Her brows lift slightly—recognition, but professional and cool. “She’s with a client. Do you have an appointment?”
“No. I’ll wait.”
She turns to her monitor. “Her next appointment was canceled. Do you want to take that slot?”
The universe is on my side. “Yeah. Thanks.”
Twenty minutes later, the treatment room door swings open and a willowy brunette in warm-ups glides out—one of her dancers. I know because I’ve seen the thank-you reel on Eden’s grid and the tag she didn’t bother to hide. Research, not stalking. Mostly.
Then Eden steps into view.
Hair knotted into that strict bun. Those infuriating navy scrubs that somehow manage to be sexier than anything short and black. Her stare lands on me, widens, and for a second there’s a soft flicker there.
“Nate, are you okay? Did the hip?—”
“I’m fine.”
Relief crosses her face before she clocks why I’m really here. Her shoulders square, professional mask sliding into place. “You don’t have an appointment.”
“I’m your eleven o’clock.”
Her jaw tightens. She glances at the receptionist—who’s already turned back to her screen—then back at me. Nowhere to run. She spins on her heel and walks into the treatment room.
I follow, shutting the door behind me.
“Why are you here, Nate?” Her arms cross so tightly her shoulders strain.
“To finish our conversation.” My tone is steady, but my pulse pounds. I take one slow step toward her.
Her gaze widens, glossy. “Nate, don’t. This isn’t the time or place.”
“It’s as good a time as any.” Another step. “And I didn’t come here to apologize. I’m not sorry for kissing you.”
That throws her. She blinks, caught off guard. “Then what do you want?”
I hold her stare, letting the silence stretch. “I want to kiss you again.”
She exhales sharply. Then, simply, “No.”
“Why not?” I step closer. “You married?”
Her brows knit as she shakes her head. There’s a low rumble in my chest. “Good. Because even if you’d erased me from your life for ten years, Trouble, I hope I would’ve gotten an invitation to that wedding.”
Her breath catches, her stare guarded. There’s hurt, surprise, and guilt there.
“So tell me. What’s really stopping you? Boyfriend?”
“No.”
“You’re not interested in men?”
A breathy, nervous laugh. “It’s not that.”
“Then what?” My tone dips lower. “Because that kiss was everything I imagined it would be. I’ve wanted to kiss you since I was sixteen, standing next to you on the dock doing magic tricks.”
There’s a shadow crossing her expression for a second, then she looks away. Whatever I said hit wrong. I’ll figure it out later.
Then Leo’s face flashes in my mind. He’d gladly snap me in two if he knew I was trying to get his little sister into my bed—and let’s be honest here, that’s exactlywhat I’m doing—but I shove it aside. I’ll worry about the heavyweight champion later.
