Trent whistles. “Guess he’s talking about us.”
“Guess he shouldn’t,” I mutter, voice low, steady, dangerous.
Inside, the words burn hotter than the ice. Locke wants a reaction. He’s got one.
But he’s not getting the last word.
Chapter 5
The Spare Room
Sage
I tryto sound casual when I say, “So, this is the layout,” but even to my own ears, it’s tight—clipped around the edges.
Leo follows me through the narrow hallway, too tall for my apartment, ducking slightly under the archway like the place wasn’t built for his frame. He moves with that quiet, economical control I’ve started to recognize—like he’s always half a breath from sprinting onto the ice.
I gesture toward the second bedroom. “Technically, this is the spare room.”
Technically being the key word.
He steps inside, and the silence stretches. My catering studio glints under the overhead light—sheet pans stacked on chrome racks, bins of flour and spices, two induction burners, a food processor that cost more than my car. Every inch is spoken for.
Leo lets out a low whistle. “This isn’t a room,” he says finally. “It’s a command center.”
“Exactly,” I reply, trying to keep my tone light. “It’s my business. My livelihood. My sanity.”
He glances over his shoulder, brow furrowing. “You work out of here full-time?”
“Yup.” I cross my arms. “If I’m not at Élan, I’m here testing recipes or prepping orders.”
He nods slowly, eyes scanning the labeled containers, the stainless steel tables, the handwritten menus taped to the wall. “You could fit a bed in here.”
I snap my gaze up. “Excuse me?”
He shrugs, casual in a way that makes my skin prickle. “Just saying—it’s a big space. I could buy a small bed, tuck it against that wall. Wouldn’t mess with your setup.”
“You’re not sleeping in my studio.” The words come out sharper than I intend, but I don’t soften them.
He blinks, clearly caught off guard by the steel in my voice. “I didn’t mean?—”
“You’re already taking the couch,” I cut in. “This room is off-limits.”
He holds up both hands in surrender. “Alright. Just trying to make things easier.”
I pause, letting the silence stretch just long enough for him to feel the weight of what I’m about to say. “Buying your way into comfort doesn’t make things easier for everyone.”
The words hang there, heavier than I expect. His jaw tightens, and for a heartbeat, neither of us moves. Then he nods once, short and restrained. “Got it.”
I exhale, but it doesn’t feel like relief. More like something trapped, clawing to get out.
He backs out of the doorway, and I stay rooted in place, surrounded by the hum of my machines, the faint citrus scent of cleaning spray. My space. My rules.
I tell myself I’m protecting what I built. That’s true. But the flicker of guilt that crawls under my ribs whispers something else—that I’m reacting to the wrong man for the right reason.
When I glance toward the hall, Leo’s already gone, footsteps fading toward the kitchen. I stare after him, the tension still crackling in the air.
“Boundaries,” I mutter under my breath, voice rougher than I’d like, my shoulders tight as if the word itself could prop me upright. Saying it out loud might make them hold.
