I fold my arms. “Thanks for the fashion tip.”
“Just looking out for you, Trouble.” He pushes off the frame and strolls down the hall. “Meet you in the lobby.”
By the time I hurry downstairs, the guys are already filing through the hotel doors in a noisy pack—laughter, chirps, someone shouting about the salmon Coach swears by. I quicken my pace, pulse spiking. Great. Late to my very first team dinner.
Perfect impression, Eden.
“Relax.”
The word drifts from the reception desk, where Nate’s leaned against the counter, leisurely scrolling through his phone. His eyes flick up, catching mine. “You’re fine.”
I glance toward the doors again. “They’re leaving?—”
“You’re good,” he cuts in smoothly, slipping his phone into his pocket. “Come on.”
I trail after him, still half panicked, until we step into the cold night. The team veers left, rowdy voices echoing down the block. Nate doesn’t follow. Instead, he slides his hand around mine, tugging me right.
I freeze at the contact—warm, grounding, way toointimate. But before I can protest, my body betrays me, falling into step beside him.
Confusion knots in my chest. “Wait, you said?—”
“I said the team was heading out.” His grin tilts as he steers me toward a glass-fronted restaurant glowing soft and golden against the snow. Linen tablecloths. Candlelight. Not a single hockey player in sight. “Never said we were joining them.”
I hover in the doorway, nerves buzzing under my skin. This isn’t a team dinner; it’s just the two of us.
My throat tightens. “Nate…didn’t you hear Coach at the airport?”
He doesn’t flinch. Just holds the door wider, steady and sure. “Who says I am planning anything untoward? Besides, let me worry about Novak.” His gaze catches mine.
The protest dies on my tongue. Against my better judgment, I step past him into the glow of the restaurant, heart hammering.
The hostess beams the second she sees him. “Mr. Russo. Table’s ready.”
My head whips toward him. “You made a reservation?”
“Of course I did.” He doesn’t even blink. “Did you think we were going to a sports bar?”
Yes. Exactly that.
The hostess leads us to a corner table tucked half behind a velvet curtain, private enough that the city outside feels a million miles away. Nate pulls out my chair, waits until I’m seated, then takes his spot across from me.
Two glasses of sparkling water appear, condensation beading down the sides. My brows lift. “Did you order already?”
“Always do,” he says easily, eyes locked on mine. “Figured you’d want itcold, no lemon.”
I blink. “How would you know that?”
His mouth tips. “I pay attention.”
The waiter disappears, leaving just us and the low hum of jazz. Nate leans forward, forearms braced on the table, voice dipping low.
“Relax, Trouble. It’s dinner. Good food. A little quiet. Maybe I’ll even make you laugh.”
I grip the stem of my glass, trying to play it off, even as my pulse skips. “You tricked me.”
“Semantics.” His mouth curves.
And just like that, I realize I’m on a date.
