Before I can respond, his hand touches my face, thumb brushing my cheek. His intense hazel eyes lock with mine—and I forget how to breathe. He pulls me against him and kisses me softly, deliberately, his lips warm and insistent. The scent of him floods my senses—clean skin and gentle cologne—making my knees weak as he finally breaks away.
“Hi yourself,” I whisper, dizzy from the kiss, steadying myself with my hand against his broad chest.
“Come in,” he says, as his hand slides to my waist, sending a shiver through me as he guides me forward. “Welcome to my humble abode.”
There’s nothing humble about it. The penthouse opens into a vast living space with floor-to-ceiling windows that frame Chicago’s skyline like living art. The furniture is sleek and modern—low leather couches, glass coffee tables, abstractpaintings on the walls—but there are surprising touches of warmth, too. A well-worn hockey jersey framed above the fireplace. Family photos on a bookshelf. A plush throw tossed casually over the arm of a chair.
“This is…” I trail off, taking it all in. “Wow.”
“Too much?” he asks, a hint of vulnerability in his voice.
I turn to look at him, surprised. “No, it’s beautiful. Just not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?” He sets my bag down by the door and moves to a built-in bar in the corner.
“I don’t know. Something more…” I search for the right word. “Impersonal? Like a hotel suite.”
He laughs, the sound rich and warm. “I used to have a place like that. All show, no substance.” He pulls out two crystal tumblers. “Drink? I’ve got wine, whiskey, or I can make you something.”
“Wine would be great.” I wander toward the windows, drawn by the glittering expanse of city lights below us. “This view is incredible.”
“Best part of the place,” he agrees, coming up behind me with two glasses of red wine. I feel his warm chest against my back as he hands me a glass from behind so we can both enjoy the view. “Wait until you see it from the balcony.”
He leads me through glass doors to an outdoor space that makes me gasp. The balcony wraps around the corner of the building, furnished with comfortable-looking outdoor sofas and a small dining table. String lights are draped overhead, casting a warm glow over everything. A fire pit glows in the center, flames dancing in the evening breeze.
“You did all this for tonight?” I ask, gesturing to the lights, the fire.
He shrugs, but I can tell he’s pleased by my reaction. “Thought it would be nice. It gets chilly up here.”
We settle on one of the sofas, closer than strictly necessary. Logan’s arm stretches along the back behind me, not quite touching but close enough that I can feel the heat of him.
“So,” he says, taking a sip of his wine. “How were the monsters today?”
Just like that, we fall into conversation as easily as we have all week. I tell him about Sophie’s missing tooth and the ensuing class-wide debate about the Tooth Fairy’s going rate. He shares stories from practice, about how Peterson taped Kovy’s street clothes to the ceiling as payback for some earlier prank. His hand finds its way to my bare shoulder, fingers absently playing with a low hanging curl.
“Can I ask you something?” I say, emboldened by the wine and the intimacy of the setting.
“Anything.” His eyes catch the firelight, turning them almost golden.
“Why me?” The question slips out before I can second-guess it. “I mean, you could be with anyone. Models, actresses… why go out with a kindergarten teacher who literally doused you with hot coffee?”
He studies me for a long moment, his expression thoughtful. Then he takes my wine glass and sets it on the table beside his. His hands find mine, warm and strong.
“Because you’re real,” he says simply. “Do you know how rare that is in my world? Everyone wants something—a story, a connection to the team, a night with a hockey player they can brag about to their friends.” His thumb traces circles on my palm. “You didn’t even recognize me at first.”
“I did so,” I protest weakly.
His smile turns knowing. “Not right away. And even when you did, you were embarrassed about the spill, not star-struck. You talked to me like a person, not a celebrity.”
“Well, you are a person,” I say, fighting the urge to roll my eyes. “A person with an admittedly impressive job, but still just a person.”
He laughs, the sound vibrating through me where our legs are touching. “See? That. Right there. That’s why.”
His hand releases mine to cup my cheek, thumb brushing my lower lip. The touch sends heat spiraling through me, releasing butterflies in my belly. We’re so close now that I can see the flecks of amber in his eyes, the shadow of stubble along his jaw.
“Can I kiss you?” he asks, his voice dropped to a rumble that I feel more than hear.
“I might explode if you make me wait any longer.”
