressure. I just figured you could use another excuse to judge my life choices in real time.”
I raise a brow. “And what, exactly, would I be judging?”
“I don’t know. The company I keep. The way I inhale wings like a feral animal. My ability to be both devastatingly handsome and marginally charming at the same time.”
“You forgot humble.”
“Obviously. That’s my most consistent flaw.”
I laugh despite myself. “I’ll think about it.”
He grins. “You’ll come.”
I shake my head. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet, here you are.”
I roll my eyes, unlocking my car.
“Text me when you get home,” he says, backing toward his Jeep. “Just so I know you didn’t get kidnapped.”
I give him a mock salute. “Noted.”
And as I slide into the driver’s seat, I realize—my cheeks hurt.
From smiling.
Damn it.