Chapter 42
MILA
Mila wakes up with the distinct, luxurious ache of being thoroughly—thoroughly—fucked.
It’s everywhere. In the lazy throb between her legs, the pleasant soreness in her hips, the tender scrape of stubble burn along her inner thighs.
Her body feels like it’s been put through the wringer in the best possible way.
She stretches like a cat in the soft gray sheets, and even that makes her wince and grin at the same time.
She feels delicious. Her whole body is loose, sated, humming with the echo of last night, Theo’s mouth, his hands, that filthy voice in her ear. The way he looked at her, like she was made of fire and he wanted to burn. She presses her face deeper into his pillow and breathes in.
God. His smell.
It’s all over the sheets—clean skin, spicy sandalwood, something warm that’s just him.
She’s never been in Theo’s room before, and now she doesn’t want to leave.
It’s bigger than she expected and less sleek than she would’ve guessed, more lived in.
Dark walls, blackout curtains pulled back to let in a stream of honeyed morning light.
His desk is cluttered with hockey tape, tangled chargers, and an empty shaker bottle.
It’s masculine, warm, quiet. It feels like him.
She rolls over, and the sheets slide off her bare skin. She’s cool without his body heat beside her, and she only now notices the faint hiss of the shower running in the ensuite. A crooked smile pulls at her lips.
Look at him, she thinks, feeling a blush climb her neck. Up early. Being responsible. Being hot.
She slips through the bathroom’s open door, leaning against the frame.
Steam billows from the running shower, curling into lazy, inviting spirals like a beckoning finger.
She can’t see him—only the blurred silhouette of his broad back behind the frosted glass—but she can hear him humming something under his breath.
Her heart does stupid little flutter kicks in her chest as she makes her way back to the warm bed.
She’s so screwed.
When he finally emerges, toweling his hair, low-slung shorts hanging just right on his hips, he pauses when he sees her sitting up in bed, sheet barely clinging to her chest.
His eyes rake over her in a way that makes her whole body tighten again.
“Morning,” she says, voice raspy and soft.
Theo smirks, walks over to her side of the bed, and leans down to kiss the corner of her mouth.
“You look wrecked,” he murmurs against her lips.
“Gee, I wonder why,” she says, grinning into the kiss. “You planning to help me walk today, or…?”
“I could carry you,” he offers, and it’s not even a joke. The way he says it—deadpan, warm—makes her laugh.
“You would.”
“You know I would.”
He drags the shirt over his head in one fluid motion, the muscles across his back and shoulders stretching, and Mila watches him with open appreciation, her gaze tracing every line.
“Big game tonight,” Mila says, trying to keep her voice light.
Theo shrugs, casual on the surface, but she’s not buying it. His jaw’s set a little too tight. Shoulders tense beneath the fabric of his shirt. He’s calm, yeah, but it’s that wired calm. The kind that comes before a storm.
“It’s the last game,” she muses. “You win, you’re in. First playoff shot for the team in what—seven years?”
“Something like that,” he mutters.
“You’ve got this.”
Theo pauses at the foot of the bed, rubs a hand over the back of his neck. She watches the weight settle on his shoulders—top D-man, assistant captain, the one the rookies follow without question. But it’s not ego behind his eyes. It’s responsibility.
“It’s not just me out there,” he says. “But yeah…I think we do.”
The silence stretches for a moment. Mila sees his entire season in it, full of the bruises, the losses, the blood on his knuckles and tape around his ribs. All of it leading here.
“Tilly!” Jesse’s voice bellows from somewhere down the hall. “We’re gonna be late, man! Let’s go!”
Theo groans. “Unreal.”
Mila lets out a delighted squeal. “Did Jesse beat you to the door?”
“He’s getting cocky,” Theo grumbles. “It’s disgusting.”
He leans over the bed and kisses her—really kisses her this time. Slow. Certain. Like he wants to stay, if only for a second longer. She tastes mint on his tongue and feels the warmth of skin just out of the shower. When he pulls back, his thumb brushes her cheek, soft and deliberate.
“I’ll text you after morning skate,” he murmurs. “Don’t go anywhere.”
“You know I won’t.”
Another yell from Jesse. Another curse from Theo under his breath. He lingers a second longer, eyes dragging over her bare shoulders, messy hair, the faintest bruise on her collarbone.
