“I hear you.”
“Good.” He jerks his chin at the ring. “You want a round?”
“Nah,” I say, stepping back. “Just needed to clear my head.”
Leo grins faintly. “Let me guess, didn’t work?”
“Not even close.” I clap his shoulder, but my mind’s already back on her, spinning on the way she looked at me this morning, on the feel of her hands on my thigh.
I need to stop obsessing about Eden Carver.
My phone buzzes—Jessica:Sponsor mixer at the W Gramercy. Thirty minutes. Shake hands, smile, go home. Camille from Helios will host you.
I groan. I owe Jess; she’s representing my best friend and has pulled the Defenders out of a bender too many times to count.
Fine. I’ll show my face tonight and bounce.
13
TERRITORIAL MUCH? (NATE)
This was a bad idea. Ten minutes in, I know it.
I’m at the W Gramercy, nursing a whiskey, while Camille, the Helios Skincare brand liaison Jess saddled me with, explains the merits of gold-flecked avocado toast and a spa that puts crystals under your spine.
New-money buzz is everywhere. Low light, bass thumping, servers weaving through tables, phones held high. Everyone here wants to be seen. I’m here to let PR check a box and leave.
“So, do you travel much?” Camille asks, fingertips landing on my forearm.
“For work,” I say, already out of words.
“That doesn’t count.” She leans in. “You should take a real vacation. Somewhere you can just…let go.”
Sure, sweetheart. Because that’s exactly what hockey players do mid-season—pack up for margaritas on the beach.
I nod because that’s easier than explaining my life. She asks about hobbies. I say film and lifts. She laughs and tells me about a rooftop yoga class. I try to be present and kind. But this isn’t working. My brain keeps slipping to a womanwith careful hands and a mouth I can’t stop imagining on mine.
I take a slow drink and scan for an exit. A flash of blonde at the far end of the lounge catches my eye. Hair caught in the backlight, the clean line of a jaw, the set of her shoulders. My pulse spikes. I blink and look away.
It’s not her. I’m inventing things now. I look back.
She turns, and the room drops out.
Eden. She’s across the bar, tucked into a velvet booth. Her hair is down, loose waves catching the low light. In the PT room, she yanks it back; here it spills, and my fingers itch to test the weight. She laughs at something the man across from her says, and the sound cuts through the bass. My grip tightens on the glass.
Who the hell is that jackass? It’s not the same guy she was with at the hockey game. He’s annoyingly good-looking. Well built, tailored, posture that broadcasts boardroom. Teeth on a whitening schedule. Expensive confidence. And she’s laughing.
Of course she’d be on a date with an attractive guy. She’s a knockout. Tall, blonde, athletic build. My fucking fever dream.
And this isn’t any bar; it’s the W Gramercy. Cover charge, forty-dollar cocktails, curated shadows. A hotel. Rooms upstairs.Beds.
Rage spikes so fast, it’s blinding. I should let it be. Let her live her life, make her choices, find whatever she’s looking for with Mr. Perfect over there. But watching another man make her laugh, watching him lean into her space, yanks a primal, possessive growl out of my chest.
“Friend of yours?” Camille asks, following my glare. She knows she’s about to lose my attention.
“Not exactly,”I grit out.
Every little thing this guy does infuriates me. He’s got a polished, practiced spiel going, making her giggle in that unguarded way I haven’t seen in years. He lifts his glass, tells some story I can’t hear, and she leans in, fingers brushing his sleeve.
