Chapter Five #2
I freeze, a sudden realization washing over me. The balance of power has shifted, and I’m holding the cards. His eyes are
locked on me, intense and unwavering. I let the silence stretch a beat too long, savoring this subtle shift. It’s not about
games or manipulation; it’s about finally feeling seen . . . and holding power.
My thighs clench as I note how his neck muscles cord.
What is going on? Whatever game this is, it’s heady, dangerous. And so help me, I want to play more.
Finally, I let out a small sigh, but without any exasperation behind it. “Okay. Okay.”
“Okay to what, exactly?”
“Dinner. Just don’t make me regret this, got it?”
“I won’t!” Gale nods enthusiastically. “I like seeing you smile too much.”
His sincerity catches me off guard, and I feel something warm unfurling in my chest. “Fine,” I say, trying to sound put-upon
but failing miserably. “Let’s go before I change my mind.”
He practically bounds to his truck, opening the passenger door with a flourish. “Your chariot awaits, m’lady,” he says with
an exaggerated bow. “How’s that for Regency talk?”
“Well actually, ‘my lady,’ which is what you’re shortening, was used during the Middle Ages or Renaissance. Well before the
Regency period that E.M.M.A.’s British audio is coded to.” My skin prickles with awareness when he takes my hand and gives
me a boost up. His palm is warm and calloused, engulfing mine completely. I can feel the strength in his grip, controlled
yet powerful.
“How about: Fair maiden, might I offer you a ride?” His other hand finds my waist, just barely applying enough pressure to
steady me. Even through my sweater, his touch burns. Our eyes lock, and for a moment, the world fades away. Then, it’s over.
I’m seated in the truck, and Gale’s stepping back, his hands leaving my body.
The loss of contact is almost painful.
“Now you sound like a Renaissance Faire worker,” I manage to say, hoping my voice doesn’t betray how affected I am.
“Is that a good thing?” His voice is rougher than before. “I could break out some Shakespeare.”
I shake my head. “You’re impossible.”
“You mean impossibly charming?” he quips, his eyes twinkling.
“Jury’s out on that one,” I retort, but there’s no bite to my words.
Something about his earnestness is melting my defenses faster than I’d like to admit.
I pause, then add with a hint of playful authority, trying to regain some control over this situation—and myself—“And don’t get too cocky. I’m the one calling the shots.”
Gale’s eyebrows shoot up, but I catch the way his throat moves, the slight flush creeping up his neck. “Yes, ma’am,” he says,
voice gravel rough around the edges. The air between us shifts and suddenly I’m hyperaware of every inch of space between
us. The same space I’ve always maintained, my carefully constructed safety zone that’s kept me from doing anything stupid.
As he walks around to the driver’s side, I press my hands against my thighs to steady them. What exactly am I doing here,
getting into his car? We’ve never done this before. There’s no middle ground—it’s either very smart or very stupid and I’m
starting to suspect tonight will make that crystal clear.
Only a half hour ago, I thought tonight was going to suck. But here I am, letting my guard down around Gale Knight. Something
has shifted—not just in him, but in me. I’ve spent so long proving myself, always feeling like I needed to be twice as good
as everyone else just to be considered half as competent. But now? The way he’s looking at me, like I’m the one with all the
power, like what I think actually matters . . . it’s different. Unsettling. Good.
I already figured out that I’m going to give him that second chance. But he doesn’t need to know that yet. Let him work for
it a little. After all, the best things in life aren’t handed out freely—they’re earned.
“Ready?” he asks softly, his hand hovering over the gearshift.
I straighten in my seat, letting a small smile play at the corners of my mouth. “Ready.” My voice carries just a hint of command,
and I notice how his shoulders tense slightly in response. “But remember, Gale—you’ve got some making up to do.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says again, and this time there’s no mistaking the eagerness in his tone.
Hmm. Interesting.
As we pull into Mama Rosa’s, the dark windows and empty parking lot tell me everything. Gale parks and I follow him to the front door, where he’s reading the notice taped there.
CLOSED TONIGHT!
Your favorite diner needs a little romance too. ? After all these years of watching young lovers share milkshakes and first dates turn into forever, well . . . I found my
own happy ending. Don’t waste time like I did. Life’s funny that way—sometimes happiness is right there all along, just waiting
for you to look up from your pancakes and notice. Back tomorrow with fresh coffee and warm smiles! xoxo, Rosie
I take an unconscious step back, suddenly hyperaware of Gale’s presence beside me. “Oh. Well, that’s good for her, I guess.”