Then he’s gone.
The door clicks shut behind him, and the room is quiet again, except for the hum still beneath her skin.
Mila curls up in one of Theo’s barstools in nothing but his hoodie, spooning mouthfuls of Cinnamon Toast Crunch into her mouth like it’s a religion.
Cold oat milk. Perfect crunch. Her thighs are sore, her abs ache from whatever twisted angle Theo pulled her into last night, and her entire body is one long, warm hum of satisfaction.
She didn’t mean to snoop this morning when she wandered downstairs looking for coffee with bed head and bruises in places she shouldn’t love so much. Then she opened the pantry.
And froze.
Five boxes. Five. Perfectly lined up. Lucky Charms, Frosted Flakes, Cinnamon Toast Crunch, Honey Nut Cheerios, and Raisin Bran. The Raisin Bran felt like a peace offering to adulthood. But the rest? Those were hers. Her childhood favorites. Her current favorites.
Even the milk—oat, almond, soy—all shoved to one side in the fridge like a private cereal buffet waiting for her. He didn’t make a show of it. She’s here, and so is the cereal, which makes it more intimate than anything he said to her last night when he was whispering filthy things into her neck.
She crunches another bite, smiling to herself like a complete idiot, and props her feet on the lower rung of the stool.
There’s sunlight pouring through the windows, catching dust in the air, and she feels strangely at home.
Like maybe she woke up in a different version of her life, one where it’s allowed to be easy.
The buzz of her phone across the counter shatters the quiet.
She glances at the screen, still chewing, and freezes.
Tilbury.
Her stomach drops. She swipes the screen, her brow furrowing in confusion. He’s supposed to be on the ice right now. Morning skate. Pre-game prep. There’s no reason he should be calling.
She answers. “Hello?”
There’s a soft click, then a smooth, professional voice.
“Please hold for Mrs. Janet Eagan-Tilbury.”
Mila sits up straighter, spoon paused in mid-air.
Oh damn.
Before she can speak, the line clicks again, and the voice changes.
“Mila, darling,” comes the unmistakable, poised cadence of Theo’s mother, smooth as chilled wine.
Mila swallows the cereal down wrong and sputters, pounding her chest with a fist.
“Mrs. Eagan-Tilbury. Hi. This is…unexpected.”
“Call me Janet, please,” she says, sounding faintly amused. “How are you?”
What she wants to say is, Well, Janet, I’m currently recovering from your son rearranging my guts last night. But instead, she clears her throat and settles for, “I’m well, thank you.”
“I heard you were in Hartford, and I thought—what a perfect opportunity to connect.”
Mila blinks, holding the phone away for half a second like maybe the screen will explain what the hell is going on. Janet had not been particularly warm when they met. And she can’t be calling to trade decorating tips.
“I wasn’t expecting to hear from you,” Mila says, carefully diplomatic.
“Yes, well,” Janet replies graciously, “you and I never had the chance to talk at the gala. Such a crowded event. But I’d very much like to now. Just the two of us. Would you be willing to meet?”
Mila feels torn. Every instinct in her body is suddenly on edge. People like Janet Eagan-Tilbury don’t do casual drop-ins. They don’t “connect.” And Theo had said nothing about his mother wanting to meet Mila. That alone fills her stomach with dread.
She hesitates, lips parting, closing again. Should she ask Theo first? Warn him—or shield him entirely? The thought circles, tight and anxious, but then she remembers: the game tonight. The last thing she wants is to rattle him before he hits the ice.
Her pulse stutters as silence stretches. Then, before she can overthink it into oblivion, she hears herself say, “Sure. We can meet.”
“Wonderful,” Janet says, her voice crisp. “Where shall I come?”
Mila rattles off the name of a local café without thinking, her mind still catching up. Janet thanks her—warmly, perhaps falsely—and the line clicks dead before Mila can say anything else.
She lowers the phone slowly, the surrounding kitchen suddenly too quiet. Her cereal has gone soggy in the bowl. She picks at it absently, heart thudding.
She doesn't know why Janet wants to meet her, but it's definitely not for pleasantries. She can feel it in her bones—the same bones that went rigid the moment Janet's voice came through the phone.
And the worst part?
Theo doesn’t know this is happening.