Chapter 3 #3
“Smart, huh?” I kept my tone light, my hands on the task. Didn’t look away from him, though, blood singing in the tips of my fingers. “You don’t sound so sure.”
One side of his mouth tipped up. “Never finished college, now did I?”
“Because you went pro and probably missed half the classes traveling.”
“Been doing some research, have you?”
“I did.” The room had grown narrow and too warm, air stretching thin between us. “After Chicago.”
His gaze sharpened, something like surprise glinting through. “And what did you learn?”
Too much.
That hockey was the kind of macho world that would have forced him into years of mental math: how close is too close, what’s friendly versus suspect, how to laugh at jokes even when they’re ugly.
Even Ronan, who watched enough hockey for both of us, talked about locker-room stuff like it was just part of the air in places like that.
Matt must have had a hundred moments where he’d felt something real and shoved it back into the dark, learned to treat his own body like a controllable variable, from nutrition and workout routines to timing and body language.
I pushed the words back down—too raw, not my place.
“That I was wildly underinformed,” I told him.
“And that you’re really fucking good. Expensive, apparently.
” I kept it wry and safe, nothing that bled admiration.
“Seattle dropped a pile of money on you, and suddenly a still-new team was making real noise in the playoffs. That’s a lot of pressure for one person. ”
He blinked and went still.
Just for a second before he swallowed and finally looked away from me. “So you get it, then. Why it would be smart to walk away.”
I drew a silent breath. “I do.”
A pause spun out between us and made the space feel private, like a bubble that belonged to us. That could burst, too, in just one instant.
“But,” I said, then stopped.
He looked back at me. “But?”
My ribs felt a little too tight, uncertainty twisting hot through my belly. “But,” I said, low, “just for the record… if you want final touches before the event—collar, tie, lint, whatever makes it camera-proof? We do off-site styling.”
Not professional. Not smart.
Well.
His gaze dropped to my mouth. Moved back up to my eyes, dark and heavy. He didn’t reply.
“I know you don’t trust me,” I added, almost a whisper, everything as still as the calm before a storm. “But it’d be your choice of location. Your space. You control it.”
His jaw tightened, as if he were about to shoot me down. Then he exhaled, long and rough, shoulders one tense line. His focus on me felt like gravity. “My place,” he said. “No phone. And you sign an NDA.”
Expected. Fine. After all, I wasn’t angling to become some hockey star’s publicly acknowledged plus-one. He was hot. A little different from the guys I usually met in clubs, bars, anywhere—and the idea of having all that intensity focused fully on me? Bring it on.
But that was it.
So there was really no reason at all for the shape of this to sting just the tiniest bit. For my heart to kick hard against the back of my ribs.
“I can do that,” I said.
He stared at me for a long drag of seconds, weighing me. I didn’t look away.
Your choice, I thought. I said my piece.
When he spoke, his voice came out clipped, as if he’d grasped for control with both hands and wrestled it back into place. “Give me your number. My manager will text you the details.”
His manager. Like this was all just business, nothing personal about it.
As if.
“Okay,” I said, voice easy and something hot at the base of my spine.
I could have handed him one of the business cards I kept tucked into my pocket, the one that listed my professional email and the store number. Should have, maybe. Instead, I wrote my personal number on the corner of a sheet of paper folded around his new suit.
This time, when our fingers brushed as I handed him his clothes, I didn’t flinch back. Just held his eyes and waited until a tiny, reluctant smile curved his mouth.
“See you,” he said, a shade softer than before.
“See you, Matt,” I echoed because yeah—I would. The certainty beat like a pulse under my skin, bright and fast.
I would.
The elevator spat me straight into a space that felt continents removed from the two-bedroom I shared with Ronan, from our ticking radiator and the claustrophobic view of the neighboring building.
This was high ceilings and cool, glossy stone tiles underfoot, massive windows framing Elliott Bay under a gray sky, ferries moving across water the color of steel. White orchids sat on a sideboard.
Matt didn’t seem like the type to water and prune orchids.
Maybe because the man who waited for me took care of it—everything about him sharp, from his blue eyes to the way he’d spiked his hair and folded his arms. “So,” he said. “You’re Stellan.”
It wasn’t a question, and my first stupid thought was, Is that his boyfriend?
No. No fucking way.
I kept my face and body language neutral. “I am. And you are?”
The man arched one eyebrow at me. “Reid.” He stated it like something obvious. “His manager.”
