“Me too.”
We stand there for a moment, the air charged, neither of us moving. I step closer, rising on my toes, aiming for a safe kiss on his cheek.
But Nate doesn’t let it land. A smirk flickers, and his hand comes up, catching my jaw. He tilts me where he wants me, lowering his head until his mouth grazes mine. Barely there. A brush of heat that leaves no doubt who’s in charge.
The tease is gone in a heartbeat. His palm slides fully to my cheek, thumb tracing, holding me steady.
“Eden,” he murmurs, rough and low.
“It’s okay,” I whisper back. “I’m okay.”
And then I let go. His mouth takes mine. He’s setting the pace, tongue sweeping until my knees falter. It’s not rushed, not greedy. But every pull says the distancebetween us is over. I surrender to it, to him, strung tight under his hands, heat searing everywhere he touches.
When he finally lifts his head, we’re both breathing hard.
“I should go,” he rasps, eyes burning. He doesn’t move. His gaze drops to my mouth, his hand flexing at his side. Then he exhales, rough.
“Should,” I agree, but my hand is fisted in his hoodie, refusing to let go.
He presses his forehead to mine, eyes closed. “I want to do this right with you. Take our time. Make sure...”
“Make sure of what?”
“That when I have you again, it’s because we both know exactly what we’re choosing.” His thumb brushes my lower lip. “Not because we’re caught up in drama or adrenaline or trying to prove something.”
My chest tightens with a feeling I realize might be love. “When you have me again?”
His smile is patient. “When. Not if.” He kisses my forehead, lingers there. “Good night, Trouble.”
“Night.”
He watches me go inside before walking away. My lips are still tingling, my heart finally steady.
Progress isn’t linear, but it’s still progress. And tonight, that feels like everything.
42
WILLIAMSBURG SUNDAY (NATE)
Williamsburg on a Sunday morning in early March is its own kind of circus. Brunch lines curl around the block in a sea of cropped trousers, bare ankles, loud socks over box-fresh sneakers and eight-dollar lattes. Street vendors hawk vinyl and hand-poured candles, and the whole block reeks of tofu scramble and maple syrup.
I nose the SUV into a tight parallel spot, ignoring the looks from a couple of guys in beanies who clearly think anything larger than a vintage Volvo doesn’t belong on Bedford Avenue. I’ve already had morning skate, already burned through recovery drills with the trainer. I’m not here for avocado toast. I’m here to face down Eden’s brother.
Again.
His building juts up among brick warehouses and brownstone rows—new money wedged into old Brooklyn. The lobby’s decked in marble floors. The concierge clocks me and nods toward the private elevator without question. He knows me—starting goalie for the Defenders—and heknows who I’m here to see: Leo Carver, U.S. heavyweight champion. The one who let me walk away in one piece.
The door swings open as I raise my hand to knock. A stunning brunette steps out, smoothing a rumpled dress, hair wrecked in all the right ways, satisfaction written across her face. She freezes when she sees me, eyes tracking from shoulders to shoes, unhurried and appraising.
Her smile tilts dangerous. “Well, damn.” Heels tick across concrete as she slides past me. She turns over the shoulder. “Thanks for the good time, champ.”
Leo appears in the doorway wearing sweats and a white T-shirt, amusement playing at his mouth despite the tension I know we’re both carrying.
“Busy night?” I ask, stepping inside.
“You know me.” He shrugs, heading for the sleek kitchen. The blender whirs, and he pours two tall glasses of something green that only athletes pretend tastes good. “Don’t make faces before you try.”
I take the glass, sip carefully. Not terrible. “There’s room for improvement. Behave, and I’ll slide you a few Defenders recipes.”
