It’s not only because he’s stronger now, his muscles flexing under my hands. It’s that for the first time in years, I felt it—heat, ache, tingling in places that had been numb for so long I thought they’d forgotten how to function.
Up close, Nate is…impossible. Bigger than I remember. At ten, he was my shadow and my protector. At eighteen, he was the boy I tried to hide my crush on, the boy who promised me nothing would ever hurt me. And now he’s a man. Six-four, shoulders that make my palms ache just thinking about them, thighs that flexed under my hands when I tested his range of motion.
The Metro-North train glides into the station right on schedule. I find an empty seat by the window, sliding my bag onto my lap as we lurch forward. The Hudson River flashes blue and silver in the afternoon sun, but all I can see is the way Nate looked at me when I carelessly slipped that I like men who are in control.
As if he wanted to test that theory.
My thoughts are still spinning when my phone buzzes. A text.
Bennet
Hey Eden, had a great time the other night. Want to meet up again this weekend?
My chest tightens. Bennet is everything I should want: kind, handsome, attentive. But I felt nothing when he touched me.
It’s the same hollow echo I lived with during my years with Josh. On paper, everything was fine. The sex was...adequate. Not bad, not painful. But empty. Pointless. I could never get there with him, no matter how much I wanted to. When I was alone, with my vibrator, everything worked fine. But with him, no matter how patient he was, how much he tried to make it work, my body had locked the door and threw away the key.
We even tried bringing the vibrator into it, hoping it would bridge the gap. It didn’t. The harder we pushed, the more frustrated we both became.
My therapist told me it was a trust issue, rooted in what happened my first year of college: a frat party, too many drinks, and someone slipping me a roofie. I woke up sore, confused, blood between my legs, with no memory of his face—only the crushing knowledge that an asshole had taken what I couldn’t get back.
Knowing where my problem came from made perfect sense, but it wasn’t enough to fix it. It didn’t stop me from refusing to have a drink at a party or freezing up when someone got too close. It didn’t stop the part of me that wanted to feel and hated itself for not being able to.
Eventually, Josh gave up. He said he loved me, but that it wasn’t enough. “I need someone who wants me, Eden. Someone who isn’t so...cold.” A month later, he was with a girl he called “hot-blooded.” The ultimate contrast.
I still hear those words sometimes, etched under my skin.
I’m not doing this to myself again, no matter how hot and desirable Bennet is. I’m not handing a man pieces of meonly to have them walk away because I can’t give them what they need.
But an hour with Nate Russo, and I remember the before. When touch meant safety, not threat; when desire didn’t scare me. He’s the boy who used to make me feel good. Now he makes me want to surrender.
I stare at Bennet’s text, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Then I type back:
EDEN
Hi Bennet. Thank you for the wonderful date. You’re great, but I don’t think this is going to work. I’m sorry.
I hit send before I can second-guess myself and drop the phone back in my bag.
The train barrels south. By Grand Central’s gold ceiling and rush-hour roar, I’ve almost convinced myself I can handle Nate professionally. Work mode. Focus. Keep it about the work. I’ll be fine. Probably.
Melissa is in between sessions when I arrive at the office, leaning against the reception desk with her arms crossed and a grin that says she’s been dying to ask.
“Well?” she says, eyebrows raised. “How was your first session with the great Nate Russo?”
I slip past her toward the treatment room, aiming for casual. “It was good.”
“Good?” she echoes, trailing after me. “That’s all you’ve got? Eden, the man is hockey royalty. Half of New York would kill to be in that room with him.”
My grip tightens on my bag. For a second, I wonder if I should tell her the truth—that I’ve known Nate Russo halfmy life, that seeing him again knocked me sideways. But the words stay locked behind my teeth.
“He’s just another client,” I say instead, keeping my tone steady. “He’s got a muscle strain that’s going to require a lot of hands-on treatment.”
Melissa tilts her head, studying me with the same sharp focus that turned a tiny office into a thriving practice. It’s one of the things I admire about her—the reminder that if she built this from nothing, maybe I can too. “You look rattled.”
“I’m fine.” It’s too quick. Too defensive.
“Uh-huh.” She doesn’t buy it for a second. “Tell me the plan.”
