I showed Rhett the message. He laughed, heading toward his bedroom to get dressed. I heard drawers opening and the rustle of clothes.
I was bringing Rhett to the team breakfast and integrating him into the Storm family. Making it all real in a way that I couldn't take back.
I was still wearing his henley. My Storm hoodie sat in a wrinkled heap on the bedroom floor, smelling like yesterday's practice and the particular funk that lived in every hockey player's gear bag.
"You keeping that?" Rhett nodded at the shirt.
"Thought I'd return it."
"Keep it." He moved past me toward the kitchen, grabbing his keys off the counter. "Looks better on you anyway."
"It doesn't fit."
"I know." He grinned. "That's the point."
I yanked the henley off—probably stretched it another size in the process—and raced to the bedroom to grab my hoodie. The fabric was cold and stiff and smelled like I'd been living in it for a week.
Rhett checked his phone while pulling on his jeans. "Sloane wants to meet you. Actually meet you, not just hear about you." He glanced up. "She's been asking since New Year's."
I froze. "What?"
"Dinner."
"Yeah. Nothing fancy. Dinner." He pocketed his phone, utterly oblivious to the way my brain had started spinning.
"She's protective." Rhett grinned. "You'll be fine."
Fine. Right. Totally fine. Just dinner with the sister of the guy I was—what were we, exactly? Dating seemed too simple. Seeing each other sounded like we were hedging. Together felt presumptuous after one night.
Whatever we were, I was apparently meeting his family—at least part of it.
"She doesn't—" I started. "She doesn't have access to power tools, right? Or a lie detector?"
Rhett laughed. "She's a high school guidance counselor."
"That's worse." I pulled on my jacket, fingers fumbling with the zipper. "Guidance counselors are trained to extract information. They're basically professional interrogators with better PR."
"Hog."
"What if she hates me? What if I say something stupid and Thanksgiving gets weird and—"
"We're not at Thanksgiving yet." He stepped closer, hands finding my shoulders. "And she's not going to hate you."
"You don't know that."
"I know Sloane. She will ask you a thousand questions, probably make at least three jokes at my expense, and then decide whether you're worthy of her baby brother." He paused. "Which you are."
"Based on what evidence?"
"Based on the fact that you're standing here panicking about meeting her instead of running for the door."
I used to think intimacy was the hard part—the getting naked and being vulnerable and letting someone see you without armor. But standing in Rhett's apartment, about to walk out the door with him beside me—that felt harder.
Intimacy happened in private. This was something else. This was coffee and family and being seen after the lights came on. This was letting all the carefully separated pieces of my life exist in the same space, trusting they wouldn't destroy each other in the process.
"Ready?" Rhett asked.
"No."