Right, okay. The one who’d made me sign an NDA online before texting me this address and the time, followed by, No phone. And don’t be late. Didn’t seem like your average manager energy, but then, what did I know?
“Thanks for setting this up,” I told him, careful like someone avoiding cracks in the sidewalk. “How can I help?”
He snorted. “Maybe by dropping the pretense that you’re here for professional reasons. I know who you are. Matt told me.”
Well. At least I could get off my tiptoes.
I shrugged off my coat and draped it over my arm rather than hang it up without permission. “You mean the part,” I said, “where I worked a morally shitty job I should’ve quit much sooner?”
“Yep.” He let the word pop, one side of his mouth tilting higher in grudging respect. “Good, no beating around the bush. I like that. So here’s the truth: You cost him.”
“I know.” No use dressing it up. “I didn’t mean to. Not like that. But I know it doesn’t really matter.”
“It doesn’t.” Reid held my gaze like a test. Then, strangely, his shoulders loosened. “On the bright side,” he said, “maybe you made him face some overdue truths about himself.”
Huh. That was… unexpected.
Before I could settle on a way to respond, Matt emerged from a room further along the open-space layout.
And… Jesus, yes. This was what I was here for.
He’d looked great in the fitting room, sure.
But up here, framed by controlled luxury and a multimillion-dollar view, he seemed to have stepped straight out of a dream.
Cheesy. My brain throwing up white noise.
“You look good,” I said, simple and a little too raw.
A smile flickered around his mouth but didn’t quite connect, too tight around the edges. “You complimenting your own work?” he asked, and that, too, came out a little distant.
Hmm.
“Maybe a little.” I tagged on a wink, pointedly over the top. “But all we did was frame a masterpiece.”
It got a slightly bigger smile from Matt and a theatrical sound of disgust from Reid. “Okay,” he said loudly. “I can tell when I’m third-wheeling. Matt, I’m out.”
“See you tomorrow,” Matt told him, glancing over and then back at me.
I adjusted the coat over my arm, waiting for Reid’s parting shot. He was that kind of guy.
Sure enough, he turned as the private elevator opened, pausing on the threshold to fix me with a narrow look. “You.”
Name’s Stellan.
I kept my mouth shut and tipped up my chin.
“If you fuck up again”—his tone was almost pleasant—“I know where to find you.”
Then he was gone.
Just Matt and me and the space between us. Silence sank, softened by the gentle tinkle of piano music from some hidden sound system, and that… wasn’t what I’d have pegged as his taste. My money would have been on R&B, maybe with a hip-hop slant, possibly some indie tunes.
Several seconds passed as we looked at each other. Then I took one step forward—just that. “So,” I said, lower than I’d intended. “How can I help?”
Hesitation crossed his features. “Just… check if everything sits right?”
“Okay.” I hung my coat over the back of a camel-leather chair and watched him closely for something I couldn’t quite define.
As soon as I’d walked in, Reid had cut right through the professional pretense to the core of why I was here.
Matt, though? I wasn’t sure whether we were still pretending, so I offered him a smile.
“Might need to do a hands-on assessment.”
He took a step closer, but his shoulders were one stiff line. “That’s okay. Part of the job.”
Except it wasn’t. Simone didn’t know I was here.
My throat went tight with the thought. I shoved it aside. A stupid risk, yeah—but I was taking it.
I let one breath pass, then shook my head. “No, actually,” I said quietly. “I’m here to help, yes. But not because it’s the job. Just so we’re clear.”
His eyes flashed, gaze steadying. “Crystal.”
“Good.” I raised my head. Outside, the day was dissolving, light melting away by the minute. Something still felt off, so I reached for a bridge. “No phone, like I promised. Kind of weird to be the one guy on the Link who wasn’t in a social media trance.”
A small twitch around his mouth. “People probably thought you were a cop.”
“Or a criminal.”
Another twitch, a hint more pronounced but far from a true smile, and for a moment, I simply looked at him—the tightness around his eyes and the way he held himself slightly too upright even here, in his own space.
And, okay. Time to face the music. No sweet orchestra swell, though. More like a playlist called Consequences with a cover photo of me looking guilty and track one titled “So, About Chicago…”
“Listen,” I said, quiet and careful. “If you changed your mind? If you think this is a mistake—me being here? I can leave.”
His head snapped up.
The fading light tangled in his eyes—brown with lighter flecks near the iris, darker around the ring. “No,” he said quickly. “That’s not…” His lips pressed together as he shook his head. “It’s not you.”