“Yeah.” He clears his throat, hands disappearing into his pockets. The silence stretches between us, heavy with things unsaid.
Those little hearts Rosie drew around the borders might as well be flashing neon signs.
“So now what . . .” Gale shifts his weight, a hint of nervous energy breaking through his usual confidence. “This is—”
“Only awkward if we make it awkward,” I cut in, then cringe at my own defensiveness. “I mean, it’s just dinner, right?”
“Exactly.” His relief is palpable. “Just two old friends needing food. And hold up . . .” He glances at me, something careful
in his expression. “I have a good kitchen. And actual ingredients.”
A good kitchen? At his house? I should say no. My brain is practically screaming at me to call it a night. But my stomach
betrays me with perfect timing, letting out an embarrassingly loud growl.
“Fine,” I concede, aiming for casual and probably missing by a mile. “But only because I’m starving.”
“Of course.” His grin breaks through, genuine and a little bit dangerous. “Purely survival instincts at work here.”
We head back to his truck, and I’m grateful for the darkness hiding whatever my face is doing. Because Valentine’s Day or
not, this is just dinner. With Gale. At his place. A home I’ve never visited even with Brooke. And now we’ll be alone.
“Come on, we’ll have fun,” he says softly, that crooked smile of his doing unfair things to my resolve. “My place is actually
pretty great. Plus,” he adds with a hint of pride that somehow makes it worse, “I know my way around a kitchen. And I’ll drive
you back to your car after.”
Right. He cooks. Because Gale isn’t just some hockey player who can put a puck in the net—he’d grown up with a working single
mom, taking charge of family meals more often than not. I’d seen the recipe cards at his mom’s place, the notes he’d scrawled
in the margins—flip at the first bubble, Mom likes it spicier, and needs more thyme—in that messy handwriting of his. The fact that he’d taken such care with those recipes, marking each little adjustment,
had always caught me off guard in a way I wasn’t ready to examine too closely right this second.
“Yeah. Sure. Why not? Cool, alright.” My composure slips without our usual buffer of noise and people. “Let’s see how you
can delight me.”
Those seven stupid words slip out before I can slap on a filter, playful but with an edge I’ve never let myself show before.
But Gale doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m at your service.”
I cross my legs, acutely aware of the growing warmth between my thighs. This is dangerous territory—not just because of the project, or because he’s Gale Knight, but because I’m discovering something about myself I didn’t expect. I like the way he looks at me when I take control.
I like it a lot.
Ten minutes later, we arrive at his house, tucked in the back of a gated community. The mansion looms in the darkness, its
silhouette barely visible against the night sky. Soft landscape lighting illuminates a path to the front door, revealing glimpses
of well-manicured grounds. The house is large and clearly expensive, but not flashy. Clean lines and a mix of stone and glass
point to modern design. As we walk up to the front door, I note the quiet—only the crunch of gravel under our feet breaks
the stillness.
It’s strange—my career is rooted in controlling variables, fine-tuning responses, optimizing outcomes. But this is different.
Today, every time I tell him to do something, every time his breath catches, every subtle shift in his body language . . .
I might be better at controlling certain variables than I thought. And God help me, I want to test just how far that control
extends.
“Do you need a GPS to find the bathroom in this place?” I say to diffuse the tension, my neck craning up to meet his gaze.
He towers over me like a redwood, making my five-foot frame feel particularly compact.
He glances down, the corner of his lips quirking. “Nah, just pack a compass and some trail mix and you’ll be fine.”
We walk through a dim foyer and down a hall that opens into the kitchen. He gestures to the large island in the middle. “Make
yourself at home,” he says, nodding to a barstool. “I’ll grab us some wine while I get started on dinner.”
The leather sticks to the backs of my thighs as I sit, my fingers drumming on the stool. I take a deep breath, trying to relax,
but I can feel the heat creeping up my neck.
The last thing I want is for him to come back and find me looking like a fresh-picked cherry tomato.
I glance around, trying to distract myself.
There are copper pots hanging overhead—actually used, not just for show.
And look at that glass fruit bowl—guy’s got more vitamin C than a juice bar.
And plants. Everywhere. Little herbs in clay pots lined up by the window, some leafy houseplant in every corner. It’s like a greenhouse.